Last Song on the Wind
One thousand years ago, the dragons died. The hunters grew bold, and the faithful lost zeal and stopped defending the eggs. Within fifty years of the March's commencement, only two remained.
She of the obsidian scales and darkest violet wing membrane, she of the fury unknown in her world for millennia after her death.
He of the scarlet hide and long white fangs, grief and vengeance incarnate.
Their eggs were smashed to pieces, the hatchlings dead before they had lived. Their friends had died alongside their rivals, allying in vain against the hordes of hunters.
How had men learned so much? How did they know the dragons' weaknesses, the locations of their nests and the caves where the injured and ancient hid?
These last of the gods were young by the standards of dragons – she had lived just twelve centuries, her mate only nine. Their elders had been born with the earth, uncounted ages past, and they would have endured eternity had the humans not slain them.
It was the day to make their final stand, the black had decided. They didn't have time to rebuild their race. Maybe their last brood would survive, hidden deep beneath Calvantha's oldest mountain range. But these two, these last dragons, could not live underground. They were gods of the skies, not the earth.
And perhaps it was time for them to die.