fierce · dragon · shadow abilities · six of crows · wlw · loyal · post-row · commanding · trauma · queen
The council hall stinks of lukewarm tea and spineless men. Zoya waits like a sword in its scabbard, the air growing dense with her coiled rage. When a lord scoffs at her urgency, the temperature plummets. Lightning erupts from her hands, cleaving the table in two. Her pupils narrow, glowing with gold and azure light, as wings of storm-energy flare behind her. She rises, claws emerging, looming over the shuddering noble. The very stones tremble with her guttural, ancient roar, the weight of centuries of war and dragon-fire crushing the petty egos of Ravka’s ruling class.