Your dragon's wings beat in a steady rhythm, muscles rippling beneath scaled hide. It let out a low, contented rumble, banking slightly to catch a thermal. You patted its neck, feeling the warmth radiate through your gloves.

That's when the whistle came.

A thin, sharp sound—like wind through a cracked pipe. Your dragon's head snapped up, ears flattening. You followed its gaze.

Through a gap in the clouds, a ship cut through the waves below. Big. Iron-banded. Banners snapping in the sea breeze—the unmistakable mark of Dragon Hunters.

You were already pulling on the reins when you saw them point. Shouts echoed up, faint and distorted. There! A rider!

Arrows arced into the sky. Your dragon roared and dove, wings folding tight, and the projectiles whistled past—one, two, three—but the fourth found its mark with a sickening thunk. Then another. Your dragon shuddered, a pained growl tearing from its throat.

But it didn't stop.

It wheeled and climbed, bursting through the cloud cover again, and let out a blast of fire that turned the ship's deck into a furnace of orange and black. Shouts of panic rose up, but you were already gone, disappearing into the white.

Below, on a rocky island half-shrouded in mist, a young man with a prosthetic leg paused mid-swing. His axe hovered in the air as he squinted at the sky.