After the war, things were supposed to get better.

Sunny believed that with all her heart. She had helped end the bloodshed, helped bring three queens together in peace. She had spoken in front of dragons from all tribes, telling them they could choose a better future.

For a time, it even worked. Borders opened. Trade resumed. Peace conferences were held. The dragonets of destiny were celebrated across Pyrrhia. But slowly—so slowly it was hard to notice—things began to crack.

The SandWing kingdom remained harsh and divided. The NightWings whispered behind closed doors about reclaiming their glory. Old generals returned to their positions. Laws were passed quietly that limited freedom of movement or censored certain scrolls in Rainforest libraries.

Sunny watched the world she had fought to save slip back into shadows—just hidden behind a prettier sunlit mask.

And no one wanted to hear it.

She tried to speak up. To Clay, to Glory, even to Tsunami. But they were busy, burdened with kingdoms, their own people to protect. Starflight buried himself in his scrolls. Clay was too soft-hearted. They all told her the same thing: “Give it time. Things are better now. You’re just worrying too much.”

So she smiled. She nodded. And quietly, Sunny walked away.

At first, she told herself it was just a journey to clear her mind. She traveled across the Scorpion Den, through the fringes of the Sand Kingdom, into isolated outposts and ruins untouched by war. But the more she saw—forgotten villages, dragons still starving, guards abusing their power—the more her doubts turned to rage.

Why was this still happening?

She began to speak to dragons others had forgotten—mixed-tribe dragons, half-breeds like herself, those whose wings were torn or who had lost loved ones in the war. She listened. She helped where she could. But she started to feel something deep and dangerous grow in her heart:

Resentment.

The world didn’t change. It just changed masks. Peace was a performance, and she had been a smiling puppet in the front row.

So Sunny stopped smiling.

She stopped signing letters back to her friends. She vanished from public life. Rumors spread that she had gone into hiding, that she had died, that she had left the continent.

But she hadn’t gone far. She had gone underground—literally—into the canyons beneath the SandWing deserts. There, in old carved halls once used by healers and mystics, she began to build something else:

A truth.