Tristan muttered, “Heaven save us from the honor of dragons.” I was privately tempted to agree.
Owain was battle-ready now, and came galloping up from the paddock, the sun glinting off armor and drawn sword. He shouted,
Braith roared, and the clash began.
Braith made him fight for it. He could not take to the air, and he could not deliberately put his master to flame—but he could come close. He could make Owain dodge and curse and circle and retreat, struggling for control of his skittish horse. He could snap and spring and roar and flame, lash him with the hard tip of his tail, rake at him with claws as long as children. Owain consistently came at him from his blind side, but Braith anticipated that, and the flexibility of his long neck gave his good eye more range than Owain expected.
