He gleamed with his sapphire eyes over the fallen opponents while smoke still escaped his nostrils. Seconds ago, the dragon had washed over them with a blaze of fire. Surely, they were all dead. But he had to make sure. It had happened before that one feisty little fighter miraculously withstood the rain of flames and tried to attack him from behind.
A strange race, those humans. Countless cave paintings and bronze statues plastered the world, praising his kind. Yet, whenever he crossed paths with them, they either ran in fear or charged at him with spears. Eventually, he had given up on making sense of their erratic behaviour. Either he hid far from their existence or killed them immediately. Life was just easier that way.
Being the last of his kind gave him no margin of error for negligence. On the other hand, what was the purpose of dragging out his existence for much longer? He had long given up on the quest to keep his kind alive, especially after finding the broken shells of the last known dragon eggs.
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