The silence that followed Strax's blast of magma was not peaceful. It was the silence of something broken. As if the world itself had been wounded.
The ground still smoldered, spewing toxic fumes as molten rock bubbled and splattered around what remained of the underground city. In the center of that sea of destruction, Strax gasped for breath. His body was colossal, monstrous, covered in red and black scales that pulsed like living flesh. Veins of magma ran beneath his skin, his eyes were golden slits glowing with pure hatred. His wings, still ablaze, fluttered slowly, sending sparks flying in all directions. He was an apocalyptic sight—half dragon, half demon, and completely beyond the bounds of sanity.
Then a laugh cut through the air like a dagger of ice.
Ignisar, still floating above, unharmed, burst into loud, mocking laughter, as if he were not surrounded by death, as if the destruction around him were just a joke that had gone on too long.
