Scorched Earth

The ground splits before the warning reaches anyone. Heat surges up through the cracks, sharp and immediate, and the air fills with the sound of something vast drawing breath. Not wind. Not storm. Something older, coiled beneath stone and waiting for a reason.

Then it comes. A burst of fire, not wild but deliberate — sweeping low, close enough to kiss the earth without consuming it entirely. The surface blackens, fractures, reshapes. What was once solid becomes something else: rough, dark, still holding the memory of heat even as it cools.

The dragon lifts its head, watching. This is not destruction for the sake of it. It is marking. Claiming. Leaving behind proof of presence — of power — in a form that does not fade quickly.

The stones settle into themselves, porous and scarred, each one carrying the echo of that breath. Not just fire, but intent. The kind that lingers long after the flame is gone. Somewhere, someone will gather them. Because there are those who recognise what has been touched by a dragon — and understand that wearing it is not without consequence.