Optimal Option.

Sparkle of a dragon's wing, a teardrop in the sky.  The flickering and dying of a once illuminated bastion sputters, less like waves than the dreams that serve as inspiration, and the words churn out.  The clotted milk from an over-worked organ sticks to the walls in splashes light, wet with liquid reflections.  Such a prism, refractory and dividing, splits light from truth; a rainbow with a pot of gold.  So steps are taken and plans are made to traverse the backbone of this demon, for treasures are worthless without risk.