The fingers close tighter, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father slipping away again. “Will we speak again?”
“Oh, not for some time, I’d hope,” he chuckles, amused. “Remember this, young Dracoth: glory can take many forms.”
Arawnoth’s fingers slam shut. A molten fist crushing my heart.
But the hand resumes its fall. World-ending flaming gales and pelting lava crash into me, searing my skin and boiling the blood in my veins. I should be in agony—but I feel only purpose. My soul ignites, flaring higher and higher.
