Rein has first set his target on a small clan of dragons that inhabit the Blackstone Mountains. They were not the largest nor the most threatening, but their deaths would send a message. Rein tracked them for days, observing their patterns, waiting for the opportune moment. One night, while the dragons were sitting around their campfire, Rein acted. Fire erupted from his palm, a wall of flame that cut off their escape. The dragons roared their displeasure, but Rein was unyielding. His magic flowed from him like an extension of his body, beautiful in its precision. Stone erupted from the earth to bind the dragons while their scales were burned by fire.
The fight was over almost immediately. The last dragon fell with a deafening roar, his ichor staining the earth. Rein stood in triumph over their corpses, but no joy arose. No satisfaction. The fires in his gut burned but not nearly enough. He had expected more and now felt empty as though even the act of vengeance had turned meaningless. For one moment, Rein questioned himself—was that really what he wanted? The flames behind his fury quenched all doubt that remained. "The dragons must be killed. All of them."
A whispering of the Spirit echoed in his mind: "You are just beginning."