He protested no more. As the other dragons rushed forward with a flurry of wings, he caught one full in the face with his flame, twisted around and slashed another across the shoulder with the spikes along his tail, and flung himself into the sky. The sounds of furious battle erupted behind us, Gwynmir’s battle-roar cutting through the cries of the Melentori and the weaker sounds of the other dragons. But we hurled straight into the driving wind and rain, Merawin’s powerful wings gaining ground despite the resistance. I laid flat against his neck, my heart pounding in my chest and a cold chill in my stomach.
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By far the shortest of the three, this is a novel I never meant to write. After finishing a book as colossal as the first in this series, I felt as though the topic had been thoroughly exhausted, and that sequels could only be poor attempts to keep the experience alive without any real substance. Several friends urged me to write sequels, but I thought, how could I possibly?