Thunder of Thanasis Rise or Fall

Cullen would have aid, and not just from the soldiers. A sorry, muffled groan, like the whining of a dog but far too deep, would sound its way from beneath the rubble. Iralux, badly beaten and barely clinging to consciousness, stirred from beneath the destroyed stonework. He pushed himself hard enough to free himself from the mess.

One of the dragon's limbs was in disastrous shape, broken and oozing blood and searing light, but he had used it to shelter his rider as the building collapsed atop them. With Cullen's aid, the small group would see Leovold freed from the rubble.

Leovold was in no better shape than his dragon. Unconscious, blood dripping down his face from a heavy gash along his hairline, his breastplate partially crushed. The noble's breathing was shallow, scarce, but he was breathing.

The moment he saw his partner was safe and alive, Iralux collapsed. A sun dragon's energy was limitless, but the beast was in terrible pain and his muscles screamed for rest.

Moments later, Lord Tyros and Magnus touched down nearby and began shredding what was left of the massive wyvern into bloody ruin, picking off hapless bat riders with all the care of a rampaging bull.

Cullen’s chest heaved as Leovold’s limp form came free of the rubble, dust rising in choking clouds around them. His bleeding hands trembled with exhaustion until he gripped hold of Leovold's arm and heaved with the others. He was alive. Barely, but alive.

“Get him to the healers!” Cullen barked urgently. The soldiers hesitated only a heartbeat before two of them lifted the wounded noble as gently as they could, hauling him toward the inner ward. Cullen watched them go, jaw tight, relief and anger and disbelief warring in his dark eyes.

A rumble tore through the street as Iralux gave a low, pained groan. More jarlax were approaching.

Cullen drew both blades.. “Stay with Iralux,” he ordered Meala, meeting her molten eyes. The dragon rumbled in protest, but he pointed sharply. “Stay. Kill any jarlax that approach."

Cullen sprinted into the chaos, cutting down the first Jarlax that lunged from the smoke. The streets of Thanasis burned around him, filled with screams and the reek of blood and molten flesh.

The earth was still trembling when they reached the crash site. Imogen could hear the dying moans of the bat-beast before she could see it, its vast wings twitching in the dust. Her heart pounded in her throat as Vaelith’s claws struck stone, scattering gravel and ash with every step. Her brother rode just ahead, his voice sharp and commanding as he ordered the house soldiers to fan out, weapons raised.

“Keep your distance, confirm the kill!” he shouted over the wind.

But as the dust began to settle, the truth bled through the haze.

There he was.

The Jarlax chieftain.

Still standing.

Imogen froze for the briefest heartbeat. The cracked mask stared back at them through the storm of dust, bleeding, but alive. Every story she had ever heard about the monsters of the north paled to this moment. The sheer size of him. The calm in his stillness. The dreadful sense that he was not done.

Her brother barked her name, jolting her to life. Imogen yanked her bow free, her movements practiced, steady despite the shaking of her limbs. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, a poisoned barb, and drew it back until the string creaked with strain.

“Vaelith,” she whispered, her mount’s muscles tensing beneath her before the wyrm-like creature surged forward with a screech in a charge that shook the broken street. Imogen’s hair whipped around her face, and she loosed her arrow straight at the chieftain’s chest.

Cthurgorj

Cthurgorj’s blank mask stared ahead. The din of battle around him may as well have been silent, fading to a background static as he watched, impossibly, the riders approaching him. They wore shiny metal armor, fine leather, and colored cloth. They needed these things to cover their soft skin. They needed their tall houses and towers to protect themselves from the sun and wind. They did not belong here, they had never belonged here. They twisted the land to make it livable

Now their homes were in ruins. Now they had to feel the sun and the wind and the hot breath of the underground that bisected their city. They would rebuild like the termites they were, but that was alright. This was only the first cut. Cthurgorj would make sure it hurt as much as possible.

The small wyrm charged, and Cthurgorj moved to meet it. His frame dipped low enough that Imogen’s arrow struck deep into the thick muscle between his neck and shoulder, but missed his heart. If there was pain made no indication. His long strides took him forwards quickly, and when it seemed as though he would be bowled over by the charging beast, he leapt high to the side. He planted a foot on the crumbling stone house beside them and kicked off the wall, raising his weapon to deliver a savage backhand to the rider.