The tunnels stank of fear and sulfur.

  Kobolds, normally so sure-footed in the dark, stumbled as the mist rolled in. It wasn't the slow, creeping fog of the surface. Here, in the confined veins of the mountain, it was a tidal wave.

  Roots of black tar burst from the stone walls, cutting off retreat. The Kobolds shrieked, a high piercing sound that bounced off the cavern ceiling. They clawed at the rock, desperate to dig new tunnels.

  Too late.

  Amon felt their panic through the floor. It vibrated in his bones. Four of them were cornered in a dead end, they pressed their backs against the cold granite, raising claws, baring teeth. They prepared to fight a monster.

  But the mist wasn't a monster, it was a blanket.

  It wrapped around them, cool and heavy. Their frantic breathing slowed, and their claws lowered. The dream whispered to them, promising safety, quiet. One by one, they slumped to the ground, their bodies preserved, and their souls caught in the amber of Belugmah’s will.

  More, the mist demanded.

  Tar pushed deeper into the mountain, it flowed through the sleeping dens, where hundreds of Kobolds lay curled in heaps. It moved silently, a thief in the night, stealing them away before they could wake.

  But some were awake.

  A servant Kobold dropped a tray of metal plates—the crash deafening—and screamed, pointing a trembling claw at the encroaching fog.

  Chaos erupted.

  Kobolds scattered, hissing warnings. Some ran toward the high tunnel levels, headings for Dragons, while others spread the call outward, filling the halls, and waking all.

  ‘They will warn the masters,’ Amon thought.

  Let them.

  Preservation wanted them most of all, even one Dragon Soul, and its Core, was a treasure that would empower them beyond all the Souls yet gathered.

  He chiseled at his stone dragon mask. Clink. Clink. The rhythm steady, a counterpoint to the panic spreading above. The captured Kobolds—now dreaming peacefully in the mist—spoke to him. Their memories floated in the fog like leaves on a river.

  War is coming.

  Not just the Tharnell invasion, but a protectorate crusade.

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  Lavia’s kin were rallying. The Ancient Reds, the parents of the fallen tyrant, were gathering their broods. They were arming the mortals, every smith in the city hammering iron into swords. Every farmer being handed a spear.

  Amon’s hand froze.

  Mortals.

  He reached out, mentally grasping for details.

  Hundreds were already marching. The militia, and the guards, young men who had never held a weapon in their life. They were being sent to the front lines to buy time for the dragons.

  They are being sent to slaughter.

  Amon slammed the chisel down. The stone cracked.

  "Fools," he shouted. "They’re feeding them to the machines."

  He knew why. Dragons hoarded everything, gold, territory, lives. To them, a mortal soldier was just another coin to be spent. A cheap way to clog the gears of the enemy.

  I will not let them.

  He focused on the tar, compelling it to hurry, and in the great hall above the sleeping dens, the floor exploded as tar surged. Draights of the Royal Guard, twice the size of normal Scales, roared in challenge. They unleashed torrents of fire, turning the stone floor molten.?

  But the tar was ready.

  The frontal assault had formed into walls of hardened obsidian, the fire splashed against it harmlessly. Then, the tar struck back.

  Tendrils shot out, wrapping around the massive legs of the Draights. They struggled, their claws gouging deep furrows in the rock, but the tar held. It pulled them down, suffocating their flames, silencing their roars.

  The mist poured over them, and the Royal Guard, the elite of the dragon army, grew weak, sleep calling. They began falling to the floor, the battle almost theirs.

  Roars echoed from joined tunnels, and reinforcements poured into the hall. Draights, Kobolds, even armed mortals. They fought with desperate courage, fire and steel, clashing against stone and shadow.

  His Soul Core had developed much, but Amon felt his mana draining away. It poured out of him like water from a cracked pitcher, the outflow barely keeping up. The mist needed fuel, the tar needed strength.

  Take it, he thought. Take it all.

  He poured his will into the connection. The mist thickened, and became a solid wall, one that pushed the defenders back.

  The floor beneath the army groaned.

  Crack.

  The stone gave way, and a massive section of the hall collapsed, dropping hundreds of Scales and mortals into the darkness below. They fell into a pit of soft, waiting tar.

  Screams turned to silence as Preserverant swallowed them.

  Amon watched through the eyes of a thousand constructs. It was working. They were saving them, and not by the dozens, but by the hundreds.

  They sleep, the mist whispered. They are safe.

  But not all of them.

  Above, on the surface, the city was empty, and the streets silent. The tar had reached the upper levels, expecting resistance, but finding only abandoned homes.

  Where are they?

  Then the ground shook.

  A roar—no, four roars—tore the sky apart.

  Amon looked up through the eyes of a raven.

  Four majestic Red Dragons circled the mountain. They were not fledglings. They were Ancients. Their scales the color of dried blood, their eyes burning with the light of volcanoes.?

  They looked down at the empty city, and gazed at the mist creeping from homes.

  They opened their mouths, and a deluge of liquid flame poured from the sky, bathing the mountain in an inferno.