Waiting

He no longer needs the white-hot iron pole to remind him.
Come 3 o'clock, his jaws open obediently, a gush of fire shooting over his mouth, caressing tongue, teeth, lips.
He knows that the fire he breathes heats the water that keeps the entire hall warm; how, he doesn't care.
He knows that the noises he hears above him during the day are those of children playing. Children taste good, he remembers that much.
He knows that there is no way to escape the chains they have draped over, around, and through him.
He knows this, but he doesn't really believe it.
One of these days, the chains will break, and he will destroy this cramped prison he's been locked in. He'll destroy the whole village, fry them, blast them, burn them, crunch them between his teeth until only dust remains. He'll kill them all.
Until that day, though, he'll wait: dry wings rustling against the roof of his prison, overgrown nails clacking on the floor. Those nails will rend their fair share of flesh in time. Until then, though, he'll wait.
It's 3 o'clock.