Thæon stands in their meadow, breath rattling in bleeding lungs; hands curled tight around the sweat-slick leather of his sword in one hand, his father’s spearhead in the other.
And the still-standing corpse of a dead man choking on blood that pours from his open throat.
The same blood that stains Thæon’s teeth as he bares them in anger, in rage, in unrestrained hatred for the rust-tainted sword at his feet or the hands that had raised it over the neck of his dragon—his dragon laid in the centre of their meadow, rain on his face and a river of blood pouring from wounds the had broken his plated scales; those on his shoulders and chest, flank and legs.
Thæon’s heart aches.
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