Elsewhere, a regal red-scaled dragon prowled back and forth in front of a window. His face was narrow and cruel, and his horns twisted in tight spirals like a ram's. Savagery was written on every scale, in every line of his skin. 

"Nathoria!" he called.

The door to his room opened, and a crimson dragon stuck her head inside. "My lord?"

He gestured impatiently. "Has Zendrayus returned yet?"

Nathoria sighed. "No, he has not." Tentatively, she ventured, "And if I may, Lord Saliss, he only left a week ago. Expecting results so soon seems a bit-" she cut off as Saliss skewered her with his furious yellow gaze.

"You were sssaying?" he hissed smoothly, the spikes above his eyes raised.

Nathoria bowed her head, stammering, "F-forgive me, my lord. I w-was speaking f-foolishly." She ducked out of the room swiftly, and her footsteps could be heard fleeing down the corridor outside.

Saliss continued to stare out of the window. During the entire interview, he had not even deigned to turn and look at his servant. It was no surprise that his people had given him the title of 'the Cold-Hearted.' Dragons were his tools, and those that grew rusty or failed were thrown away without a second thought. Ambition spurred Saliss on, an ambition that grew with every success and was never satisfied with any position he held, were it ever so lofty. No sooner had he gained one kingdom than he immediately sought for another. But one thing held true through all the chaos; Saliss never forgot an enemy. He would wait for years after they had wronged him before finally wreaking his revenge in a terrible burst of violence. Strangely enough, this cold, calculating tyrant possessed a virtue. Patience. The patience of a trapdoor spider, waiting in malice for its prey, perhaps, but patience still.

Saliss lashed his spiked tail, drumming it against the carpet. Clearly, though, his patience had limits. It was shortest when he began to desire vengeance against an old enemy, and when he felt he was close to achieving it. He rested his claws on the windowsill, thin lines of smoke rising from his nostrils.

"Oh, Ebony, Ebony, where did you run to? Did you think you were safe?"