CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
The baby dragon stood tied to the stake, bound by ropes, in the courtyard of the Pandesian fort, in horrific agony from his wounds—and now, also, in despair. He ached in every part of his body, where the ropes dug into his scales, where his back met the pole, in so much agony he wished he had never emerged from his shell. Life, he was realizing, was cruel.
Even so, that was not what hurt him the most. What hurt him far more than any of his wounds was the sight before him: his father, lying there before him, dead.
He recalled his sense of pride in watching his father fly over the fort, killing his captors, his father’s wings so massive, blotting out the sun. He still recalled the heat of his flames, flames that he hoped to breathe himself one day, waves of flame shoot
