Princess Blister of the SandWings perched like a vulture on a rain-slicked stone bench, her talons curled tightly around the edge of the seat. The cliffside manor around her was a decaying relic, its once-grand marble halls now reduced to a nasty, soggy ruin by decades of salt-laced winds and neglect. Moss clung to the walls in thick, slimy sheets, and the air reeked of rotting kelp and mildew—a stench that even the relentless crash of waves below couldn't mask. Morrowseer's idea of a "safe haven," she thought bitterly. The NightWing had assured her this crumbling fortress was impervious to SeaWing raids, shielded by jagged rocks and treacherous tides. But he'd said nothing of dagger seals.

The memory of her commander's death flickered in her mind like a guttering candle. Riptide, a hulking SandWing veteran, had been patrolling the cliffs at dawn when the beast lunged from the surf. Its tusks—curved like crescent moons and serrated as dragon teeth—had torn through his scales as if they were parchment. Blister had watched from the manor's cracked balcony, her snarl drowned by the seal's guttural roar. By the time her guards reached him, the sand was stained scarlet, and Riptide's amber eyes had gone dull as stones. Wasteful. Unacceptable.

Now, she sat alone in the manor's derelict armory, the only sound the tap-tap-tap of her claw against a small ironwood box. Inside, something slithered. A low, venomous hiss seeped through the airholes, harmonizing with the distant wail of gulls. The dragonbite viper—a creature no longer than her forearm, its scales blacker than a starless sky—was her last card to play. A single drop of its venom could kill a dragon thrice her size. A fitting tool for unfitting times.

Her tail lashed. Morrowseer's promises were beginning to taste like ash. Safe from SeaWings, perhaps, but the ocean itself seemed to conspire against her. The dagger seals were growing bolder, the storms more violent, and her allies? Spineless. The box trembled under her touch. The viper struck the lid, its fangs leaving faint scratches on the ironwood. Blister's lips peeled back in a smile sharper than the seal's tusks. Let the others scrabble for thrones with swords and fire. She'd wage her war in whispers and shadows, one drop of venom at a time.

Outside, the wind howled. Somewhere below the cliffs, the sea growled back.

The tap-tap-tap of talons on rain-slick stone cut through the viper's hissing. Blister's head snapped up, her obsidian eyes narrowing as a hulking SandWing guard ducked through the manor's sagging archway. Water streamed off his scarred wings, pooling around his claws as he bowed, his voice taut with unease. Pathetic, she thought. Even her soldiers reeked of salt and cowardice.

"Your Highest," the guard rasped, using the hollow honorific she'd demanded since claiming her mother's throne. "The scouts report... the hybrid you sought. She's been spotted in the rainforest. With the Dragonets of Destiny."

Blister's tail twitched. The Dragonets. Those meddling brats had already cost her two allies—one charred to cinders by Burn, the other vanished into SkyWing territory. And now they dared rally behind that creature?

The guard hesitated, his gaze flicking to the ironwood box. Inside, the viper thrashed, as if sensing Blister's rising fury. "And the RainWings..." he stammered. "They've... crowned her. The hybrid. As their queen."

A cold, silent beat passed. The only sound was the drip-drip of rainwater seeping through the manor's fractured ceiling. Then Blister laughed—a sound like shattering glass. "Queen?" she hissed. "A lazy, scale-shifting hybrid leading a tribe of tree-dwelling fools?" Her claws dug into the stone bench, leaving jagged grooves. Morrowseer's failure. The NightWings had sworn the RainWings were feeble, their queen a witless figurehead. Now their own abandoned experiment had seized power?

She rose abruptly, snatching the viper's box. The guard flinched as she stalked toward him, her voice a venomous purr. "How convenient that the Dragonets now shelter in a kingdom with a brand-new, untested queen. One who's never faced a real war." Her mind raced. Glory—that was the hybrid's name. A RainWing with NightWing venom, if the rumors were true. A problem. But problems could be reshaped. Or removed.

"Send word to the SkyWing outpost," Blister commanded, her smile sharp enough to flay scales. "Burn will relish the chance to char a rainforest. And ready the scouts. If this 'queen' values her tribe, she'll hand over the Dragonets. If not..." She tilted the box, letting the viper's hiss fill the room. "Every throne has cracks. Even new ones."

The guard nodded, retreating as if fleeing a wildfire. Blister turned back to the storm-lashed window, her reflection warped in the grime-coated glass. Let the hybrid play ruler. Let the Dragonets cower in the canopy. Sooner or later, they'd all learn the same lesson: crowns were kindling. And Blister's fire had only just begun to burn.