But the dragon was already smiling.
“Don’t listen,” Kiri whispered.
“You’re thinking too loud,” said Itsuki, her partner, sliding down from a collapsed overpass. He carried a scratched electric guitar instead of a rifle. Some hunters sang. The sound waves disrupted the dragons’ sensory pits. Music was a weapon here — lullabies turned into sonic blades, folk songs tuned to the frequency of scales. “The nest is two blocks east. Three Fafnirs, maybe a small True Dragon.” 7th dragon
Let’s see whose song ends first.
She touched the hilt of her katana. The blade hummed. That was the seventh dragon — the one inside every hunter. The one that fed on rage and grew stronger with each kill, whispering promises of power while slowly hollowing the heart. Kiri had seen it happen to better soldiers than her. They’d walk into a den smiling and come out weeping, or not at all. But the dragon was already smiling
“Small True Dragon,” Kiri repeated dryly. “As if there’s such a thing.” He carried a scratched electric guitar instead of a rifle