Smoke rose on the horizon, a black-grey pillar, staining the sky. The wind carried rain, ashen rain, and the occasional silence-breaking echo off the moss-capped, tombstone mountains. Of lumber collapsing and of voices, raised in terror, screaming.
The dragon’s wings flashed, amber-sapphire-bronze lightning in the sky. Flames licked at the fleet of clouds overhead, as the dragon plummeted and dove before being lifted by invisible pillars of hot air – pirouetting within the temple he had created in the sky. The village beneath him burned.
Still the echoes screamed out their reminder, of voices extinguished, still screaming in terror.
He turned his bejewelled eye to the army mustered on the lake shore.
He dove into the lake, steam rose.
Burning, burning, burning steam.
They cooked inside their silver, fish-plate armour.
Now the dragon is king.