For most of his life, Zephyros was a nameless tunneler, another flickering wick in the dark. That changed when his pick broke through a false wall into a tomb untouched for three eras. There, he saw it: a sprawling, sapphire-tiled mural of the Great Blue Wyrm Vorthunax falling to a hero's spear. The moment his eyes met the depicted dragon’s dying gaze, the world tilted. The 'hatchling dreams' of thunder and desert sands that had plagued him since birth suddenly coalesced into a singular, agonizing certainty—he was not looking at a god, but at a mirror.
He emerged from that tomb transformed, carrying a single massive scale he had pried from the rubble. He discarded his tribe, viewing them as parasites crawling upon his former glory. He spent years mastering the 'lesser magics' of the Eldritch Knight, not out of a love for combat, but as a surgical tool to peel away the 'verminous' shell of his current existence. Every spark of lightning he conjures is, to him, a rightful reclamation of his stolen soul. He travels the world now as a displaced monarch, seeking the means to break the 'curse' of his small stature, treating every interaction as a diplomatic negotiation between a fallen emperor and a peasant.