The night burned with dragonfire.
Kelthor's maw gaped, releasing a torrent of flame so hot the air warped in ribbons of heat.
The scorched plain glowed orange, black rock melting in rivulets of molten glass as the blaze roared forward.
But the fire never touched Aric.
The inferno bent away from him, veering at impossible angles. One moment it screamed toward his body, the next it hissed harmlessly into the air, spiraling back across the stone in wild arcs, scorching empty ground.
Kelthor's own flame curled back against his claws, forcing the dragon to rear back in confusion.
Ozborn staggered, blinking against the heat.
"What—what is this trickery?"
Aric stepped forward through the rippling haze, untouched, his eyes calm as a man walking through morning mist. The black cloth masked his mouth, but the faint curl of a smile was unmistakable.
"No trick," he said softly. His voice cut through the fire's roar, steady as a blade. "Only fate, realigned."
