Tremors Beneath the Tournament Field

A shepherd’s pasture lies bright under a hard sky, trampled grass ringed by stone posts and tether ropes. Retired knights gather in tarnished mail and old tabards, while a fighter, butcher stands by a block of meat and a broad knife, waiting for the tournament announcement.

The first dragon waits at the field’s edge, vast and black-green against the pale turf, his weight still as a boulder. Then the ground gives a dull thump beneath the pasture, once, twice, from somewhere close by.

A fresh mound bulges in the grass. Earth shivers. The retired knights turn their heads, hands drifting toward old hilts that are no longer fast to their purpose.

The first dragon catches a faint scrape and a wet, hungry click under the soil. The pasture’s noise thins as the hidden thing digs nearer, blind to him for now, but closing toward the gathered meat and breath.

The first dragon holds still as the mound splits. Wet soil sprays outward, and a pale maw thrusts up through the grass.

Blue-white lightning leaps from his jaws and knifes straight into the opening mouth.

The hidden thing jerks hard, its clicking cut off in a burst of steam and stink. The grass around the breach blackens.

The mound buckles, then stills with a shudder under the pasture. The knights brace around the first dragon, blades up, waiting for whatever answers the shock.