Hunters on the front lines looked up from the chaos of battle, their faces pale, their weapons trembling in blood-slick hands as a silhouette moved against the purple-red clouds: it was massive, winged, descending with a gravity that made the air itself seem to thicken. An adult dragon, black as the void between stars, its scales shot through with veins of gold that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Terror rippled through the ranks of hunters as the sheer size of the silhouette resembled that of the The Desecrator, Vorthraxx and not Owen's juvenile form there were familiar with, and it was now dropping toward them like a falling star.
Then Solhart stepped forward.
His sword was lowered. His thousand-year-old eyes narrowed, tracking the shape, the movement, the unmistakable arc of wings that he had seen once before, in a different age, when another dragon had flown to meet his fate.
He smiled.
"It's Owen! It's the Dragon King!"
