She crouched in the ditch her half-cohort had dug in the summer, icy water up to her neck, watching the strange fire race toward her. She had never seen anything like it, the purple-white glare tree-tall, as intense as the hottest fires smiths made. She was going to die—they all would—no wet ditch could protect them from something like this. It burned like no mortal fire, moving as if it had a purpose, an intent behind it. Waves of heat reached out ahead of it, smelling more like a forge-fire than ordinary burning trees. As it neared, Vardan yelled "Down!" at the patrol, threw her head back under the water and held her breath. It would not be enough; she would die, but— Violet-white fire flowed over the ditch; for the instant before the water turned to steam and obscured vision, Vardan saw what no mortal had ever seen, the underside of a dragonlet, the fire-colored structures that would be, if the dragonlet survived, breastbone, ribs, heart and lungs and limbs.
