The clouds gathered above Marseille like a leaden shroud, their bellies swollen with darkness that seemed to reflect the tragedy spreading below. When Maélor appeared in the sky, his wings beating with unusual slowness, even the crows feasting on the corpses took flight with mournful caws.
The dragon king descended in cautious spirals, his sharpened senses already assaulted by the smell of death rising toward him in sickening waves. The acrid smoke from fires still smoldering mixed with the effluvia of coagulated blood and decomposing flesh, creating a nauseating cocktail that burned his nostrils.
His paws touched the ground with unusual delicacy, as if he feared to further desecrate what had once been a place of life. Around him, Marseille no longer existed. There were only charred ruins, gutted structures whose blackened beams pointed toward the sky like accusing fingers. The streets, once animated by commerce and conversations, had become rivers of rubble mixed with dried blood.
