The night wind howled over the burning ruins of Camelot.
Lord Vine stood upon the outer walls of the capital, his dark cloak rippling behind him, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.
Below him, more than half the city burned, looking like an ocean of fire and smoke.
The acrid scent of charred meat and blood filled the air, carried upwards with the cries of the wounded and the wailing of those who had lost everything.
Half the city looked like a wasteland of rubble, and the other half, while largely intact, hadn't escaped unscathed either.
Stray attacks had ravaged entire districts, and rubble had smashed some houses.
The city was broken, but it was alive. And to Lord Vine, that was exactly what he wanted.
From his vantage point, he could see the monstrous carcass of the dragon sprawled across its resting place, its wings snapped, its scales dull and lifeless.
Soldiers were already swarming around it, their torches glowing faintly in the smoky haze.
