Three years later, in the year 118 of the Conquest Era.
The Crownlands, Blackwater Bay.
"Skree-"
A thunderous roar rang out for dozens of miles, and an immense shadow swept over the tranquil sea.
A mighty dragon clad entirely in black scales soared through the air. Fully spread, his wings could blot out the sky, and his baleful green slit pupils gleamed sharply beneath the high autumn sun.
The next instant, the black beast wheeled into a steep dive like a meteor falling from the heavens, the wind of his passage pressing a long white furrow into the sea.
"Dragonfire, Cannibal!"
A lean boy with shoulder-length silver-gold hair crouched on the dragon's back. He was eleven, with a handsome face and bright, keen purple eyes.
Both hands gripped the black steel handles at the front of the saddle as he shouted his command.
Three years had left a marked change in him-he now stood a little over one meter seventy, his shoulders had broadened, and years of sword practice had etched muscle into his arms. His jawline was sharper than it had been three years ago.
Crouched over the saddle, he no longer looked like a child at all, but rather a sword about to be drawn.
Boom-
A vicious gleam flashed through Cannibal's slit pupils. He opened his jaws, bristling with serrated teeth, and spewed a torrent of baleful green dragonfire.
Its color resembled wildfire exploding and spreading across a wilderness, a heart-stopping sickly green everywhere one looked. Yet amid the summer heat, it carried an uncanny chill-not a chill of temperature, but the bone-deep cold of utter lifelessness.
That chill mingled with the searing heat of the dragonfire, creating a jarring, hair-raising sensation.
Had any of Dragonstone's elders been present, they might have recognized the form of flame