THE LUNA WHO RUINED HER MATE.
And on the dais, lying on a bed of stone that was shaped exactly to its form, was a skeleton.
It was immense, the bones a deep, smoky grey, longer than the dragon they had met. A long-dead dragon. Its skull was the size of a cart, and between its empty eye sockets, resting in a carved hollow, was a knife.
The knife was not metal. It was made of a single, milky white shard, like a tooth or a claw, honed to a wicked point. It gleamed with its own inner light.
They approached slowly, drawn by a force that was neither good nor evil, but simply old. The air hummed with a residual power, the echo of the creature that had died here guarding its treasure.
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