CALDAN
The chains were singing.
Not the way metal usually sings — the groan of rust, the scrape of iron against stone. This was different. This was music. Low and ancient and wrong, a vibration that crawled up through the floor of the dragon crypt and settled into Caldan's bones like a second pulse.
He sat on the bottom step. Alone. The flame-priests had fled an hour ago — all six of them, scrambling up the stairs with their robes bunched in their fists and their faces white as temple candles. He didn't blame them. When a dragon that had been sleeping for three years suddenly opened its eyes and exhaled smoke thick enough to blot out the torchlight, running was the sensible response.
Caldan had never been sensible.
Vaelrix filled the cavern.
