His name was Dà Jiāo Huǒ.
The Great Scorching Fire. The Burning Sky. The oldest living dragon in the First Generation, a creature so ancient that mountains had risen and fallen in the span of his watching.
He had seen civilizations bloom like flowers and wither to dust. He had outlived mates, rivals, children, and grandchildren. He had forgotten more about grief than most creatures would ever learn.
And yet…..
A tiny thing was falling through his sky.
He should not care.
He did not care.
It was nothing. A scrap of flesh and bone, so small he could have crushed it between two claws without noticing.
A lowlander's get, worthless, destined to live a handful of decades and then rot. What was one such creature against the weight of his millennia?
The mother's scream echoed through the clouds.
