and howling in pain, Pavoss scrambled away, dragging himself through the undergrowth.
Arysteon rolled onto his feet and stalked toward his enemy. “I am the last of my kin, but I will not be the last of my line. I am master of this forest and all its creatures.”
He leapt forward, coming down with his front talons on Pavoss’s wings. “Even the worms slithering through the dirt.”
Fire spouted from Pavoss’s mouth as he struggled; whether he meant to escape or turn his fire on Arysteon made little difference. Arysteon forced his full weight upon Pavoss and clamped the claws of one hand around the back of the bronze dragon’s neck, slamming Pavoss’s head on the ground.
“I am mate to Leyloni, daughter of Sahara and Havil,” Arysteon snarled, tightening his grip to force his claws through Pavoss’s tough scales. “I am father to Serek, son of Leyloni. And I am their guardian, their provider. The female is forever mine.”
Arysteon’s spark crackled with increasing intensity as he spoke, creating heat beneath his scales to rival that of his foe’s fire.
“I yield,” Pavoss rasped. “I yield!”
“When it comes to what is mine, I refuse to yield.” Arysteon wrenched Pavoss’s head aside and clamped his jaws on the bronze dragon’s exposed throat, burying his teeth deep. Hot blood flowed over his tongue, tasting of iron and sulfur.
Pavoss growled and gurgled, and his neck filled with heat as he struggled to release more fire.
Arysteon unleashed his spark.
The power that flowed from his mouth blasted directly into Pavoss, buzzing and sizzling. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh filled the air as the bronze dragon thrashed and spasmed uncontrollably. Arysteon simply roared and forced more of his spark into his foe, his vision consumed by flashes of white and red, his mind consumed by hatred, by love—by the need to protect, to avenge. His body thrummed with power, flooded with unbearable heat.
As quickly as it had emerged, the lightning flickered out. Pavoss’s body was reduced to a charred husk, bits of ash flaking free to be swept away by the breeze along with the smoke.
Arysteon raised his head high and roared into the heavens. The sound rolled across the forest like booming thunder, proclaiming his victory, his dominance, his indisputable claim on this territory and on his mate.
The roar faded slowly, as did its echoes, leaving Arysteon’s throat raw and burning. When he lowered his head, he didn’t spare his fallen foe a single glance; he shoved away from the blackened remains and turned toward Leyloni, letting his bond with her guide him. His steps were clumsy and uncertain, his legs oddly weak and unsteady, his tail overly heavy and awkward. He stumbled into trees, and his dragging claws snagged on gnarled roots more than once. His thumping heartbeat seemed the only sound in the world apart from his labored breaths.
Every one of his injuries made itself known in those moments—every cut, every gash, every bit of bruised flesh, every loose scale, and the sting encompassing most of his snout. The scent of his own scorched scales lingered in his nostrils. Deep, pulsating aches coursed along his back and through his limbs, strong enough to nearly make his knees buckle.
But he pressed forward regardless, pressed forward through that pain, and his heartbeat quickened as he neared Leyloni.
However much of his own blood was running over his scales, however much damage he’d suffered, it was worth it to keep her safe. To keep his little clan safe.
The breeze picked up, flowing over his body in a soothing caress that was tainted only by the odor of scorched dragon flesh. He shivered at the slight chill; normally, he would barely have noticed it.
The brush up ahead rustled, leaves shaking as Leyloni, holding Serek in her arms, emerged from hiding. She met Arysteon’s gaze immediately, and her eyes rounded with worry, with helplessness and fear—with love.
He could only imagine how he must have looked to her, but he knew well how he felt—grateful. Relieved. Loved and in love.
Arysteon meant to tell her he was all right, that his wounds would heal, that he only needed some time to rest and recover, but what value had words in that moment? Drawing upon the remaining strength in his diminished spark, he forced himself forward again.
With a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, his spark exploded, consuming him utterly.
On his next step, it was not a clawed paw that came down on the ground but a clawed hand, similar in shape