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And now she was here, riding a chill winter wind over the huddled town below.

Fading white stars pricked the winter sky above her; below were a few scattered yellow lights in the mostly sleeping town.

Dawn would soon stir the human nest. A foul stench of burning wafted up to her.

Ships filled the harbour, and along the waterfront, watch-fires burned at irregular intervals.

Beside the fires, she saw men pacing restlessly.

She dug back in her memories. War. She witnessed the stink and clutter of war.

Below her, thick smoke from a dockside building suddenly blossomed into orange flame.

An outcry arose. Her keen eyes picked out the shapes of men running furtively away as a much larger group converged on the fire.

She dropped lower, trying to discern what was going on.

As she did so, she heard the unmistakable hiss of arrows in flight.

The flaming projectiles missed her, striking instead a ship where they swiftly went out.

A second volley followed the first. This time, a sail on one of the ships caught fire.

Flames from the tarred and burning shaft ran swiftly up the canvas towards her.

She beat her wings hastily to gain altitude, and the wind of her passage fanned the racing flames.

On the deck of the burning ship, men yelled in astonishment.

They pointed past their burning sail to the dragon silhouetted above the ship.

She heard the twang of a bow, and an arrow sang past her.

She side-slipped the errant missile, but others took swift flight against her.

One of the puny shafts actually struck her, pecking harmlessly against the tight scaling on her belly.

She was both astonished and affronted. They dared to attempt to harm her?

Humans sought to oppose the will of a dragon?

Anger flared in her. Truly, the skies had been empty of wings for far too long.

How dared humans assume they were the masters of this world?

She would teach them now how foolish that concept was.

She chose the largest of the ships, folded her wings and plummeted down towards it.

She had never battled a ship before. In all her dragon memories, there were few in which humans had opposed dragons.

She discovered quickly that seizing rigging in her talons was a bad idea.

The rocking vessels did not offer satisfactory resistance to her attack.

They swayed away from her, and canvas and lines tangled around her clawed feet.

With a wild shake, she tore herself free of the ship.

She flapped her wings to gain altitude. High above the harbour, she divested her claws of the tangled mess of lines, spars and canvas and with satisfaction watched it crash down amidships of a galley, foundering the smaller craft.

On her second pass, she selected a two-masted ship as her prey.

The men on board, seeing her stoop towards them, filled the air with arrows which clattered against her, falling back onto the ship below.

As she swept by the ship, a slash of her tail sliced both masts.

Tangled with sails and rigging, they fell, but Tintaglia flew clear of them.

She passed low over a galley and the men on board leapt over the sides into the sea.

She roared her delight. So quickly they learned to fear her!

The beating of her great wings set smaller craft rocking.

A chorus of shouts and screams rose in homage to her fury.

She drove herself skywards and then swung back over the harbour.

As the winter sun broke free of the horizon, she saw a brief, dazzling reflection of her gleaming body on the dark water below.

Her keen eyes swept the city. The fires went unfought, the battles of mere humans unjoined.

All eyes were lifted to her, all motion suspended in paralysed worship of her wrath.

Her heart soared on their awestruck regard.

The bouquet of their fear rose to her nostrils and intoxicated her with power.

She drew breath and screamed, releasing with the sound a mist of milky poison.

It drifted on the morning wind. A few seconds passed before the satisfaction of agonized shrieks rose to her.

In the ships below her, the droplets of poison ate skin and sank deep into flesh, piercing bone and eating through gut before passing out the other sides of the victims’ twitching bodies.

Battle venom, born in the acid waters of her birth, strong enough to penetrate the layered armour of an adult dragon, passed unspent through the watery flesh of the humans and sizzled through the wood of their ships.

The tiniest drop created a wound that would not heal.

So much for those who had thought to pierce her flesh with arrows!

Then, through the turmoil and screams, through the crackling of flames and the singing of wind, a lone, clear voice caught her attention.

She swivelled her head to separate the sound from all others.

A voice sang, a lad’s voice, high but not shrill.

Sweet and true, it rang the word. ‘Tintaglia, Tintaglia! Blue queen of winds and sky! Tintaglia, glorious one, terrible in your beauty, lovely in your wrath! Tintaglia, Tintaglia!’

Her keen eyes found the small figure. He stood alone, atop a mound of rubble, heedless that his silhouetted body made a perfect arrow target.

He stood straight, joyous, his arms lifted, and he sang to her with the tongue of an Elderling.

His flattery spelled her, and he wove her name into his song, uttering it with ineffable sweetness.

Her wings gathered the wind beneath them.

She banked and turned in graceful spirals, leaning against the air currents.

His song spiralled with her, wrapping her in ensorcelling praise.

She could not resist him. She dropped lower and lower to hear his adoring words.

Battered ships fled the harbour. She no longer cared. Let them go.

This city was poorly built to welcome a dragon.

Nonetheless, not too far from her charming suitor there was a plaza that would suffice for a landing spot.

As she beat her wings to slow her descent, many humans scuttled away, taking flimsy shelter behind ruined buildings.

She paid them no mind. Once on the ground, she shook out her great wings and then folded them.

Her head swayed with the rhythm of her minstrel’s words.

‘Tintaglia, Tintaglia, who outshines both moon and sun. Tintaglia, bluer than a rainbow’s arc, gleaming brighter than silver. Tintaglia, swift-winged, sharp-clawed, breathing death to the unworthy. Tintaglia, Tintaglia.’

Her eyes spun with pleasure. How long had it been since a dragon’s praises had been sung?

She looked on the boy, and saw he was enraptured with her.

His eyes gleamed with her beauty reflected.

She recalled that she had touched this one, once before.

He had been with Reyn when she rescued him.

That solved the mystery, then. It happened, sometimes, that a mortal was enraptured by a dragon’s touch.

Young ones were especially vulnerable to such a linking.

She looked on the small creature fondly.

Such a butterfly, doomed to a brevity of days, and yet he stood before her, fearless in his worship.

She opened wide her wings in token of her approval.

It was the highest accolade a dragon could afford a mortal, though his juvenile song scarcely deserved it: sweet as his words were, he was scarcely a learned minstrel.

She shivered her wings so that their blue and silver rippled in the winter sunlight. He was dazzled into silence.

With amusement, she became aware of the other humans.

They hung back, peering at her from behind trees and over walls.

They clutched their weapons and trembled with fear of her.

She arched her long neck and preened herself to let them see the ripple of her muscle.

She stretched her claws, scoring the paving stones of the street.

Casually, she cocked her head and looked down on her little admirer.

She deliberately spun her eyes, drawing his soul into them, until she could feel how painfully his heart leapt in his chest. As she released him, he took breath after panting breath, yet somehow remained standing.

Truly, small as he was, he was yet worthy to sing a dragon’s praises.

‘Well, minstrel,’ she purred with amusement. ‘Do you seek a boon in exchange for your song?’

‘I sing for the joy of your existence,’ he answered boldly.

‘That is well,’ she replied. The other, hidden humans behind Selden ventured fractionally closer to her, weapons at the ready.

Fools. She clashed her tail against the cobblestones, which sent them leaping back to shelter.

She laughed aloud. Yet here came one other who refused to fear her, stepping boldly out to confront her.

Reyn carried a sword, but he allowed it to hang, point down, from his hand.

‘So you have returned,’ Reyn spoke quietly. ‘Why?’

She snorted at him. ‘Why? Why not? I go where I will, human. It is not for you to question a Lord of the Three Realms. The little one has chosen a better role. You were wiser to emulate him.’

Reyn set the bloodied tip of his blade to the street. She smelled blood on him and the sweat and smoke of battle. He dared frown at her. ‘You clear our harbour of a few enemy vessels and expect us to grovel with gratitude?’

‘You imagine a significance to yourself that does not exist, Reyn Khuprus. I care nothing for your enemies, only my own. They challenged me with arrows. They met a fitting end, as will all who defy me.’