In Arian, a quiet hush had fallen.
A soft mist blanketed the land like a veil of forgotten dreams. It rolled across the marble streets and silver meadows, winding around ancient statues and the roots of sacred trees—until it gathered around the place where Lady Rosen's head lay at rest.
And the people came.
They stood in silent reverence, gathered by the hundreds, perhaps thousands. Men, women, children—all frozen mid-step, standing upright, their eyes closed in serene slumber. The mist coiled around their feet, rising gently to their shoulders, as if cradling them.
Each of them had entered a dream.
Not just a dream—but a realm within the soul, personally opened by Lady Rosen herself. Inside, she greeted each one in turn. She spoke softly to some, wept with others, laughed like springtime with the young, and listened in silence to the broken.
There was no fear here. Only stillness. And her presence.
Far above, on a balcony overlooking the sacred grounds, Ignarion and Seraphyx stood together, cloaked in silence. The sky shimmered faintly, twilight refusing to surrender to night.
"Mother looks happy," Ignarion said at last, though his voice betrayed an unease he couldn't quite name.
Seraphyx didn't look at him. He continued to watch the event unfold below, his expression distant.
"She does, doesn't she…" he murmured. "More come to see her each time. Probably because they can see her now—from any point inside Arian."
He gestured lazily toward the horizon.
"Her body is… impossible to hide. No building or mountain could cover her now."
Ignarion nodded, eyes scanning the dream-swept crowd. "Yeah. That's undeniable."
A moment passed. Then his brows furrowed.
"I haven't seen Kaelya around lately. What's she up to?"
Seraphyx smirked, a teasing glint in his eye. "Missing her already?"
Ignarion scoffed, but didn't deny it.
"Our dear big sister has gone to the Training Realm," Seraphyx continued, his tone shifting into something quieter—heavier. "She intends to awaken the VlastMoroz's Essence…"
He stopped mid-sentence, as a bone-deep chill ran down his spine. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the fields of mist.
Lady Rosen was watching him.
Her gaze—vast, ancient, impossible to comprehend—had settled directly on him. Though her face didn't move, and her body remained still, the weight of her glare struck him like the pressure of an ocean above a single stone.
Seraphyx swallowed. Hard.
"…I mean… Mother Rosen's essence. Inside Orion's body," he corrected quickly.
Ignarion chuckled, clearly enjoying the discomfort. "Force of habit?"
Seraphyx exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering pressure. "Since forever, that's what we've called that mutation. The VlastMoroz strain… the sleeping dragon inside us."
Ignarion nodded thoughtfully. "Still… why only Orion, then? Couldn't Kaelya awaken Mother Rosen's essence in everyone here?"
A long pause.
Seraphyx's expression turned solemn as he looked back down at the sleeping crowd below.
"She could," he said quietly. "But once awakened… her essence would turn them all into Dragons."
His voice dropped lower.
"And that's something we shouldn't do to them… unless absolutely necessary."
"Yandelf… my love. How have you been?"
StratoFall's voice was low, oiled with a shade of charm too old to sound sincere. His massive form descended onto the snow-covered ridge, green scales glinting under the moon, black veins twitching like buried snakes beneath his hide. He looked at her with a gaze too proud for someone pleading for mercy.
Yandelf didn't flinch.
Her lance rose in a single motion—fluid, cold, and final.
"You don't have the right to call me that," she said, voice flat as the tundra wind. "Not when I'm about to end your suffering."
StratoFall's pride cracked slightly, his eyes shifting, claws twitching in place.
"Calm down, Yandelf. It's me," he urged, taking a step back, tail tensing. "We've had peace talks before. We can have them again."
Yandelf didn't smile. She didn't even blink.
"Did your brother—Highfall—never tell you the war has begun?" she asked quietly. "And did he ever mention why he returned alive, despite that?"
She stepped forward, then glided down effortlessly, landing before him with eerie grace. Snow didn't even crunch beneath her boots. She sat upon the frost-bitten ground like a sovereign at court.
"It's because he met the strongest—but kindest—Emblem. Ignarion," StratoFall muttered, lowering his head with a sigh.
Yandelf echoed his sigh.
"That's correct."
Her tone shifted—less cold now, almost mournful.
"And because I was once... physically involved with you, I'll let you die by your own hands. My way of killing is too cruel for someone I once called mine."
StratoFall nodded. There was no sarcasm in him now.
"Death by your hand isn't the end of my sufferings, it would be the only begining of pain that I would never have known, the mercy would never have been killing me yourself but letting me die by my own hands" he said sincerely.
"But you know what comes next. The moment I die… the war begins."
He looked at her, sorrowful.
"Every dragon under the Anemo Sovereign will sense my death—and they will come. They will avenge me."
Yandelf rose slowly, her lance pulsing faintly with Cryo energy.
"Ignarion may be the strongest in quality," she said, eyes glowing with ancient frost, "but if we were to fight right now—I would win."
She turned to the frozen horizon, where pale clouds churned like sleeping beasts.
"Because I command the entire Frost Dragon Legion. They'll fight for me. For Arian."
She glanced back, just once.
"Don't worry about me. Or Arian."
Then, without hesitation—StratoFall moved.
With a twist of his tail, sharpened like a blade, he tore open his own chest.
The sound was wet and horrifying. Scales cracked, sinew split, and thick, dark blood splashed onto the snow like molten tar. His body trembled—flesh parting like bark under a cursed axe—as he opened himself to death.
It was not a clean wound.
It was meant to hurt.
"It's… about to begin…" he rasped, voice faint beneath the gurgle of blood.
Yandelf stood tall.
Her eyes burned—not with cruelty, but purpose.
Her lance began to shimmer with unearthly light, molding with her very heartbeat. Her essence poured into the weapon, and the weapon returned it in kind. The ice beneath her feet cracked and spiraled outward like veins of destiny.
Her voice—resonant, steady—cut through the wind like prophecy.
"Let it begin."
And far to the west, Mondstadt trembled.
It began with a silence that felt unnatural—like the world had taken a breath and forgotten how to exhale. The wind turned chaotic, trees bowed violently, the Cathedral's bell rang once without being touched.
Then… the sky broke open.
Tens of thousands of dragons surged through the heavens. Each one drenched in raw Anemo energy, their wings humming with ancient runes, bodies wreathed in wind and fury. They came in spiraling formations, organized yet feral—Skyborne Revenants, summoned by the death of one of their own.
Their presence didn't just blot out the sun.
It made the air scream.
And from their throats, the roars of war rang out—each one a declaration of fury, history, and vengeance:
"STRATOFALL IS DEAD!"
A massive wyvern, its wings shredded from old battles, howled the name with such force that the clouds around it burst into vapor. Its scream carried grief, like a son wailing for a father.
"SLAUGHTER THE ICE!"
A pack of lean, sharp-winged drakes dove in tight formation, their voices ragged with hatred. These were frontline berserkers—raised on the idea that Cryo was a blasphemy against the sky.
"WE RAZE FOR THE WINDFATHER!"
An elder dragon with a torn crest roared as it unfurled an ancient banner from its horns—tattered and soaked in old blood. Its voice carried command, a general demanding loyalty from the clouds.
"MELT THE FROST FROM THEIR BONES!"
Twin serpentine siblings spiraled around each other, releasing a synchronized screech so sharp it shattered the ice below. Their voices held glee—killers who loved the act more than the cause.
"WE ARE THE SKYBORNE WRATH!"
A chorus of adolescent dragons, their scales still shimmering with youth, shrieked in perfect unison. Not veterans, but fanatics—indoctrinated with fire in their lungs and loyalty in their marrow.
"THE WINDS DO NOT FORGIVE!"
A quiet, solitary dragon whispered it more than roared, yet the words echoed louder than thunder. Its body was covered in ritual scars, and the whisper felt like an oath carved into fate itself.
---
Above Durin's corpse, where the snow now danced with blood, Yandelf stood—unmoving. The lance at her side glowed faintly with Cryo resonance, vibrating in time with her heartbeat.
She watched them come.
Thousands.
More by the second.
And yet—her expression didn't change.
She lifted her eyes and spoke with steady certainty:
"These aren't an angered mob…"
The wind around her froze mid-motion. Even the sky seemed to hesitate.
She raised her lance and pointed it skyward.
"These are the Skyborne Revenants. The first to arrive. The loudest. The maddest."
Then, with a calm colder than death:
"The true army hasn't moved yet. This… is just the storm's leading edge."