Drakoth the Last Wyrm's Awakening
Copyright© 2026 by Adam.F
Chapter 3
Drakoth stretched his wings, the membranes snapping tight against a sudden updraft of sulfurous air. Behind him, the interior of the volcano was a chaotic pattern of shifting stone and rhythmic thumping. The female dragons had reached their final stage of transformation, their scales hardening into iridescent armor as they settled into the ash. It was a frantic, heavy time; fifteen eggs, each nearly three feet tall, were being deposited into the warm cradles of the caldera. The air had the scent of ozone and ancient minerals, but Drakoth knew the coming hunger.
“Too small,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble that shook the loose pebbles beneath his talons. He wasn’t talking about the eggs, but the current stock of livestock in the valley below. The females were exhausted, their massive frames trembling from the effort of the laying, and they would require an immense amount of protein to recover and protect the clutch. He couldn’t simply bring them mountain goats; it would be like feeding a starving army with a handful of berries.
He launched himself into the thermal vents, spiraling upward until the volcanic peak became a distant, smoldering pimple on the landscape. The air grew thin and frigous, but Drakoth didn’t mind the cold; it sharpened his senses. He scanned the horizon, his golden eyes piercing through a veil of high-altitude clouds, searching for a silhouette that matched the scale of his need.
A sudden flicker of white against the deep blue of the stratosphere caught his eye. It was a flock of rocs, those colossal animals of prey that usually avoided the volcanic wastes, but today they were migrating in a tight, disciplined wedge.
To a smaller predator, a roc was a nightmare; to Drakoth, it was a robust meal, a single concentrated source of calories that would sustain a female for days. He didn’t just see the animals; he saw the biological necessity of the hunt.
He didn’t dive immediately. Instead, he entered a steep, silent glide, folding his wings to minimize drag and transforming his massive body into a living spear. The wind shrieked past his crest, but he remained focused on the trailing edge of the flock. As he neared the rear of the formation, the largest roc for a seasoned bull that would dwarf a house—noticed the black shadow descending from the sun. The animal let out a loud earth-shaking, deafening screech, attempting to avoid the collision, but it was too late.
The impact was less of a collision and more of a surgical strike. Drakoth didn’t just grab the roc; he drove his talons deep into the bird’s chest, his curved claws shearing through layers of dense muscle and feather with the precision of a falling mountain. One talon, jagged and obsidian-hard, found its mark, slicing clean through the primary artery. The roc’s screech of defiance snapped into a wet, guttural wheeze. For a few frantic heartbeats, the giant bird fought, its massive wings beating a desperate rhythm against the air, but the life was draining out of it in hot, crimson bursts. Within minutes, the frantic struggle slowed to a rhythmic shudder, and then to a heavy, absolute stillness.
Drakoth didn’t let go. He adjusted his grip, his powerful legs locking the carcass against his chest, feeling the last few sparks of warmth leave the roc’s body. He banked sharply, the sudden shift in momentum nearly tossing the dead weight from his grasp, but he tightened his hold, his gold eyes already scanning the horizon. The rest of the flock had scattered; their disciplined wedge shattered by the sudden violence of the apex predator. They flew in erratic, terrified bursts, disappearing into the cloud cover, leaving the lone bull to be carried away as a prize of war.
The return flight was a study of heavy grace. With the roc’s massive bulk pinning his chest, Drakoth had to adjust his center of gravity, tilting his wings at a steeper angle to maintain lift. He didn’t rush; the air was thick and humid as he descended from the stratosphere, and he used the shifting currents to glide in a wide, sweeping arc.
Below him, the landscape transitioned from the sterile white of the high peaks to the bruised purples and charred blacks of the volcanic foothills. Every few miles, he would let out a low, vibrating hum that resonated in his throat, a signal to the valley that the provider had returned.
As the jagged silhouette of the volcano grew larger, the heat began to rise in shimmering waves, meeting him halfway. The caldera was a bowl of simmering gold and grey, where the air vibrated with the low-frequency thrum of five massive hearts beating in unison. Drakoth could see them now—the females, their scales shimmering like oil on water, huddled around the clusters of three-foot-tall eggs. They were statues of iridescent stone, exhausted and hollowed out by the biological tax of motherhood, their eyes tracking his descent with a singular, predatory focus.
