The Glimmerfen clearing was a whirlwind of chaos, like a circus had crashed into a dragon nursery and invited a glitter factory to the party.
The Wyrmdancers twirled their glowing ribbons, summoning more scaly dragon-chickens that hissed and snapped like feathered piranhas with a personal vendetta. My crew was a force of nature—Lilith's scythe carved through the air, sending ribbons fluttering like confetti at a parade gone wrong; Vorren crushed dragonets with his fists, each THUD shaking the ground like an earthquake in a bad mood;
Yvra's daggers flew with royal precision, pinning Wyrmdancers to trees with the flair of a seamstress pinning a royal gown; Jex, out of apples, threw rocks with desperate yelps, shouting, "Take that, you scaly gremlins!"; and Mister Fog's mist swirled, making the dragonets sneeze and stumble, though he muttered,
