Tara has been counting the tail swishes—or trying to, anyway. It is hard to keep track when you don't have fingers to count on. But the rhythm has become almost meditative: swish, pause, swish, pause, swish. The torches flicker in time. The water drips somewhere in the distance. The dragon's rear end—he's been cycling through various terms in his head: "the backyard," "the kitchen garden," "the hindquarters." Today it is "the rear end of doom"—remains unmoved.

  And then: footsteps.

  Multiple sets of them, echoing from somewhere beyond Tara's immediate perception. The dragon's tail stops mid-swish, frozen in place. The torches stop flickering. Even the water seems to pause its dripping, as if the dungeon itself is holding its breath.

  Tara focuses his awareness, trying to extend his perception beyond the immediate vicinity. It is like trying to see around a corner when you are a geometric shape with no eyes. But he can sense movement, voices, the clinking of metal.

  "Are you sure this is the right way?" a voice says, young and nervous.

  "Of course I'm sure," another voice replies, older and more confident. "The map clearly shows there's a hidden treasure room behind this wall. Besides, look at the architecture—this is definitely a high-level dungeon. If we're lucky, no one's found this place yet."

  The footsteps grow closer. Tara can hear them now—the clank of armor, the rustle of fabric, the sound of weapons being drawn.

  "Ready?" the confident voice asks.

  "Ready," several voices reply in unison.

  And then they enter.

  There are four of them. From his elevated position above the dragon, Tara has a perfect view of the entire chamber. A warrior in heavy plate armor, sword and shield at the ready. A figure in robes—a mage, probably—with a staff that glows with magical energy. Someone in leather armor with twin daggers—a rogue, Tara guesses. And another warrior, this one with a massive two-handed axe.

  They spread out in a formation, moving with practiced coordination. The dragon is already facing them—it has been facing the door all along, its form perched on its platform. Now Tara can see its full profile. It is big—definitely bigger than a person, maybe the size of a large horse or small elephant—but not overwhelmingly massive. Still intimidating, though.

  The head is large, with horns that curve backward like a ram's. Its eyes glow with a sickly green light, and when it opens its mouth, Tara can see rows of teeth that look like they could bite through steel. A faint green mist seems to constantly emanate from between its scales. The scales on its body shimmer as it moves, shifting from dark purple to almost black in the torchlight.

  "Poison Drake," the mage says, his voice tight. "Level forty. This is going to be rough."

  The dragon—the Poison Drake—lets out a low growl that vibrates through the stone floor. Tara can feel it in his pyramid form, a deep rumble that makes his runes pulse brighter.

  Then the fight begins.

  The dragon moves, shifting its massive weight. It leaps from its platform down to the floor below, landing with a thud that shakes the entire chamber. The floor is much larger than the platform, giving it room to maneuver. The warrior with the shield charges first, raising his shield just as the dragon breathes a cloud of poison. The toxic mist is thick and green, spreading outward in a cone. The shield glows with a blue light—magical protection, probably—and the warrior holds his ground, though Tara can see the poison eating away at the magical barrier, the blue light flickering as it tries to hold.

  The rogue darts in from the side, daggers flashing. They strike the dragon's scales with a sound like metal hitting stone, and sparks fly. The dragon's tail whips around with incredible speed, catching the rogue in the side and sending them flying across the room.

  The mage raises his staff, and a bolt of lightning crackles through the air, striking the dragon's head. The creature roars, shaking its head, but the scales seem to absorb most of the damage.

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  The warrior with the axe moves in, swinging with all his might. The axe connects with the dragon's leg, and scales crack. Dark purple blood oozes from the wound.

  The dragon retaliates immediately. It lunges forward, jaws snapping, and catches the axe warrior's arm. There is a sickening crunch, and the warrior screams. The dragon shakes its head, and the warrior goes flying, landing in a heap near one of the treasure piles.

  "Marcus!" the shield warrior shouts, but he can't help—the dragon is breathing poison again, and he has to keep his shield up.

  The rogue has gotten back up, though they are moving slower now, one hand pressed to their side. They throw something—a small vial that shatters against the dragon's scales, releasing a cloud of green smoke. The dragon coughs, shaking its head, but it doesn't seem to slow down.

  The mage is chanting now, his staff glowing brighter. A massive ice spike forms in the air and shoots toward the dragon, striking it in the chest. The creature roars again, and frost spreads across its scales.

  But it isn't enough.

  The dragon's tail whips around again, this time catching the mage. The staff goes flying, and the mage hits the ground hard, not moving. The shield warrior tries to rush forward, but the dragon's claws catch him, ripping through his armor like it is paper.

  The rogue makes one last desperate attack, leaping onto the dragon's back, daggers stabbing down. But the scales are too thick, and the dragon simply rolls, crushing the rogue beneath its massive weight.

  Silence falls.

  The dragon stands there on the floor, breathing heavily, green mist rising from its nostrils. The four adventurers lie scattered around the room, unmoving. The torches flicker back to their normal rhythm. The water resumes its dripping.

  Tara can only observe, unable to do anything else. He's just witnessed four people die. Four people who have probably come here seeking treasure, thinking they've found a hidden room full of gold. And they've lost.

  The dragon doesn't immediately return to its platform. Instead, it moves toward the nearest body—the shield warrior. A strange sense of dread builds in whatever passes for Tara's consciousness as the dragon lowers its head and takes the warrior's body in its jaws.

  There is a crunch. The sound of bones breaking.

  Tara tries to look away, but he can't. He has no eyes to close, no way to turn his perception. He is forced to watch as the dragon moves to the next body—the mage—and repeats the process. Then the rogue. Then the axe warrior.

  It is methodical, almost casual. The dragon isn't angry or frenzied. It is just... eating. Like this is normal. Like this is what it does after every fight.

  When it is done, the dragon turns, slowly, and leaps back up onto its platform, settling back into its original position. Its tail begins to wag again, the same lazy, rhythmic motion as before. As if nothing has happened.

  But something *has* happened. Tara can feel it.

  He focuses on the energy flowing through him—the energy that he's been generating. Before, it has just been there, a constant presence, something he's sensed but couldn't quite perceive. But now, the intensity of the fight, the proximity to the dragon as it moved and fought, the way his runes pulsed brighter—it has all made the energy flow visible, tangible.

  The energy is flowing *out* of him, streaming from his runes like a glowing current, directly into the dragon. A stream of power connecting him to the creature, feeding it, making it stronger, faster, more powerful.

  "Wait," Tara thinks, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "I'm powering the dragon. I'm the reason it's so strong. I'm the reason those adventurers died. And I'm the reason it's still here, waiting for the next ones."

  The dragon's tail swishes. The torches flicker. The water drips.

  And Tara, a triangular pyramid on a pedestal, watches his energy flow into the creature that has just killed four people, and wonders what the hell he is supposed to do about it.