The arena rumbled with the sound of the public’s roars. At last, the favorite of the tournament, Sharp, would fight. One of the two gates rose, letting in the black dragon. His proud stature and muscular frame boasted of his strength. He craned his neck, baring his pearly-white jaws at the crowd, while also swiping at the air with his right front foot. It was no wonder he was named Sharp after his talons and fangs – valuable weapons in the dome.

The people of Ashenrise screamed at his display of power. The spectators couldn’t wait for Sharp to slaughter his opponent, a dragon with all the odds against her. The gates opposite to Sharp opened. The black dragon’s opponent did not immediately appear. All was quiet now, most dragons would march out, and a hesitant one like this one was normally dubbed a weakling. Very slowly, the dragon emerged. Far smaller than Sharp, she did not even make up half of his mass. Her scales were a pale white, and shy dark red eyes gazed around.
The underdog winced with every step forward. She was an albino dragon, and as such, she lacked the pigment of color in her scales that would protect her from the heat. Instead, the blazing sun scorched her rather heat-sensitive scales. There was no shade here either; the burning sensation was only intensified in this harsh arid atmosphere where the Dragon Battles took place.
Sharp smirked at his opponent, his muscles rippling as he restrained himself from ending the fight right there.
“Ready to die, Feyrie?” he asked in fire-tongue, the language of dragons.
“No.” she coldly retorted, resisting the urge to hiss in pain. The star overhead was scalding and burning her heat-sensitive body…It would hurt even more when she would extend her wings for the eventual aerial fight. The black beast snorted, tossing his head as though to shrug off the single word.
“You know as well as I that I will be the victor. I’ll even kill the king’s champion too. Besides, for a dragon named after fairies…you’re even weaker than them.” He goaded. The white dragon snarled angrily. It was not an honor to be named after the petite sprites, it was an insult. Fairies represented weakness among the dragon-kind; they were tiny, with very little magic, and what magic they did have, it was not very powerful. It was not Feyrie’s parents that had named her, but another dragon named Magistrate. He had seen the white dragon as a miniscule bug – worthless. No doubt he would be happy to watch his apprentice Sharp rip her to pieces.
“You’ll take those words back!” she hissed, baring her own jaws at the male dragon. Sharp looked amused at her words. His yellow eyes gleamed with pity – he saw his opponent as a naïve hatchling. Overhead, the crowds had riled up at seeing Feyrie’s form of ferocity, and now were screaming in encouragement for them to begin the fight. A servant hit a gong. Now the Dragon Battle between Feyrie and Sharp had truly begun. Any form of soft feature that Sharp had displayed was now gone, as he now prowled toward the smaller of the two.
Feyrie shrank back, mentally cursing in her mind. Why did her first opponent have to be Sharp? Stick to the plan. She thought, retreating away from him. The humans booed their disapproval. The ivory beast wanted to whip around and snarl at them all in gods-tongue, the language which all living things in Ashenrise spoke. They would never understand the guttural sounds of fire-tongue, but they would know her words in gods-tongue, for it was a gift from the gods to have the ability to speak and communicate with other creatures. However, to do that was asking for Sharp to kill her, as no doubt he would lunge and snap her neck.
In his aggression, he seemed impatient as he launched himself. His maw snapped at the air, as Feyrie danced away from him. The civilians cried out, whether in disappointment or in excitement, the smaller dragon didn’t care. They were the reason the Dragon Battles occurred. They had created a form of entertainment through this; every year they would watch about a hundred dragons kill each other. The last would then fight the human king’s champion. It’s all rigged. Aurum, her mentor, had told her that long ago. Humans could never win against a full-grown dragon. To remedy that, they fight hatchlings. It was true, Feyrie and Sharp were only about one hundred years old. A dragon was full-grown by the time they were about five hundred years old.
Sharp growled, marching towards her with his wings extended out. The tiny hatchling knew what he was planning to do – in training sessions he had often liked to bash others with his strong wings. However…she glanced at his underbelly. He couldn’t know what she was planning, as his powerful wings slammed down – on nothing. His surprise had not even registered on his face when he found himself reeling in pain. Looking down at his stomach, he saw ripped scales and flesh, as well as flesh blood. Feyrie had zipped under him with her small stature and had used her claws as she had passed him. The black beast whirled around.
“You’ll pay for that!” Sharp snarled in rage. He darted at her quickly, his claws slashing at her head. This time he hit. The dizzying blow made Feyrie stumble away. Blood leaked from the side of her neck. If he had been trying to snap her neck, he had failed. The white dragon shook her head and hissed. This was a fight to the death and she was determined to survive. No matter what it cost, she planned to win. It’s time to be on the offensive. She thought.
The white dragon suddenly rocketed towards him. Sharp was caught off-guard by her ferocity, and his surprise slowed his movements as he tried to defend himself. Feyrie ripped through his hindquarters with her fangs and talons, before Sharp retaliated with something she feared. His fiery breath seemed to suffocate her. Quickly, she took the sky, shuddering.
“Aww, scared of a little fire?” roared the ebony dragon. The humans cajoled in his joke, as he had spoken in gods-tongue. The dark beast flapped his wings, flying up to her in a spiral. Feyrie gritted her teeth. The sun seemed to devour her wings – it was always painful to fly in the heat of midday. She just wanted to fly far away from here and find shade. However, that was impossible. To leave the dome meant to be shot down by the archers positioned to kill them if they tried leaving. The bolts of their crossbows could easily pierce their scales and wings…doom in other words.
Sharp slammed into her, knocking the wind out of her as she fell. The she-dragon spun and whirled to right herself before hitting the ground. Instead, she rose back up into the sky. She had to finish this, before the sun depleted her of her strength. Already, Feyrie could feel her skin under her scales becoming red, tender, and swollen as it was burned. The lighter-colored dragon shot up into the sky towards him, knocking into him. However, her claws gripped at him. Her iron grip was unshakeable as it left her head free to deal damage.
The black dragon screeched under her, trying to shake her off as her jaws shredded through his scales and skin, bloodying both him and his attacker. He shot down toward the ground, turning and slamming his back – and Feyrie – into the ground. The blow stunned and knocked the wind out of the white dragon, her grip becoming loose as he pried himself away. The small she-dragon gasped for air as Sharp turned. His golden eyes shined with hatred and malice as he advanced, ready to seize her exposed throat.
His neck lunged and his fanged mouth found…dirt.
“What?!” he roared, reeling back as he found something biting at him. However, it was not a pair of sharp teeth…but the cold. It made no sense, as he turned in the direction that it was. From Feyrie’s maw raged blue, or ice-fire. Rather than it burning with heat, it burned with the force of winter and frostbite. Dragons were susceptible to the cold. Sharp shrieked, trying to move away. His movements were slow, as the ice-fire had slowed his metabolism and had made his joints slow to move.
The crowd groaned. They knew that the match was over. The favorite had been beaten by a shrimp. The she-dragon lunged, tearing at him like a rabid wolf. The black dragon was a sick elderly deer – helpless against Feyrie’s onslaught. The wounds she inflicted were catastrophic; Sharp did not have a chance. The white dragon ended his life quickly, rage burning inside her. I swear I’ll put an end to this corruption. You humans are at fault…beware of my wrath!