Dragon on Cliffside

The wind at the edge of the world tasted of copper and ancient ash. Vraelor stood at the precipice of the high cliff, his talons gripping the warm, sun-baked stone. Below him, the vast mountain range rolled away like frozen waves of titan’s bone, swallowed gradually by the creeping indigo of dusk.

He unfurled his massive wings, letting the frayed membranes catch the last violent gasps of daylight. Every ridge of his detailed scales ignited, burning in a brilliant mosaic of amber, crimson, and gold as the sunset sky bled its final fires across the horizon. For centuries, this had been his domain, a solitary throne above the clouds where kings and kingdoms were nothing more than fleeting whispers in the wind.

A sudden, sharp downdraft whipped against his chest, carrying the scent of rain and distant valleys. Vraelor closed his eyes, drawing a deep, shuddering breath of the thinning air, feeling the raw magic of the peaks pulse through his ancient veins. With a powerful sweep of his wings that shattered the silence of the high altitude, he cast himself off the ledge, plunging into the glowing abyss before soaring effortlessly into the gathering night.