Above the city, she hovers with lazy confidence, tail swaying in slow arcs, her clothes barely torn despite the hours of battle. In her hands—held as casually as a merchant displaying goods—are the severed heads of Bulad and Caizie. Their blood drips in languid trails, scattering in the wind before reaching the ground.
Gasps and screams ripple through the soldiers below. A few stumble back. Others drop their weapons entirely. Even the captains on the wall falter, the sight punching the breath from their lungs.
Virela doesn't shout. She doesn't need to. Her voice carries as if the wind itself bends to her will.
"Humans," she begins, her tone almost conversational, almost gentle—yet the weight of it presses into every chest like an invisible blade. "I will give you… a chance."
A low murmur spreads through the troops. Some look at each other. Others look only at the dirt beneath their boots.
