Drakion had beaten Drax black and blue, white and red, green and black—to the point where his cheeks were swollen beyond recognition. Only after thirty relentless minutes of pummeling did Drakion finally feel that he had vented his rage, leaving behind a groaning Drax, his body wracked with pain.
Even after this brutal scene, the dragons still looked at Drakion with strange, wary eyes. He could only sigh helplessly in response.
They moved on, continuing deeper into the Field of Bones. The further they advanced, the more bones there were—countless skeletal remains, littered endlessly across the desolate land.
As Drakion reached out and touched one of the bones, he could feel nothing—no residual soul, no lingering will. Just cold, silent death.
A thought struck him. Could it be... the souls that appear at night, when the Death Mist descends—are they from these very dragons lying here in ruin?
