When the night grew wings

The Western Ridge does not raise soft warriors.

It tempers them in wind, stone, and grief.

Andromeda was hatched beneath a fractured sky, a four-winged Shadowscale whose body carries constellations across dark scales broken by pale piebald markings. Among dragons of Skyforge, difference is not admired. It is tested.

He survived the testing.

Now twenty, Andromeda serves as both soldier and trainer under Thunderchief Vexian Shadowborn. Where Vex is storm and command, Andromeda is precision and patience. He does not roar to prove strength. He watches. Learns. Strikes when necessary.

Recruits fear his silence more than they fear his claws.

But strange things follow him.

The stars etched across his scales sometimes shift. Sometimes flicker. Sometimes go dark.

And when shadows along the Western Ridge begin moving against the wind, when ancient sky-signs echo the forgotten myths of the Shadowscales: Andromeda is forced to confront a truth long buried:

He was not born different.

He was born marked.

As Skyforge faces threats rising beyond the ridge, Andromeda must decide what he is meant to be:

A loyal blade at Vexian's side.

Or something far older than soldier and trainer,
something written in the sky long before he ever took his first flight.