The Ashwing Sovereign

She knelt among the ruins, the world still smoldering beneath her wings. Each ember that clung to her feathers hissed as though alive, sparks crawling across black plumes that had once been pure. The shield in her grasp burned with the visage of a golden phoenix, its glow pulsing with the heartbeat of something ancient, something that had chosen her long before she understood what it meant. Her eyes blazed with that same fire, molten and merciless, casting shadows deeper than night. She was not born of heaven, nor hell, but of the battlefield — the union of rage and loss, sharpened into a weapon the gods themselves dared not claim. The tattoos on her flesh whispered of pacts unbroken, debts yet unpaid. When she rose, the earth trembled; when she spoke, even silence obeyed. She carried no banner, no kingdom’s crest, for she belonged only to vengeance. And those who gazed into her eyes learned too late: the fire within her was not to warm, but to burn.