He had truly meant no harm. Their caves were frustratingly flammable and collapsed with the slightest pressure. He didn’t mean to destroy any of the little creatures’ hovels.

But they had hurt him and attacked him. He didn’t want to kill any of the creatures, they were frail and helpless. But they drew his blood with metal of harmfire and he could not be killed.

They were small, but once they died they seemed even smaller. Nothing changed with death, but without livingfire in their chests they seemed to fade.

In the shrinking silence of death, the sound of a fledgling crying peeled through the air. A desperate shrieking that burned in his ears. And then the creature’s tongue, a poor imitation of the reptilian length, and more quiet admonitions.

A fledging and it’s caretaker.

The stickiness of the creatures’ blood seemed repulsive now as he stepped back. He had killed their warriors, their protectors.

They would die.

No.

No, he couldn’t -

He would do it.

He would protect them.

He would redeem his wrongfire.

They would never have fear of another beast. He would protect them.