The morning began in silence. Ashvale's silence was never peaceful, only heavy—like a damp cloth pressed against the face. Crows perched on the broken fence posts, watching the barren fields where no green sprouted. Smoke from cooking fires rose weakly, barely enough to carry the smell of thin porridge.
Lioran Vale stood barefoot on the dirt outside the hut, his frail body trembling as he forced his arms through their motions. Pushups. Squats. Strikes. Each movement scraped pain into his bones, but he did not stop. The ember inside him flickered faintly with every strain, a reminder of what still lingered in his soul.
"Lioran!" Mira's voice cut across the yard, sharp with worry. "Enough of this nonsense. You'll collapse again."
He rose slowly, sweat dripping from his brow. His chest heaved, his heart threatening to burst from its cage of ribs. He turned to her with that faint smile he had learned unsettled her.
"I am not as fragile as you think."
Her eyes narrowed. "Your fever only just broke. Do you want death to finish what it started?"
Lioran said nothing. How could he explain to her that weakness was a luxury he could not afford? That every wasted moment was another step behind the enemies he would one day face?
Instead, he straightened his thin shoulders, nodded once, and retreated inside.
That evening, the unease began.
The dogs barked first, their snarls echoing down the village's single dirt path. Then came the hurried whispers, the creak of doors opening, the crackle of torches being lit in the night.
Lioran felt it before he heard the screams—an air too sharp, too heavy. His soul thrummed with warning.
Mira's hand clutched his arm. "Stay here," she whispered, eyes wide with fear.
But he had already moved to the door. He did not need to see the shadows spilling from the forest to know what they were.
Bandits..
Chaos erupted as they swarmed the village. Torches hurled into thatched roofs. Arrows whistled through the air. The night filled with the cries of men, women, and children.
Ashvale had no guards, no soldiers. Only starving farmers and weary widows. Their pitchforks and sticks were laughable against steel blades.
The bandits roared with cruel laughter. "Take the grain! Take the girls! Leave nothing worth keeping!"
Lioran's teeth clenched. So this was Ashvale's reality—wolves feasting on sheep, and no shepherd to stop them.
His gaze found Mira in the doorway, clutching a wooden ladle as if it were a sword. Behind her, a small boy sobbed, eyes wide with terror.
The ember inside Lioran stirred, hot and restless.
Not yet, he told himself. Not until it is necessary.
But fate did not wait.
A brute of a man—broad, scarred, eyes drunk with cruelty—stormed down the path, a torch in one hand and an axe in the other. He caught sight of Mira and sneered.
"Well now," the bandit growled, voice thick with ale. "What's this? A widow ripe for taking."
Mira froze, her knuckles white around the ladle.
The boy screamed and tried to run, but another bandit shoved him into the dirt, laughing.
Something inside Lioran snapped.
His body moved before thought. He stepped between them, a thin figure dwarfed by the brute's shadow.
The man barked a laugh. "Move, rat, before I split you in two."
Lioran met his gaze. His voice, though hoarse, carried iron. "Try."
The bandit swung.
And the ember roared.
Flame seared through Lioran's veins, his weak body surging with strength it did not own. He raised his hand—not to block, but to strike—and the ember answered.
A burst of crimson light erupted from his palm, slamming into the bandit's chest. The man flew backward as if struck by a hammer, crashing into the mud with a scream. His torch sputtered out, drowning in the filth.
The village went silent.
Every villager, every bandit, froze where they stood, eyes wide, mouths open.
Lioran's chest heaved, his body trembling from the effort. The ember dimmed, but its warmth lingered, coiled like a serpent within him.
The brute staggered to his feet, spitting blood. "What—what devilry—?"
Lioran stepped forward, his thin frame casting a shadow larger than it should have. His gray eyes burned, no longer hollow but sharp, alive.
"This is your only warning," he said, his voice low, steady. "Leave. Or burn."
The brute hesitated. The other bandits shifted, unease spreading through their ranks. They had expected sheep. Instead, they had found a wolf hiding in their midst.
But their leader—a tall man with a scar running down his cheek—snarled and spat into the dirt.
"We'll go tonight," he growled, gesturing for his men to withdraw. "But remember this, boy. Ashvale has no lord, no walls. Next time, we'll bring fire enough to turn this place to ash. And you with it."
With that, the bandits melted back into the forest, leaving only the stench of smoke and fear behind.
The villagers stared at Lioran as though he were a stranger. Whispers rippled among them.
"What was that…?"
"Did you see the light?"
"Not natural. Not human."
Mira's hands shook as she pulled him back toward their hut. "Lioran… what have you done?"
He did not answer. His body was weak again, drained, but his eyes gleamed with quiet fire.
What have I done? he thought. No. What have I begun?
That night, Ashvale sat in ruins. Roofs smoldered. Families wept. The smell of blood clung to the air.
Lioran lay on his straw bed, his mind racing though his body screamed for rest. Mira sat nearby, staring at him with worry she could not voice.
He closed his eyes, reaching inward. The ember pulsed faintly, weakened from the outburst but still alive.
And then he felt it—another pulse. Not from within, but from across the room.
His eyes snapped open.
The egg.
It glowed softly where he had hidden it beneath a ragged blanket. Veins of crimson light crawled across its shell, beating in time with his heart.
A crack spread along its surface, faint but unmistakable.
Lioran's lips curved into a slow smile.
The world thought the Dragon Lord dead. The bandits thought him weak. The villagers thought him cursed.
But tonight, the ember had answered. And the egg had stirred.
The rebirth had only just begun.