Beowulf stopped—the long, never-ending ocean of flames that stretched to span the horizon. The flames made the sun feel like winter. Yet it was not the flames that had caught his eye. It couldn't have. Not when he stood before a God. A creature radiating a spiritual pressure so intense, it was something he had not felt since… Since he slew his only son. The Dragon.
Despite those Hellish Flames, Beowulf felt cold. Colder yet at what he had witnessed.
There were four. Four Dragons Gods. Now, only three remained while they watched their companion, who had borne a scream that could break the world. It certainly might have if not for the flames devouring the very nature of sound, space, time, and creation. It gnawed at his flesh like a pack of maggots.