Chapter One: The Last Survivor
The night reeked of blood and fire.
Kael ran. His breath tore ragged from his chest, smoke and cinders clawing at his throat. Behind him, screams echoed—the shrill cries of his neighbors, the guttural shouts of armored men, the clash of steel against flesh. His legs burned, his bare feet cut raw against gravel and splintered wood, but still he ran.
Mother. Father.
He stumbled across the cobblestone square, the fountain that once glittered with fresh water now black with soot. Bodies lay twisted beside it, their faces pale and empty. His stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat, but he pressed on.
The soldiers had come at sunset. Their banners flew crimson and gold—the sigil of the High Crown. Kael knew the stories whispered among the villagers: that the king feared his family, feared him. They had always called him cursed, the half-breed son of a demon and a dragon. But he had never believed they would truly come for him.
Now the air was thick with smoke, and everything he had ever known burned.
"Kael!"
The voice cracked through the chaos. He spun, eyes locking on the tall figure sprinting toward him. His mother's black hair was matted with sweat and soot, her silken gown torn at the hem. In her arms she carried a blade—a longsword forged of bright steel, runes glimmering faintly along its edge.
"Mother—" His voice broke.
She seized his hand. Her grip was iron despite the tremor in her fingers. "We have no time. They know what you are. They will not stop until you are dead."
"Where's Father?"
"He fights to buy us moments." Her eyes flicked toward the burning gate, where the sound of roars shook the night. Even through the chaos, Kael recognized the bellow—the thunderous cry of his father's true form unleashed.
The demon had shed his human guise. And he was dying.
"No—" Kael dug in his heels, but his mother pulled him forward with a strength only dragon-blood could grant.
"Listen to me, Kael!" Her voice cut sharp over the din. "You must survive. You carry both of us within you. Fire and shadow, scale and bone. You will live, and you will remember. Swear it."
"I don't understand!" Tears blurred his vision.
"You will." Her eyes softened, though grief clouded their depths. She pressed the sword into his hands. It was heavy, far too heavy for a boy of sixteen, but she curled his fingers around the hilt. "This is yours now. Protect yourself. Protect those who will come after. Promise me!"
"I—" His throat closed, words choked by terror. "I promise."
A sound split the air—a whistle, sharp and shrill. Arrows screamed through the night. His mother turned, too late.
Three shafts struck her back.
She gasped, the force driving her to her knees. Her hand, once so strong, slipped from Kael's. The sword clattered beside him, its runes flashing like dying embers.
"No!" Kael dropped to the ground, fumbling for her hand, but her lips only moved without sound. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her last breath rattled from her chest, and her body went still.
Kael's scream tore through the square, raw and broken.
Boots thundered behind him. He spun, eyes burning with tears and smoke. A ring of armored soldiers closed in, blades drawn, faces hidden behind visors of polished steel. The captain stepped forward, voice cold as the edge of his sword.
"There it is. The abomination."
Kael's body trembled. The sword at his side glowed faintly, but he could barely lift it. His hands shook as he raised the blade before him.
The captain sneered. "Kill it."
The soldiers surged forward.
And something broke.
Not in Kael's body, but in his blood.
Heat surged through his veins, black fire licking his skin. The world blurred—pain, fear, rage all twisting into one. His scream deepened, echoing with a resonance not his own. His back arched as if unseen claws tore at his spine. Scales erupted along his arms, his teeth sharpened, and his eyes glowed molten red.
The sword fell from his grasp as flames erupted, not orange, not gold—but pure black, edged in crimson. It leapt from his hands like liquid shadow, devouring steel and flesh alike. The soldiers' screams drowned in the roar of unnatural fire.
When the blaze died, nothing remained but charred corpses and cracked stone.
Kael collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. His skin burned, his veins throbbed, but the scales melted away. In seconds, he was human again—or something close to it. His mother's body lay untouched amid the ruin, her lifeless eyes staring at him through the smoke.
"Mother… Father…" His voice was a rasp.
Alone. He was alone.
The village burned until dawn.
Kael sat in the square, unmoving, the cold sword across his knees. Ash drifted through the air like black snow, coating his skin, his clothes, his hair. He should have run. He should have hidden. But his legs refused to move. His eyes never left his mother's body.
The firelight made strange shadows across her face, as though she were only sleeping. If he reached out, he thought, maybe she would stir and tell him it was all a terrible dream. That his father would stride from the gate any moment, soot streaking his jaw, laughter in his voice.
But the silence stretched on, broken only by the groan of collapsing timbers.
When the sun finally rose, Kael moved. He was stiff, weak, and sick from smoke, but he forced himself up. With trembling arms, he carried his mother to the hill just beyond the village. He returned for his father—he found him in the ruins of the gate, his massive demonic body pierced by spears of silver. Kael could not carry him, not as he was, so he knelt, pressed a hand to the great black horns, and whispered a broken farewell.
Then he set fire to the corpse, as was the rite of demons.
The flames burned high, brighter and hotter than anything else left in the village. Kael stood there until the last ember died, smoke curling into the pale morning sky.
Afterward, he dug with his hands. The earth was hard, frozen from the spring chill, but he clawed at it until his fingers bled. He dug a grave for his mother where the wildflowers grew, and when the hole was deep enough, he lowered her in.
It took hours. His body screamed for rest, but he did not stop until the earth was packed again, until the mound of dirt stood over her like a shield.
Only then did he collapse beside it.
The sword lay at his side, its runes faintly glowing as though watching him.
Kael pressed his forehead to the soil. "I swear," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I swear I'll live. I'll carry you both with me. And I'll make them pay."
The words hung in the still air, and something inside him shifted. Not just grief, not just rage—something deeper. A spark.
He had nothing left. No home, no family, no village. But in that emptiness, a new resolve took root.
If the world had no place for him, he would carve one from stone and fire.
Three days later, Kael walked away from the ashes.
He carried little: the sword strapped to his back, a satchel of dried roots and bread scavenged from the ruins, a skin of water. His clothes were tattered, his hands blistered, his body hollow from hunger and grief. Yet he walked with steady steps.
The road ahead was uncertain, but the vow in his chest drove him forward.
He wandered first through the forests, keeping to the shadows. The king's men might still hunt him—if word spread that the "abomination" lived, they would not rest until he was dead. So Kael learned to move silently, to hide his fire.
Nights were the hardest.
When he slept, he dreamed of fire and screams. Of his father's roar, cut short by steel. Of his mother's voice, whispering promise me as the light left her eyes. He woke often with his chest tight and his hands smoldering faintly, black smoke curling from his fingers.
The power inside him stirred more easily now, restless, hungry. It frightened him. When it came, he felt as though he were losing himself—becoming something more beast than man. Yet without it, he would have died that night. Without it, he would not live long in the wilds.
And so he began to test it.
On the banks of a river, he tried to call flame to his palm. At first it came only in sparks, but when he let his rage fuel it, the fire leapt high, black as pitch, and scorched the rocks. When hunger gnawed at him, he called upon his father's blood to sharpen his senses, tracking deer through the undergrowth. When cold sank into his bones, he whispered in the dragon tongue his mother once taught him, and warmth blossomed in his chest.
Piece by piece, he learned.
But with each step, loneliness deepened.
For weeks, he saw no one. The forests stretched endless, broken only by mountains on the horizon. Sometimes he thought he heard voices in the wind, calling his name. Sometimes he swore he saw shapes in the shadows—winged, horned, or clawed. But when he turned, there was nothing.
He began to wonder if he was the last.
It was nearly two months after the fall of his village when Kael met the first of them.
The forest gave way to scrubland, the trees thinning into rocky plains. Kael followed a narrow path that wound along a ridge, when he heard it: shouting, harsh and guttural. He crouched low, creeping forward.
Below the ridge stretched a small encampment. Rough tents circled a firepit, and cages lined the ground beside them. In those cages huddled figures—wolfkin, their fur matted, their yellow eyes dull with fear. Chains bound their necks and wrists.
Around them, men in leathers laughed and jeered, tossing scraps into the cages. Slavers.
Kael's gut twisted. He had heard of such things—how beastkin were hunted, sold in markets like cattle. He had never seen it with his own eyes.
The anger came fast, sharp as a blade. He pressed a hand to the hilt on his back, fingers trembling. His mother's voice echoed faintly in his memory: Protect those who will come after.
He could leave. He could turn and vanish into the wilds. But the sight of those cages, the sound of their whimpers—he could not.
Kael rose.
The slavers never saw him until he stood at the edge of their firelight, cloak drawn tight, eyes burning faintly red.
One of them sneered. "What's this? A stray?"
Kael's voice came low, steady. "Release them."
The men laughed, the sound ugly in the night. "And who are you to give orders?"
Kael's grip tightened on the sword. "The last man you'll mock."
The air shifted. Black fire stirred faintly along his arms, smoke curling from his fingertips.
The laughter faltered.
And in that moment, Kael stepped forward into the firelight, and the path of his life began to change.
Chapter One: The Last Survivor (continued)
The firelight flickered across Kael's face, casting shadows in his sharp features. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the largest of the slavers—broad-shouldered, scarred, with a rusted axe slung across his back—stepped forward.
"Boy," he said, spitting into the dirt, "best you turn around and walk away. These beasts ain't worth your skin."
The word beasts struck Kael like a spark to dry tinder. His chest tightened, his pulse roared. Behind the men, the wolfkin stirred in their cages—yellow eyes lifting, ears pricking, their bodies tensing with desperate hope.
Kael shook his head slowly. "They're not beasts. They're people. And I won't let you keep them."
The scarred man barked a laugh. "Listen to him, lads. Thinks he's a hero." He slid the axe from his back. The steel caught the firelight, bright and hungry. "We'll send him to the dirt, same as the rest."
The others drew blades, grinning.
Kael's hand found the hilt at his back. The sword slid free with a whisper, its runes glimmering faintly. He held it low, unsure if his arms were strong enough, unsure if his heart was.
The first man lunged.
Kael moved before he thought, blade flashing. Steel met steel, sparks leaping. The shock rattled his arms, but the sword held. He shoved the man back, breath ragged, and a second attacker closed in from the side.
The fight blurred. Kael blocked, ducked, swung wildly. His strikes were clumsy, his footing poor. He had trained only in shadows, not in real battle. His muscles screamed, his chest burned.
And then the axe came down.
Kael raised his sword too late. The axe bit into his shoulder, hot pain lancing through him. He cried out, staggering. Blood gushed, hot and wet.
The slavers roared with laughter.
Something inside him snapped.
The pain melted into fire. His vision narrowed, red and sharp. His heart thundered, and the world slowed. Scales rippled along his skin, black and gleaming. His eyes flared molten, his teeth lengthened into fangs.
Kael roared, and the sound was not human.
Flame erupted from his mouth—black fire edged with crimson, pouring in a torrent across the slavers. Men screamed as the fire consumed them, their armor glowing red before shattering, their flesh turning to ash. Those who fled were caught by coils of flame that slithered across the ground like serpents, binding them in burning chains.
Kael swung his sword, and with it came a wave of shadowy fire that split the earth. The very air trembled under the force.
The wolfkin in their cages howled, pressing back against the bars, their eyes wide with terror.
Kael did not hear them. His mind was gone, drowned in rage. Every strike, every burst of flame came without thought. He tore through the slavers like a storm, until only charred corpses and burning tents remained.
When at last the fire guttered out, silence fell.
Kael stood in the center of the camp, chest heaving, smoke curling from his skin. His arms shook, his shoulder burned where the axe had struck, but the pain barely reached him through the haze of power.
He looked down—and froze.
The corpses around him were twisted beyond recognition. The ground itself was scorched black, cracked like glass. The cages glowed faintly, the bars warped by heat. Inside, the wolfkin cowered, ears flat, teeth bared in fear.
Not gratitude. Fear.
Kael staggered back, horror cutting through the fog. He saw his reflection in the blade of his sword—eyes still glowing red, scales still curling along his neck. A monster's face.
"No," he whispered. His hands trembled. "Not again…"
He forced the fire down, biting hard on his lip until blood filled his mouth. The scales receded slowly, the glow fading from his eyes. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, fought the power until it subsided into a dull, simmering ache in his chest.
When the last trace of flame vanished, he dropped to his knees. His breaths came shallow, ragged. Sweat slicked his skin, his whole body shaking.
The wolfkin stared, pressed against the far corners of their cages.
Kael raised a trembling hand, palm open. "I… I won't hurt you." His voice cracked, raw.
Silence answered him.
He staggered to his feet, sheathing his sword with clumsy motions. Then he moved to the nearest cage. His hand closed on the lock, and with a whispered word in the dragon's tongue, he breathed fire—not black, but faintly golden, controlled, a trickle rather than a flood. The lock melted, clattering to the ground.
The wolfkin inside flinched but did not move.
Kael stepped back, hands raised. "Go. You're free."
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, cautiously, the wolfkin pushed the door open and slipped out. His fur was mottled gray, his yellow eyes wary. He bared his teeth faintly, but made no move to attack.
Kael nodded, then turned to the next cage. One by one, he broke the locks, stepping back each time.
When the last cage opened, the wolfkin gathered together, a dozen of them. They whispered in their guttural tongue, glancing at him with a mixture of suspicion and awe.
Finally, the gray-furred one stepped forward. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with scars along his muzzle. His gaze was sharp, measuring.
"You are not man," he said, his voice low and rough.
Kael swallowed. "No."
"Not beast."
"No."
The wolfkin narrowed his eyes. "Then what?"
Kael hesitated. His throat was dry, his heart heavy. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I swear I mean you no harm."
The wolfkin studied him for a long moment. Then he bared his teeth in something that was not quite a smile, not quite a snarl.
"We saw your fire," he said. "Fire that devours without mercy. You saved us. But…" His eyes flicked to the scorched corpses, the cracked earth. "You are dangerous."
Kael lowered his gaze. "I know."
The wolfkin huffed, a sharp sound. Then he gestured, and the others began to move, gathering what little supplies remained.
As they passed Kael, they gave him wide berth, their eyes never leaving him. Gratitude was there, perhaps, but laced with fear.
The gray-furred one lingered last. He placed a clawed hand on Kael's shoulder—just for a heartbeat.
"Dangerous," he repeated. "But maybe needed."
Then he turned, and the wolfkin vanished into the night.
Kael stood alone among the ashes. Again.
His hand closed around the sword hilt at his side. The runes glowed faintly, as though alive. He whispered to the empty camp, to the burned earth, to himself:
"I'll learn. I'll control it. I swear."
The night swallowed his words, but the vow burned in his chest like a second heartbeat.