The once-mighty island had been reduced to little more than scorched rubble and a splintered skeleton of blackened stone.
The massive cave system now lay in smoldering ruins, buried beneath molten rivers of crimson lava that flowed like veins from the heart of the earth itself.
In the middle of it all, Drogor lay half-submerged in the slow-churning lava river, his colossal body breathing deeply, the lava barely tickling his iron-like scales.
Jagged wounds adorned his body, glowing faintly from the raw mana that surged beneath his armored flesh—but even they began to stitch together with a visible hum of regenerative power.
Perched atop Drogor's massive head, Asher sat slumped, one arm draped over his knee as he panted softly, his eyes heavy and darkened from the battle's wrath. His green flames flickered low around his form, almost extinguished.
His voice was low, hoarse from exertion.
