The column of molten magma hit the central pier of the Grand Viaduct with an ear-splitting roar.
Twelve tons of liquid fire, burning at eighteen hundred degrees, washed over the massive concrete pylon like a glowing waterfall.
The Krell warlord, Grand Warlord Vrax, circled high above on his scarlet-scaled dread-wyrm, his laughter echoing across the canyon.
In forty barbarian kingdoms, royal stone bridges had shattered into flying gravel within ten seconds of encountering drake-flame.
Limestone calcined into chalk.
Granite split along its quartz crystal planes under heat shock.
Vrax leaned forward in his iron saddle. He waited for the four-thousand-foot viaduct to snap in half and plunge into the gorge.
The stone didn’t snap.
