The Cost of Freedom

The air, usually crisp with the scent of pine and damp earth, now tasted of ash and fear. Arthur stumbled back, the heat radiating from the scorched ground prickling his skin even through his thick boots. The roar that had ripped through the clearing was still echoing in his ears, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury. Around him, the rebels scattered, their faces grim masks of pain and disappointment. Kael, usually so composed, was shouting orders, his voice strained.

“Fall back! To the caves! Now!”

Arthur watched, his heart a leaden weight in his chest. He had seen it happen, the swift, brutal efficiency of the dragon’s patrol. A single, massive shadow had descended, its scales shimmering like obsidian under the weak, filtered sunlight, and with a blast of searing flame, had reduced their carefully constructed ambush to smoldering ruin. It had been too fast, too overwhelming. They had been so sure, so prepared, and yet…