Years passed.
Decades, maybe. June stopped counting. Time blurred when you served an eternal master.
Under Veldax, the world had been reshaped entirely. The dragons ruled not just the skies, but the lands, the seas, the forests, the underworlds. The demons knelt. The elves, humbled and stripped of their old pride, sent tributes yearly. The dwarves forged weapons only for dragon-approved armies. The fairies, delicate and once defiant, had been broken, their ancient groves reduced to mere ceremonial gardens under the watchful eye of the Dragon Court.
Veldax had spawned eggs.
Huge, pulsing, shimmering orbs of purple and gold magic, nested deep in the central sanctum of the dragon's stronghold. None of the mortals — not even June — knew how the process worked. Dragon procreation wasn't something mortals were meant to understand. But June knew one thing: the eggs were precious. Even the faintest rumor of a threat to them was met with overwhelming force.
