The party reaches the dragon's lair

But the mighty black wyrm they were sent to slay is more of a smokey grey. It looks old and sick and blind. The "treasure horde" upon which it curls is made up not of gold and gems but rusted, twisted metal scraps.

With some effort, the dragon lifts its head towards the party, sniffing the air. The creature opens its jaws and unleashes its breath weapon: a series of hacking coughs. Head returns to metal pillow. Pathetic shiver runs through withered wings.

How can this be when the Sorcerer Royal seemed so certain a fearsome ebon drake had taken up residence herein? A beast he was sure posed a large enough threat to the kingdom to risk sending away its six greatest protectors...