The Dragon King's eyes were locked on the second letter.
His jaw was set in a way that Dexmon's face had never produced on its own. The gold in his eyes burned at a frequency that made the torches nearest to him flicker and bend, drawn toward him like iron filings toward a magnet. He was livid. The livid was ancient, vast, the specific fury of a king whose dragons were being corrupted and whose fury predated every diplomatic convention currently preventing him from doing something about it.
"Are you able to sense the corruption type?" Tiberon asked. "Is it Dark Fae?"
The Dragon King's answer was one word. Delivered with ten thousand years of certainty.
"Yes."
Tiberon's jaw moved one millimeter. The millimeter contained an entire tactical restructuring.
"Then we need the Draken Prime."
