It wasn't until Syndor's searing flames had reduced seven pirate ships to smoldering ruins that the first of the dragon-hunting crossbows finally opened fire.
With a sharp, ear-splitting whistle, massive bolts—long as spears—sliced through the sky, their tips gleaming as they sought flesh and scale. But Syndor twisted and rolled with impossible grace, slipping between death like a shadow in the storm.
Realizing the enemy had fully mobilized, Gavin didn't hesitate.
"Syndor, pull up!" he commanded.
With a thunderous beat of his wings, the crimson dragon soared skyward, quickly leaving the burning wreckage and frantic ships behind.
From above, Gavin looked down upon the pirates now in full alert, their formations reeling in disarray. He narrowed his eyes. The element of surprise was lost—but the damage dealt had already exceeded his expectations.
He had originally intended to strike the Tyroshi fleet directly. But after thorough scouting, it was clear the enemy was more prepared than anticipated. Their fleet was docked tightly in the port, warships lined with grim precision. Some of the larger vessels had already strung their dragon-hunting crossbows, and many along the shore were permanently aimed at the sky.
A direct assault would've been suicidal.
Gavin, ever calculating, had adjusted his plan. Instead of targeting the heavily defended port, he turned his attention to the looser ring of pirate ships drifting farther out at sea—careless, underprepared, and poorly armed.
A lone dragon could wreak havoc, yes—but without support from a fleet, it was all too easy for concentrated fire to bring it down. Syndor could unleash the devastating Fire Bath, an overwhelming sweep of flame strong enough to incinerate port defenses, but doing so would exhaust him. Gavin couldn't risk that. He needed Syndor at full strength should he be wounded—and the Fire Bath was a weapon of last resort.
He kept Syndor circling above until it was clear no further openings remained. Only then did he give the order to retreat.
His fleet was still two days from Tyrosh. In the meantime, he would launch intermittent strikes to keep the enemy anxious, on edge. If he couldn't break their walls, he could break their spirits. And with luck—maybe even scare the pirates away entirely.
Syndor descended onto a small, uninhabited island not far from Tyrosh. Gavin leapt from the saddle and scanned the surrounding brush. Empty. Quiet.
"Go find something to eat," he said softly, patting Syndor's scaled flank.
The dragon gave a low grunt and padded toward the sea, vanishing into the mist.
Gavin gathered dry branches and lit a fire, then unwrapped a bit of food from his satchel. As the flames crackled, he sat cross-legged, chewing slowly while thoughts churned. The night would be long—and plans had to be made.
Out at sea, aboard what remained of the pirate fleet, silence reigned. The water hissed from residual heat, thick with smoke and the sharp tang of scorched wood.
Some men wept quietly. Others simply stared into the firelit distance, hollow-eyed and pale.
On the charred deck of a half-sunken vessel, a young pirate sat slumped, his skin ash-gray and eyes wide with shock. He had escaped the flames—barely. His ship was gone. His crew, gone. And in the chaos, no one had come for him.
Elsewhere, a pirate crossbowman moved to unwind the tension on his dragon-killer.
"Don't touch that!" someone barked behind him.
"The string'll snap if we keep it wound too long!" the crossbowman argued.
"And if the dragon returns while we're fiddling with it?"
Voices rose. Fear turned into tension, and tension into shouting. The crew was fracturing.
Then, the captain arrived—weathered face set in stone.
"Enough."
His voice silenced them immediately.
"Unwind it. If the crossbow stays drawn, the limbs will weaken. We only wind when we see the beast, understood?"
There were murmurs of reluctant agreement, but dread still clung to them like wet clothes. As the taut string slowly uncoiled with a dry creak, the mood on deck darkened even further.
In the marble halls of Tyrosh's palace, Lord Theron reclined lazily on his cushioned throne, sipping wine the color of blood. A servant whispered hurried news into his ear.
The dragon had struck the pirates. Seven ships gone.
A smile curled on Theron's lips.
"Hmph. Let the beast feast on them. Rabble, the lot of them."
He took another slow sip, unbothered.
"It was wise of me to keep the fleet in port. If that dragon had torched my ships…" He trailed off, chuckling. "No, better them than us."
He waved a hand at his steward.
"Send the pirates more coin. A few women, too. It'll keep them quiet."
He had no sympathy for their losses. As long as they served their purpose, they were tools—disposable.
That night, the heavens swallowed the moon. Storm clouds rolled in, cloaking the stars. Tyrosh fell into near-complete darkness—except for the glowing port, where torches burned and ships bustled with preparation.
Above it all, hidden in the shadows of the clouds, Syndor glided soundlessly.
Gavin knelt low along the dragon's back, scanning the harbor.
He spotted it—a large sailing warship, bold and heavily lit, anchored near the center.
"There," Gavin muttered. Then louder: "Syndor—dive."
With a silent tilt, Syndor plummeted. Like a falling star, he sliced through the night air, invisible until it was too late.
In one sweeping breath, Syndor unleashed a torrent of fire. The flames engulfed the warship, its deck erupting in screams and cinders.
The fire spread like a plague, jumping from rope to sail in seconds. Sailors ran in every direction, alarms finally ringing—but too late.
"Dragon! It's the dragon again!" someone cried, panic thick in the air.
But by then, Gavin and Syndor had vanished once more into the sky.
Now, from above, Gavin shifted his attention to the pirate ships at sea. Their lanterns—once symbols of security—became glaring targets in the abyssal black.
"Let's end their night," Gavin whispered.
Syndor dived again. Another ship burst into flame. Then another.
Each pass left a wake of fire and terror. Pirates leapt into the sea, their cries rising into the wind. Crossbows tried to fire but missed wildly, unable to track a shadow that moved like smoke.
Only when the flames lit up the whole sea—turning night into blazing day—did Gavin order the retreat.
Syndor was panting now. His wings trembled from overuse. His scales glowed dimly, soaked in sweat and ash.
Gavin placed a hand on his neck.
"You've done more than enough, old friend. Let's go."
For two full days, Gavin struck again and again.
Always swift. Always unexpected.
A blaze, a scream, then silence.
Each time, Syndor returned unharmed—but more fatigued. Each strike wore on them both.
When the third day's sun finally broke through the clouds, Gavin looked out over the coast of Tyrosh.
His fleet had arrived.
And there, where once pirate ships proudly circled, the sea was empty—save for burning debris, shattered hulls, and drifting flags, torn and waterlogged.
No resistance waited.
Only ruin.