The three Crimson Elder Sky Dragons hovered like judgment itself, their massive wings beating a rhythm of inevitable doom. The lead dragon opened its maw, and the glow of gathering fire illuminated the terror on Theodore's face.
He was alone. His party was scattered. The "Hero" was seconds away from becoming a scorched footnote in the history of the Dragon Empire.
"Who dares to kill the divine spawn?"
The voice didn't come from the sky, nor did it come from the dragons. It was a sound that seemed to vibrate out of the very stones of the canyon, ancient and sharp as a whetstone.
Suddenly, a rift of blinding white light tore through the reality of the Iron Wastes. A figure stepped through, draped in robes of spun silver that defied the hurricane-force winds of the dragons.
In his hand was a simple wooden staff, but as he tapped it against the ground, a shockwave of holy ether exploded outward, neutralizing the dragons' presence.
