hustin.art

The tavern's candlelight flickered across Sir Aldric's weathered face as he drained his third tankard of mead. “Dragons don't bargain, boy,” he growled at the young scribe, who clutched his worn leather journal with trembling hands. Truth be told, I'd seen plenty of wyrms in my day, but none quite like the beast that guarded the Crimson Keep. Its scales gleamed like polished rubies in the mountain sun, and its breath – gods above – could melt stone into streams of liquid fire. Only three of us made it past those ancient walls, and I alone lived to tell the tale. Though sometimes, in the depths of night, I wonder if perhaps I died there too, and this is merely a ghost's remembrance.