The lower corridors smelled like wet stone and fear.
Auren could taste it — that sour, metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat every time the palace shook. Above them, Nyrix was screaming. He could feel it through the bond — his dragon's fury, hot and black and relentless, pouring through his veins like molten iron as Nyrix dove again and again into Dhaelon's ranks, spraying obsidian fire across the mind-bound soldiers who didn't even have the decency to run.
They just stand there. They burn and they stand there. Because they're not people anymore. They're fingers on Dhaelon's hand and he doesn't care how many of them he loses.
"Auren. Auren. Are you listening to me?"
His mother's voice. Sharp. Thin. The voice she used when she was terrified but refused to show it, which meant it came out brittle and cutting, like glass dragged across stone.
"I'm listening, Mother."
