Twenty-one days before the Black Mausoleum
The rage came, unsought but with a purpose to be relished. The dragon burned what little was left to burn, smashed rubble and ruins already ground to dust. It flew in ever wider circles, searching and searching and always knowing it would not find what it was looking for.
Until, unexpectedly, it did.
The dragon’s talons hit the earth. The little one was deep under the ground, too deep for claws to dig out, and so the dragon felt at the little one’s thoughts, moving straight and steady. It watched until it saw where the little one would go. It sniffed out the old magics, still lingering under the earth, sorceries of a familiar scent, creations of those who had made the dragons themselves, the silver ones, lost but not forgotten. Never forgotten.
It took to the skies once more and followed the scent of the old magic. It searched for the place where it ended, the place where the little one must surely emerge. It would wait there, silent and hungry. Yet as it reached the great river and began its hunt, another scent, stronger by far, pulled it away. A heady scent this, powerful and old. Something of the silver ones and something else, even greater. It followed and found a thing it had not seen for almost a hundred lifetimes. A floating city. Half finished, pulled through the sky by a dozen dragons in chains. The sight made it pause. It wondered what this could mean. The makers returned? Joy, then? Or rage at its abandonment, at what its makers had done to the world? Amazement that they were not forever gone? Wonder, more than anything. Wonder at what could bring them back.
Which made the disappointment all the worse, for as it flew closer, it understood the truth. There were no makers here, no silver ones, no half-gods, only the endless chatter of the little ones, swarming and teeming as they ever did. Little ones with a toy they did not understand.
It was a dragon. It could have only one retort.
Fire.