The egg pulsed in his dreams.
Lioran lay on his straw bed, body exhausted from a day of forced labor in the village fields, yet sleep brought him no peace. In the darkness of his mind, wings unfurled, scales glimmered, and a low, ancient heartbeat echoed in time with his own.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
The egg was alive. Not dormant stone, but a soul calling out.
And it called to him.
He awoke before dawn, sweat clinging to his skin, his hands still trembling from the sensation of wings brushing his consciousness. Mira still slept, her frail form curled by the fading embers of the hearth. Lioran rose silently, slipping from the hut and into the mist-laden forest.
His feet carried him back to the ruins.
There it waited, nestled in the shattered shrine, its faint glow breathing in rhythm with his chest. He pressed a palm to the shell, and warmth surged through him, banishing the morning chill.
"Soon," he whispered. "Not yet, but soon."
The egg did not answer, yet the ember inside him flared in acknowledgment.
...
The Weight of Mortality
Days passed. Lioran returned to the ruins each night, strengthening the bond with his unborn companion. By day, he labored in the fields beside villagers who barely acknowledged his presence.
"Vale's boy," they muttered. "The sickly one. Good for little."
Their pitying glances and muttered scorn might have once stung. But Lioran was no peasant boy, no frail orphan clinging to scraps of kindness. He was Draven Azharel, the Dragon Lord, hidden beneath this fragile shell.
Still, the irony was not lost on him. Once, he had commanded a hundred dragons. Now, he struggled to carry a sack of barley without his knees buckling.
One afternoon, when his arms failed beneath the load and he collapsed into the dirt, laughter snickered around him. Children pointed. Farmers shook their heads. Mira rushed to his side, her face tight with worry.
"Lioran," she whispered, helping him up, "you'll break yourself if you push too hard. Please… just accept what you are."
What I am.
The words burned like acid.
He swallowed his fury, offering her only a quiet nod. But when night came, when the village slept, he dragged his weakened body back to the shrine and pressed his hand against the egg.
"I will not accept weakness," he growled. "Not in this life. Not ever again."
The egg pulsed brighter, as though agreeing.
.....
Whispers in the Woods
On the twentieth night since his awakening, Lioran sensed danger.
The forest was too quiet as he returned from the ruins. No chirping of crickets. No rustle of small beasts. Only silence, heavy and oppressive.
He slowed, every instinct from his past life screaming.
We are not alone.
A twig snapped.
From the shadows emerged three figures, faces masked with strips of cloth, weapons glinting faintly in the moonlight. Bandits.
"Well, well," the tallest sneered. "What's a little lamb doing out here all alone? Don't you know the forest bites after dark?"
Lioran straightened, though inside his frail body trembled. He was weaponless, powerless. Against these men, even one would be enough to kill him.
But he would not bow.
"You should turn back," he said coldly. "Leave the path. Tonight is not yours to claim."
The bandits blinked, then burst into laughter. "Listen to him! A twig-boned brat pretending to be a hero!"
The leader raised his blade. "Kill him. No one will miss a starving whelp."
They rushed.
.....
The Ember Ignites`
Time slowed. The bandits' footsteps thundered in his ears, and the ember within his chest flared as if refusing to die quietly.
Now, it seemed to whisper.
Lioran's vision sharpened. Every movement of the attackers was clear—the arc of a blade, the angle of a thrust, the hesitation in a step. Instinct took over, the instincts of Draven Azharel, not Lioran Vale.
He sidestepped the first strike. Pain ripped across his ribs as the sword grazed him, but he used the momentum to drive his elbow into the man's throat. The bandit staggered, choking.
The second came from behind. Lioran spun, his foot sweeping low. His frail body lacked power, but precision compensated—he clipped the man's knee, sending him crashing to the ground.
The third bandit swung wide. Lioran caught the glint of steel, but his body was too slow. The blade carved a line across his shoulder, white-hot pain flooding him.
Yet the ember inside roared.
A spark leapt from his palm as his blood splattered onto the ground—faint, crimson light that seared the air. For an instant, the bandits froze, terror flashing in their eyes as if they had glimpsed something far greater than a boy.
Lioran snarled, forcing himself upright. "You dare raise blades to me?"
His voice was not that of a peasant. It carried the weight of centuries, the authority of a Dragon Lord. The air itself seemed to tremble.
The bandits faltered. Their courage cracked.
"D-demon," one hissed, retreating into the trees. The others, shaken, followed.
And just like that, the forest was silent again.
.....
Blood and Ashes
Lioran collapsed to his knees, clutching his bleeding shoulder. The crimson spark still tingled across his palm, fading into nothing.
Too weak. The body was too weak. If the ember had not flared, if fear had not driven them off, he would be a corpse in the dirt.
But even in pain, a savage smile spread across his face.
The power was real. Faint, but real. The ember was growing.
He dragged himself back to the ruins, leaving a trail of blood. There, beneath the crumbling shrine, he pressed his forehead to the egg.
"Not yet," he whispered. "But soon. You and I, we will rise. Tonight, I was prey. Tomorrow, I will be the hunter."
The egg pulsed, warm and steady, as if promising its loyalty.
.....
Mira's Fears
When he staggered home near dawn, Mira gasped at the sight of his wounds. "Lioran! Saints above, what happened?"
"Bandits," he muttered, collapsing onto the bed. "They're growing bold."
Her hands trembled as she cleaned the blood, her voice breaking. "You'll die if you keep wandering at night. Please, Lioran… stay safe. I can't lose you too."
For a moment, guilt flickered in his chest. She was not his mother, yet she cared for him with a desperation that felt genuine.
But he could not stop. He would not.
"I won't die," he said quietly, his eyes hard. "Not until my throne is reclaimed."
She froze, confused, but he had already closed his eyes, retreating into the ember's warmth.
.....
Foreshadowing
Far beyond Ashvale, in the marble halls of a distant capital, a priest awoke in terror. His scrying flames had flickered with an omen: a crimson spark rising from the ashes of the world.
He knelt before the altar, voice trembling.
"My lord… the Dragon Lord stirs."
And so the whispers of scales began to spread.