skin stretching thin across the tendons of its neck like soapslick - its jugular throbbed, reminiscent of a small creature thrashing against the ungiving skin, and in that moment Seph unsheathed his dagger and stabbed the brilliant weakspot.

The dragon screeched and immediately withdrew, retracting its head so far between its shoulders that its layers of neckfat and skin bulged and nearly engulfed its skull; its blood was pearlescent, and pooled down the folds of its skin, dripped on the gray-and-pink sands, where the stuff steamed and left behind bright yellow like neon gold.

Seph scrambled to his feet - his knife too was gleaming the neon-gold color - he had wounded it but still didn't have time really to do worse or run, because the dragon was already laying coagulant on the puncture with rolls and nudges of its tongue, and soon was rearing over him again, its firefly-swarm wings buzzing with fury.

He weighed his options desperately. If he worked this through properly, he could - well, no, he could - or if he - then - or maybe -