A faint droning noise pierced his dreams. Seconds later, his eyes opened. The ceiling was elaborately decorated with spiralling patterns that reinvented themselves the closer you looked. He spent a solid minute staring at their languid movements. Then, someone screamed.
Tooth and Scale
“There weren’t always dragons in the valley.” Rurik sat in the shade of a hostel balcony, letting the crier’s speech float by. He tilted up the brim of his hat to inspect the man, then spat between his teeth. A typical city-dweller – not used to the realities of this new world.
“There weren’t always dragons in the valley.” The veteran’s tone was heavy with weariness. He led Kali through the sprawling war camp at an infuriatingly sluggish pace, dragging one leg in the dust. The deeper they went, the more Kali ground her teeth. The scrutiny of hundreds of Wildfire troops was like pins scraping her skin.
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. By the tombstone-grey palls of smoke unfurling toward the blackened sky, Shad knew they were too late. The Scorched emerged onto a shelf of rock overlooking Maera’s Valley, and any hopes he might’ve harboured were snuffed.
Lord of Dusk
Autumn has come. Already, the grasslands are vibrant. The old and weak taste their death in the bitter cold. The unprepared panic, scrambling for food. Like ripples on a pond, the sounds of my subjects make patterns in the dusk. Some are so desperate they crash through the grass with no instinct for stealth.