Demonfire
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Not until that day, when they settled, metal skins steaming with heat, in the village green. Three black silhouettes, against the soft spring evening, their wings hooked forward and veined with bone, their lifeless heads holding all of hell’s fury in their throats. As she watched the grass char and die beneath their claws, Maeve could almost smell the brimstone in their bellies, the sour avarice, all the coppery blood of virgins spilled to power their flight.
