His stomach, before hollow, churns with delight and anticipation, the rush of magicka coursing through his veins a nourishment as strong as food itself. Whoever she is, she fights well, not wasting the opportunity his lighting strike brought to the table.

I'm a mage, he remembers. Her shout, its meaning unclear but familiar to Martin, rings in his head, his soul and blood sent to a boil. The dragon roars in pained defiance. Martin wants to roar too, but his words—weak, inadequate, mortal—are not it, he realizes.

But something else can be done. On instinct, his feet dig into the ground, spreading his legs apart as he closes his eyes and wills all the magicka in his body to rush into his palms. Wrapped in lighting, Martin begins the signing pattern that denotes a Master-level Destruction spell, using the woman's stunting of the dragon to his advantage.

The poor dragon doesn't even have a chance to raise its broken snout before the beam of lighting hits its side—the head would've been a better target, but the woman was too close to it, and he has no intention to fry her—convulsing pathetically, the revolting scent of smoking, charred flesh surrounding it.