Usually when there was an attack on a gang, or at least, on the Sting, Drought had the bodies of all their fellow members burned. It was a sight to see, with a smell that would have you puking in the corner and hoping nobody watched you do it. Even if only one body needed to be burned, it was still an event, and today was no different.

Drought stood closest to the fire, his dark eyes hardened to the darkest, unforgiving charcoal that Fennec had ever seen. Fennec and his older brother Prickle stood pressed against the wall of the headquarters, where they could see and smell the fire, but not be close enough that they'd fall in or worse. Cobra's dragonets, Rattlesnake, Sirocco, and young Qibli stood beside them. Prickle had tried to talk to Rattlesnake earlier, but she wasn't having it. None of the siblings spoke a word, and Fennec didn't blame them. He and Prickle had lost their mother last night, but Drought had killed Rattlesnake's father in retaliation. He wouldn't be surprised if the three dragonets never spoke to him or Prickle again, although he doubted Qibli would even remember the incident, and Rattlesnake was bound to forgive Prickle sooner or later. Sirocco was a 50/50 chance. He was a bit unpredictable like that.

Scarab was one of the two bodies dead last night that wasn't currently being set on fire and causing the whole of the Scorpion Den to reek of burned dragon flesh. Drought had personally cut up the poor dragon's body and had it dumped outside of the Claw's headquarters for the vultures to peck at. He had thrown a single scale at Cobra a few hours ago- the only remains of her husband she would ever get. Fennec didn't know why his father had been so cruel about it. Scarab hadn't killed his mother. He hadn't betrayed them at all. He, like most of the dragons being burned, hadn't deserved the fate he received. But that was just the way gangs were. No one ever got what they deserved.

The other body to escape the flames was Ferla's own. Drought had buried her himself at dawn, and Fennec had watched the sun rise in silence, Coal scrambling around in his grasp as Prickle and Drought filled the grave in the small sandy yard behind the Headquarters. It wasn't right, in Fennec's opinion. The whole point of the bonfires was to send off the members of the Sting that had died for the cause. However pathetic their death in battle had been, Drought firmly believed every soldier deserved an honorable send off. They believed what the Skywings did, to a degree. They were dragons. They were born to fly. It was only appropriate that that should return to the sky in some form after they died. 

But Ferla was buried in the ground, over six feet deep, where only the bugs and the sand would find her. It was a poor way to honor her, Fennec believed. She had loved the sun so much. Sending her back to the sky, where she could become apart of that golden glow, was the only send off he could've imagined giving her. But Drought disagreed, and Drought's word was law, so Ferla was buried where the sky would never find her. 

Deep down Fennec thought that Drought buried her because he wasn't ready to let go of Ferla. He didn't want her to ascend to the sky when he was stuck here. By burying her, he kept some part of her grounded here, with him. Not that Drought would ever admit to anything that emotional, though. He hadn't shown any emotions other than anger and cold indifference since the moment he saw Ferla's slit throat, and Fennec doubted he ever would again.

Everything was different now, Fennec realized as the flames of the fire grew higher. Without Ferla, his life, and the lives of everyone in the Sting, would be completely different.

There was no going back now.