The ground shook even before the roar.
Ancient runes lit up instinctively along the columns of the hall, trying to contain what they should never have had to contain. But it was useless. Nothing there had been forged to resist a being like Strax.
His body writhed and expanded. Bones cracked and grew like erupting columns. His shoulder blades tore outward, making room for immense wings that exploded in a storm of black flames. His flesh molded itself, scales emerged like plates of living obsidian, and a crest of draconic horns formed as his tail tore through the marble floor.
A single flap of his wings caused the ceiling to crack.
The hall became small. Ridiculously small.
And then came the roar.
The roar of a truly ancient dragon, but with the rage of a wounded god.
Mountains shook. Rocks split. The magical energy in the ley lines around the castle trembled in despair, as if the earth itself were warning the world: something out of balance was loose.
