Chapter 30

Yarons flew above Escalon, breathing fire and never ceasing as he left a scar across Escalon that would last forever. His rage was unending, and he was determined not to stop until this land that had stolen his egg had been destroyed.

As he laced the land with flame again and again, flying back and forth, taking out entire swaths of wood at once, suddenly, he heard it. It was a noise, audible to him even amidst his destruction, so primal, so close to his soul, that it made him lift up into the skies, cease his flames, and listen.

It came again.

And again.

Vesuvius felt a thrill as he recognized the cry. There was no mistaking it: it was a dragon’s cry. A baby dragon. He knew he was hearing, for the first time, the cry of his son.

Yarons turned and flew with urgency, the sound unmistakable, filling his heart with hope. He flew low, peering down, determined, his entire body electrified. His child was screaming for help. Screaming for him.

Yarons increased his speed, flying faster than he’d ever had in his life, covering miles of Escalon in a single flap. He flew over hills, rivers, forests. His child, he could sense, was close. So close.

Slowly, far below, Yarons began to see it. There was the outline of a sprawling stone building, a fort, flying a flag of blue and yellow. Inside it scurried thousands of Bandranian soldiers, like ants, and there, in the center of the fort, was a sight that tore his heart to pieces.

His baby.

There was his baby dragon, tied to a stake in the center of the stone courtyard, bound by ropes and shrieking. Crying for him. All around him were Bandranian soldiers, wielding long pikes, jabbing at him, piercing his tiny flesh. With each poke, Yarons’s child shrieked in agony, and with each jab, Yarons’s fury deepened. It built inside him like a volcano, until his rage crossed a tipping point. He was ready to destroy the world.

Yarons felt a rage unlike he’d ever felt, a rage that blinded him. He dove down with blinding speed, barely thinking as he opened his mouth and prepared to breathe fire, to incinerate these humans. He knew even as he did that he could not risk breathing fire onto his own child.

Yarons breathed fire in a great circle, scorching the periphery of the courtyard, burning alive dozens of soldiers at once. He dove lower, his great wings flapping, knocking off chunks of wall, debris falling and crushing more men. He flew right past his child, nearly grazing him, and then circled around again, wanting to kill all the men around him before rescuing him.

Yarons dove again, claws extended, and swiped and killed the fleeing soldiers, clawing them to death as they ran from his child. He snatched their pikes from their hands and snapped them in two, then he dove even lower and sank his great teeth into men’s backs as they ran. He bit one soldier, flew up in the air with him, and shook his head until he fell to the ground in pieces.

Yarons circled again, coming even lower this time, low enough to rescue his son. He smashed through more chunks of wall, destroying the fort, and it felt good. He flew lower than he ever had, lower than he was accustomed to, aiming right for his child. He would free him from the stake, and then, with his son on his back, circle around and kill any remaining soldiers.

As Yarons neared, already anticipating the joy of having his child on his back, suddenly, he felt an unfamiliar feeling. He felt a tug at his wings, and he suddenly felt them constrained. He looked over, confused, and he saw, wrapping around his wings, thick ropes of reinforced steel, suddenly descending upon him from every direction. He looked up and saw more ropes, and he realized, too late, that he was flying into a net. Hundreds of Bandranians suddenly rushed forward and cast the net upon him, and he realized that they had been waiting for him to fly lower.

It had been a trap.

Yarons suddenly felt his wings constricted, collapsing in on his body; he felt his great claws entangled, restrained, and he was no longer able to fly, to keep control. Unable to stay airborne, he suddenly felt himself diving straight down—and a moment later he crashed headfirst into the rock and dirt, taking out a stone wall as he slid and tumbled and rolled, still entangled, until he finally came to a grinding stop.

Yarons, in agony, tried to break free—but could not. He writhed but felt himself restrained on all sides by the steel rope, clinging to his flesh, held tight by hundreds of soldiers, who soon closed in on him. And then, a moment later, he felt it: agony. His skin being pierced.

He shrieked out in pain as soldiers encircled him, long, glistening pikes in hand, and punctured his flesh. First one. Then another.

Then another.

Yarons felt himself being pierced hundreds of times, from every direction. He was bleeding heavily, and with each jab he felt himself growing weaker. His struggling was useless.

Soon, Yarons felt the great light, the one that had burned within him for thousands of years, beginning to fade. He knew he was dying. Because of his love for his child, he had let down his guard—and he had made the greatest mistake of his life.

Another stab came. Then another. In too much pain to think, he felt his great eyes begin to close on him. And as he had his final thoughts, oddly enough, they were of Gwen. Of what had almost been. He thought of her destiny, of how close they had come. Now, she would be all alone.

Now, it was too late.