Red washed over the world. Rivulets of blood gushed from shining, black, plated scales, and the great wings’ labored flapping shredded the lakeside calm. To avoid the beast’s counterattack, Lysander snatched his sword and stumbled backward. His first instinct was to puke, but out of the chaos, his brother’s panic-stricken “run!” fought the fog in his ears. He fled for the forest’s protection, his legs carrying him as fast as they could through the tall grass and into the dense underbrush. Thorns raked deep gouges in his skin, and branches slapped ...