Piscalo crouched on the ground, head down, knuckles pressed against the cavern floor. A tuft of hair fell over his eye, but he made no effort to push it back, for such fidgeting was forbidden when waiting on his lord’s pleasure. He could feel the giant beast approaching even now, ground trembling as it shifted from one huge limb to the next, the sound of its steps echoing loudly through the wide cave. Closer and closer until suddenly it loomed above him, heat rolling off of its massive form. Piscalo fought not to lick his lips. The summons had come sooner than expected, barely giving him time to gather what was needed.

“Child!” the creature boomed.

Piscalo's heart skipped a beat, but he kept his gaze lowered, watching as pebbles and stones clattered in response to the beast's shout.    

“My lord?” 

The weight of the creature pressed closer. “You were not at last night's brood call. I will know why.” 

“I'm sorry, my lord. I felt unwell and—”  

A huff of air from the beast lifted Piscalo from the ground and landed him on his rear a good claw length away. The rocky floor jarred him, but Piscalo knew better than to cry out. Old Gresset despised sharp noises, especially the baying of dasha. 

Piscalo did, however, look up. 

The dragon was monstrous, its body covered in dark green scales that seemed to ripple and roll as the creature moved. The beast's head slid closer, and Piscalo froze, the dragon studying him with a single overlarge eye. There was no white in it, just different shades of green and yellow mottled together, and an inky vertical pupil in the center staring down. 

“Do not lie,” Gresset rumbled. “You were seen leaving my spire.” 

This close to the beast’s maw the temperature was boiling, and Piscalo began to sweat profusely despite his efforts to appear calm. He swallowed hard. 

“Syldrae holds my tongue.”

“WHAT?” Gresset bellowed, flattening Piscalo against the ground. “You are from my brood!” the dragon thundered, tail cracking back and forth. “My flesh! My dasha!”

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Piscalo didn’t answer. Instead, he gingerly pulled his long right sleeve up to his elbow, exposing his forearm. The revealed skin was slick and bright red with patches of crusty black, like meat that had been held over a burning bulb too long.  

Gresset's head jerked back in surprise. At first, the dragon was silent, but then a slow hiss whispered from between row after row of wicked teeth. 

“Betrayer.” 

Piscalo quickly covered his arm and prostrated himself. “Please, my lord, I had no choice! I just wanted to join in the gray’s celebration for a bit, but then Mother Mud”— that was one of the names Piscalo and his friends called Syldrae, and Gresset seemed to like it—“arrived and gathered all the unburned of age, and I tried to leave, but they said I had eaten of their meat and so must do the same. They made me!” 

Though he could no longer see the mighty green, Piscalo could feel the dragon’s gaze weighing his words and fate. He tried to cross his toes, but the way he was bent over pulled his sandal straps too tight, so he settled on biting his cheek. There was luck in blood, and he hoped the small trickle would help him now.

“I shall speak to Syldrae of this theft,” Gresset eventually said.

Piscalo let out an audible sigh. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Do not thank me yet,” the dragon growled. “Your blame is equal to hers.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Where is she now?”

Piscalo shifted. “I heard that she planned to spend the day after the feast bathing in the volcanic spring to the south.” 

“Of course,” Gresset said with a snort. “I should have known.” 

“I’m sorry that it’s so far away, my lord. You’ll have to wait—”  

“Wait?” Gresset snapped. “I will not wait. If she thinks to avoid me by hiding at the springs all day until my anger has cooled, she is mistaken. I am leaving, and you,”—Piscalo felt the creature's breath stir the air around his head—“are not to move until I return.” 

So saying, Gresset stalked away, legs slamming and claws scraping. Piscalo dared a quick peek to the side and saw the dragon’s tail hiss past him. The cave grew suddenly dark as the great wurm blocked the large entrance. Gresset turned, catching Piscalo’s eye, and snorted again, but this time radiant green flame spewing forth, filling the chamber with a flash of light.

“Stay!” the dragon roared.

Piscalo pressed his head to the floor, the heat of the short blast briefly washing over his back. The sensation was followed by the sound of crunching rock, a giant gust of air, and then...nothing.