Besides, they were males, and while males might appear majestic, they could not embody the beauty she did. A dragon who was not free to do as he or she wished was not a dragon at all. Nor could Thorn or Shruikan, for they were both slaves to Galbatorix, and their forced servitude had twisted their minds. She imagined how the light must make her scales sparkle and how those who saw her circling in the sky must marvel at the sight, and she hummed with pleasure, content in the knowledge that she was the most beautiful creature in Alagaesia, for who could hope to match the glory of her scales and her long, tapering tail and her wings, so fair and well formed and her curved claws and her long white fangs, with which she could sever the neck of a wild ox with a single bite? Not Glaedr-of-the-gold-sclaes, who had lost a leg during the fall of the Riders. She closed her double eyelids for a moment, luxuriating in the soft bed of the wind, as well as the warmth of the morning rays beating down upon her sinewy length. Saphira adjusted the angle of her wings to compensate for her weight thousands of feet above the sun-bathed land below. The wind-of-the-morning-heat-above-flat-land, which was different from the wind-of-morning-heat-above-hills, shifted.
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