Tales of the Fallen, Book Two

Weaver stopped. A light, bright enough to throw his shadow in crisp, sharp-edged relief across Jack’s hurrying back, was shining from behind him. The light had a strange blueness to it. Weaver turned to look.
Something hit him across the face. Jack held up a freshly blooded fist in warning, shaking his shoulder with the other hand. “No, you idiot! Don’t fucking look! You want to be a dragon breakfast? Run, you stupid, fucking retard! Run!”
With that, Jack began to sprint away into the gray, leaving Weaver to run as best he was able.
Something behind them roared with a dull, brassy ferocity that shook the ground, the sky, the teeth in Weaver’s head.
He ran.