"And just what in hell is the Dragon's Eye?"
Brill's question would not be answered in words. For even as he asked it the light flickered. All light - the moon, the fireworks in the sky, the candlelight from the church - every source of illumination twitched as if a singular ripple of darkness had passed across Argeria. Then their breaths caught - every man's breath, a sudden shock followed by icy misting of the breath. It was if one hand had seized the souls of man.
A scream cascaded inside the church, the congregation crying out. And then, just as quickly, it was silenced, as if it had never happened.
Then began the rushing of air, the whirling howl of dust and wind. Vorde and Synae staggered. Aamira and Brill turned. The headstones leaned. The wind was phantom and pulsing, ruffling their blood as much as the yew trees. They stood, horror-struck, and watched the wall of the church crumble. Brick by brick, window by window, piece by piece, the building was taken apart. It was like the church was dissolving. Rubble was sucked into a vortex, spun away in concentric circles, and as it folded the figures inside were seen.
The congregation stood, their heads bowed, their bodies veiled in impossible shadow.
And at their centre rose the creature.
"No... oh gods, no..." Vorde whispered amid the storm, thyme and headstone distintegrating around him.
"What is that?" Synae shouted, but Vorde had already gripped her arm.
"We have to go... WE HAVE TO GO!"
The Dragon Lord stood amongst the worshippers, head lifting from the blood-red rose in its hand. And through the church grounds Draconic whispers began.
* * * * * * *
"Cordelis!"
The young nobleman stopped halfway down the gravel drive and sighed, turning back to see what his brother wanted now.
Derron stood in the doorway of the mansion, lips trembling. It was as if he had forgotten what he wanted to say. "I just..."
Behind him, every servant in the hallway had frozen like a statue, trays balanced in hands, linens half-folded. And across the lawn, either side of Cordelis, footmen stood perfectly still, their guard-dogs sat calmly and staring into middle distance. It was as if someone had paused the world itself.
Derron swallowed. His brow furrowed. Something was pressing on his mind. "Brother...?"
Then, with one short and precise step, he backtracked and his head came into shadow, darkness summoned from the air itself and wrapped around his face. The servants behind him did likewise, pulling back into veils of black. The lights of the governor's mansion flickered.
And then, from the darkness near the stairway, something else came forward. It stepped as if from another world, as if it had always been there, watching, waiting, as if the house itself had been but a fleeting construct balanced upon the truer fabric of reality.
Cordelis looked into the eyes of the Dragon Lord, and felt the whispers pooling in his head, words of ancient Draconic eroding his will. And then the dogs howled, painfully, and the pillars of the house began eroding.
* * * * * * *
It was the last thing Visante expected.
He had barely made it through the doorway when he was blown off his feet, crashing against the front desk of the Symposium. Something tore down the street and through the building, cleaving wall and roof. The tiles were ripped away and a great wind howled, narrow and relentless like a blade.
The lorekeeper he had been speaking with shrieked and fled from the desk, running between the bookshelves. But he had barely made it a few steps before he froze just as suddenly. His back arched, and shadow fell like a cowl around his head and shoulders. There was nowhere it could possibly have come from. The shadow was simply... and impossibly... there.
From other rooms of the Symposium came wizards and sorcerors - any who had been studying or resident here. As one they stood amongst the debris of rooftiles and fallen beams and looked up at the roiling sky.
And there, floating in turbulent mists, they saw their assailant.
The Dragon Lord extended a hand, and at once a chattering whisper cascaded. The wizards clutched their heads, the stronger wills defying while the weaker seized up and became wrapped in shadow.
"Brothers!" yelled one of the older mages. "We must fight!"
A chain of protection spells were raised, and bolts of fire and electric shot up against the Dragon Lord, smashing against its ethereal shroud. The mages came together, chanting and channelling whatever power they could muster.
The Symposium would not go down without a fight.
* * * * * * *
Kendrick froze, one hand on the beer tap, the other holding a glass for Darius. It was as if he had suddenly been petrified. But there were twitches on his face, words half-formed on his lips, confusion in his brow.
Garkin and Tem, stood before him, wondered for a moment if the barman was suffering a stroke.
"What is... who...?" Kendrick's words could not be finished. Every part of him seem to struggle against some unseen force.
Then blood poured from the beer tap and across his hand.
The barman bucked and his head came back into shadow which had suddenly, impossibly, formed from the wine-racks and glass shelves. They saw his eyes turn black, his skin turn pale. His sudden silence was echoed by the other patrons. Drinkers at tables, performers on the stage, runners in the kitchen - all at once they stopped what they were doing, confused, and then pulled back into shadow.
From the air itself came whispering, like needle-points driving into the brain.
And then, from a side room, the figure stepped. The door fell, rotten, from hinges rusted in a heartbeat. It was as if it had been here all along.
The Dragon Lord released a piercing snarl and swept its blade in mighty arc. A whole table of drunks was cleaved by shadow, their souls leaping from their bodies and manifesting as dust and ether. They twisted like silk strands and fell in step behind the monster, a cloud of howling spirits, magnifying the whispers.
It came towards them.
* * * * * * *
From his cell window, Skelter saw it all.
On the main thoroughfare that ran through Argeria, the dancing revellers stalled. The plays fell silent, the fireworks sputtered in the air, and banners and carnival floats were stilled in an instant. The crowds shifted from laughter to worried murmurs. It was the action of a stalked herd, sensing the predator in their midst. As dogs ran whimpering the children stared into the distance and costumed players held their pose. The moonlight itself seemed to flicker and shift, repainting every street-scene in sharper shadow.
Whispers rippled, but one could not tell if it was the people passing the chant or simply the air itself that bled Draconic curses. Alley walls began to erode and birds dropped from the sky. And beyond the two walls Skelter saw the forest withering. Leaves curled and dropped dead, while streams turned to boiling poison and trunks drooped over, corroding to rot.
There was a short yelp, muffled as quickly as it began. Skelter turned to peer down the hallway. And there he saw the guard he had spoken with earlier, stood in the shadows, face to the wall, like an errant child sent to the corner. Other cells had fallen eerily silent, or else their occupants were gripping the bars and yelling for help.
Then from the shadows the creature came, cloaked and walking with a staff, attended by chattering psychic whispers.
And wherever it went the cell bars corroded into dust.
The Dragon Lords had woken
The land itself was choked.