The village square of the Orycto tribe was entirely quiet, the tribesmen still hiding inside their mud huts, terrified of the residual energy of the heavenly storm.
Long Zhan raised his hand and let out a sharp, resonant draconic whistle that cut through the silent night air like a blade.
Within seconds, a dozen shadows detached themselves from the dark canopy of the jungle, landing silently in the courtyard before the porch.
They were his most elite, high-grade dragon warriors—men who had followed him from the Northern Peaks.
"Your Majesty!" Davy whispered, dropping to one knee in the dirt. "The storm has passed, but the energy was... unnatural. Are you harmed?"
"Silence," Long Zhan commanded, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl that made the warriors instantly bow their heads deeper into the mud. "My female is currently resting inside. If a single one of you makes a sound that rattles a stone, I will personally peel the scales from your backs."
