The silence was deafening.
At the heart of the charred ruins of the palace, where so much blood had already soaked into the millennial stone, Mordred faced Maelor. Like the child contemplating the storm that destroyed his home, but he was no longer a child. And this storm, now, bore a name. An end.
The dragon king towered over him with his colossal stature, impassive. His massive silhouette, wreathed in wisps of black energy that undulated like spectral serpents, seemed to defy light itself. Each beat of his wings raised whirlwinds of dust and millennial ashes, each step drove the broken slabs into the ground with the force of an earthquake. He had not yet drawn his weapon. He didn't need to. His existence was enough to bend space around him.
