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follow, and hurried to the burning market. They had planned this attack, they had deployed this operation countless times before, but his brother still failed to get on with the proverbial program.
    After hovering over the terrified dracos for a moment longer, Balaur finally started his attack aided by two of his raiders who followed his lead and started chopping the heads off the serfs who were trying to save their crops, their homes, and their children. The town’s panic level was elevated tenfold. Balaur wasn’t selective on whom he took as victims—men, women, children, horses, no one escaped their foray. Good, those fucking serfs needed to learn that no one escaped Kalaur’s ire. 
    From the corner of his eye, he saw Vrajitor emerge from behind the town’s tower. He had shifted back to human form and held a large sack in his hands. His naked body covered by his customary grey robe.
    “Be on the ready, Magician,” Kalaur ordered.
    “Always, my lord,” Vrajitor replied.
    “It won’t be long before they break.”
    As if on cue, a woman ran across the square and knelt by Kalaur’s feet.  “Please, my lord, we don’t know where Mr. Milek is. Please be kind and spare us.”
    Kalaur leaned down and sniffed. The putrid smell of deceit reached his nose. “You’re lying,” he growled. He opened his mouth wide and descended for the kill.
    “No! Mother,” a young man cried from the opposite side of the square. He darted to his mother’s side trying to protect her from Kalaur’s attack. “Milek arrived yesterday, stayed the night then left before sunrise,” the young man uttered trembling to his core. The daft fool.
    Kalaur paused, his long nozzle inches from his target. “Don’t lie to me, boy, or I’ll eat you and your entire family in one sweep.”
    “I’m not lying, my lord! He’s left, he’s not here anymore.”
    Kalaur paused, and then straightened up towering above his serfs. “Where did he stay?”
    They both stared up at him, mute.
    “You said he stayed the night,” Kalaur said between clenched teeth. “Where did the bastard stay?”
    The young man started crying uncontrollably and covered his face on his mother’s shoulder. Kalaur drew in another breath, showing his patience had reached its limits. Mother and son recoiled in their insignificance but before Kalaur finished what he’d started, the woman pointed at a small shop at the end of the forum.
    An old man who was watching the bout from his doorstep jumped in surprise. His blood shot eyes went wide in fear, and then he did exactly what Kalaur was hoping he would. He tried to escape. The fool ran across the street and leaped in the air. His clothes ripping apart as his body transformed into dragon, his tail and wings sprouting out for his salvation.
    Kalaur glanced at Vrajitor and grinned. At once, his magician pulled out a large device from the sack he was holding and took position. The device looked like a crossbow but instead of an arrow, it bore a strange projectile, which resembled a metal centipede. As the runaway draco tried to fly away, Vrajitor aimed high then pulled the trigger. The centipede flew across the sky and attached itself on the fugitive’s back. As if it had a life of its own, the projectile wrapped its many claws around the dragon’s wings and closed on them like massive scissors. A deafening screech echoed around the entire village as the draco’s wings were severed midflight. The traitor plummeted to the ground, taking down a few houses with him.
    In utter delight, Kalaur watched as the metal centipede retracted and firmly lodged itself on the draco’s back.
    “Bravo!” Kalaur laughed. “Now that’s what I call a live demonstration!”
    Vrajitor nodded in acknowledgement. His face contorted into what Kalaur had learnt was the magician’s smile.
    The remaining town folks, the ones who have survived at least, fell to their knees and bowed in subservience.
    “You are the ones to blame for this tragic