The dust raised by the previous confrontation slowly settled on the shattered cobblestones of Marseille, forming a grayish veil that clung to the smoking ruins. Peter, kneeling amidst the debris, felt the metallic taste of blood invading his mouth. His split lips let a dark red stream flow that trickled down his powerful jaw, each drop tracing scarlet furrows on his golden scales now dulled by pain.
The air burned his lungs with each labored breath. His broken ribs protested under the strain, sending atrocious pangs throughout his torso. But it was his eyes that betrayed his condition the most: those golden orbs, once filled with the natural arrogance of noble dragons, now reflected only helpless rage mixed with a growing terror he refused to admit.
