The horns of his mother and father were both armored in scars, where no smooth skin would grow—a texture somewhere between scale and bone. Blades couldn’t break them.

James had his young scars, deep and onyx: Anxo’s misaimed bite, a stalactite lower than anticipated. But the newest were still tender, and he remembered nothing about them but vague screams and out-of-place impacts. After the last two weeks, James was afraid to fill in the blank spaces.

-Black Dragon

I had to give some serious thought to dragon biology as I began to shape the novel. Looking back from the beginnings of my April drafting to the current content in June, I’ve found a lot of inconsistencies I need to resolve. Whoops.