Seven hundred years, and it could still smell that wicked man on the breeze.

The dragon let out a low, guttural growl, pacing the temple that was beginning to feel like a cage. Its patience was running thin. Seven hundred years of pent up rage, sorrow, and jealousy. The man had been someone it thought it could trust. A friend, a companion. Did the humans know what it felt like? To be hunted? To be chased? To watch their family and their animals and their homes be destroyed?

What was that scoundrel's name...

The dragon narrowed its steely eyes in concentration. He had heard friends of the man call him Evie, as a joke. Most had called him Lord Trunswick.

Everard Trunswick, that was it. The first of the bloodline, the wicked man who had sworn all dragons be destroyed. What a tricky man he was.

The dragon knew Everard was long dead. He was nothing but bones in the ground, perhaps even less now. But it could still hear his silky smooth voice, could still see his too-friendly eyes, could still feel his hand on its claw, could still smell and taste the sweetness of cheap perfume and the saltiness of sweat. It was dreadful, and the dragon resented it.

It raised its head, letting out a pained groan. It wanted to fly among the heavens without the risk of being shot down. How lovely that would be. With one last sigh of wistfulness, it curled up in the center of its grand temple, unfurling a wing to fold it over its face, and well a