The night lingered in Ashvale, interrupted by sounds of weeping and the crackling of destroyed homes. Inside Mira's hut, silence reigned—heavy and expectant, like the pause before a storm.
Lioran's eyes never left the bundle in the corner.
The egg pulsed faintly beneath the blanket. Crimson veins of light raced across its surface like living fire. Each pulse matched his heartbeat, each flicker stirred something deep within him. He lost track of where his soul ended and the egg's presence began.
He got up from his bed, his frail body shaking with exhaustion. Mira stirred, her eyes narrowing. "Lioran? What are you doing?"
"Quiet," he whispered, his voice rough. "It's coming."
Before she could ask, a sharp crack filled the hut. The shell split down the middle, shards of obsidian-black flaking off as light seeped through the crack. Mira gasped and scrambled back, covering her mouth with her hand.
The sound of breaking stone grew louder and faster until the shell finally collapsed inward with a final shudder.
From the wreckage of the egg, a creature emerged.
It was small, barely the length of Lioran's arm. Its wet scales shone black as night, veined with crimson light that shifted and pulsed. Its wings, delicate and translucent, unfolded with a weak stretch, catching the dim firelight. Its eyes opened—molten gold, ancient and unblinking.
The hatchling locked its gaze on Lioran.
In that moment, everything else faded away.
He felt it—the bond, the recognition, the echo of a promise older than kingdoms. Not words, but a truth pressed into his very soul: We are one.
His knees gave out. He sank to the floor, breathless, tears stinging eyes that hadn't wept in ages.
"You…" His voice broke into a whisper. "You came back to me."
The hatchling chirped—a sound too sharp and fierce for a mere beast. It dragged itself from the shell's remnants and stumbled forward, claws scraping against the floor, until it collapsed into his lap. Its warmth mixed with his ember, deepening the connection.
Mira's voice shattered the moment.
"By the heavens… Lioran, what is that?" She pressed herself against the wall, eyes wide with fear. "That's—That's a monster!"
"No," Lioran's voice held steady, firm beneath his exhaustion. He cradled the hatchling, lifting it against his chest. "This is no monster. This is a dragon."
Mira shook her head violently, tears welling. "Dragons bring death. They bring war. I lived through the wars, and I saw what their fire did! And now—now you bring one into my home?"
Lioran looked at her, truly looked. She was not wrong. In her memory, dragons were visions of destruction—wings that blotted out the sun, fire that consumed cities. To her, this creature was nothing but a curse.
But to him, it was salvation.
He drew the hatchling close. It curled into him, golden eyes closing in trust. "This one is mine. And I am his. You fear fire, Mother—but fire can create or destroy. Tonight, it is mine to wield."
Mira trembled, torn between love and fear. Her voice broke. "Then… what are you, Lioran? What have you become?"
His answer was quiet but chilled the air.
"What I was always meant to be."
By dawn, word had spread.
Not through an announcement. Not by Lioran's choice.
But because Ashvale was a village where silence couldn't last.
A boy named Renn had been the first. Too restless to sleep after the raid, he crept to Mira's hut, claiming he wanted to check if she and her son were safe. The door was slightly open, left unlatched by the chaos of the night. Curiosity pulled at him harder than good manners. He pushed the door open and peeked inside.
What he saw froze him in place.
The widow's son lay pale and shaking, sweat glistening on his forehead. That was expected. What surprised him was the faint red glow pulsing from beneath a torn blanket in the corner. It seemed to breathe with him.
Renn's breath caught. He stumbled back, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Lioran's eyes snapped open, gray and sharp, locking onto him in the doorway.
The boy's courage crumbled. He dashed into the darkness, and by sunrise, his quiet whispers had ignited into a firestorm.
"Witchfire in the widow's hut."
"The boy is cursed."
"No—blessed. Didn't you see him take down that brute?"
"A demon in a child's skin."
"A savior. Ashvale finally has a protector."
By the time the sun rose, every person in Ashvale was buzzing with fear or hope. And Lioran Vale, who had only wanted peace, found himself at the heart of their chatter.
The villagers clustered along the dirt path, whispering and staring whenever Lioran passed. Mira walked behind him, wringing her hands, trying to shield him from their glares.
"There he goes… the boy with devil's fire…"
"I saw it myself—light from his hands!"
"And now they say he has a beast. A hatchling."
"Another curse. Ashvale won't survive this."
Their words were sharp, but Lioran walked as if he couldn't hear them. Wrapped against his chest beneath a rough cloak, the hatchling stirred, rumbling softly in sleep. Its warmth protected him from doubt, its presence steady as the ember in his chest.
They reached the well in the village center. Old Tomas, the elder, stepped forward, leaning heavily on his cane. His sunken eyes locked onto Lioran with a mix of fear and duty.
"Mira's boy," Tomas rasped. "Or should I say… something else? What did you unleash last night?"
Lioran held his gaze. "I defended Ashvale. Nothing more."
"Nothing more?" Tomas spat into the dirt. "Bandits were one thing. But you… you bring powers not meant for human hands. And if what Mira says is true—" His voice trembled. "—a dragon? In this cursed place?"
A murmur of fear spread through the crowd.
Mira stepped forward, her voice shaking. "Please… he's still just a boy. He means no harm."
But Tomas only shook his head. "No harm? Power like that brings ruin. If word gets out, bandits will be the least of our troubles. Lords, soldiers, even the Church—they will come for us. Ashvale can't carry the weight of your secrets, boy."
Lioran's jaw clenched. He wanted to shout, to remind them who he truly was—Draven Azharel, Dragon Lord reborn, conqueror of kingdoms. He wanted to instill fear into their hollow hearts.
But the ember whispered caution. Too soon. Too weak.
So instead, he lowered his gaze, pretending to be humble. "Then keep your silence, Elder. I ask for nothing from Ashvale—just a roof until I can stand on my own. Judge me as you will. But remember this: without me, your village would already burn."
The elder faltered. Whispers grew louder, filled with fear and uncertainty.
Finally, Tomas turned away. "Stay, then. But don't expect trust. Ashvale watches you now."
The following days were heavy with suspicion. Children were pulled indoors when he walked by. Doors closed against him. Even those who owed him their lives whispered that Mira's boy was cursed.
But Lioran paid little attention. Every moment was for the hatchling.
He named it Kyrris—an ancient draconic word meaning ember yet to blaze.
The hatchling grew quickly. Within a week, it shed its delicate skin, scales hardening into shiny black armor streaked with crimson veins. Its wings strengthened, though it couldn't yet fly. Its molten gold eyes never left him.
And the bond deepened.
When he meditated, Kyrris curled beside him, their breaths syncing perfectly. When he reached within to touch the ember, he felt not one flame, but two—his and the hatchling's, intertwined and feeding each other.
Power answered him more readily now. Small sparks at first—flames dancing on his fingertips, heat swirling in his palm. Enough to sear wood, enough to start fire without flint.
But each time he pushed too far, his body punished him. Nausea. Tremors. Collapses that left Mira in tears as she wiped sweat from his brow.
"You're killing yourself," she whispered one night, her voice raw.
"No," he murmured, eyes fixed on Kyrris, who slept in his lap. "I'm returning myself."
One evening, as twilight fell, Lioran stood at the village's edge, Kyrris awkwardly perched on his shoulder. The barren land stretched before him, cracked and lifeless.
"This land is no different from me," he whispered. "Broken. Withered. But not without ember."
He spread his palm. Heat built up, brighter and stronger, until a thin stream of flame leapt forth, curling across the soil. The earth smoked and hissed. For a moment, the air smelled not of decay, but of renewal.
Kyrris chirped approvingly, flapping its wings clumsily.
Lioran smiled faintly. "Patience, little one. We will grow together. One day, our fire will not only burn—" His gaze hardened. "—it will consume kingdoms."
Unseen behind him, a shadow lurked at the treeline.
The scarred bandit leader watched with narrowed eyes, a cruel smile forming on his lips.
"So the rumors are true," he mumbled. "The boy holds fire. And a beast besides."
He slipped back into the woods, already scheming.
That night, Lioran sat cross-legged in the hut, Kyrris curled in his lap. Mira watched him quietly, her expression conflicted.
Finally, she spoke. "Do you ever fear it, Lioran? The path you're on?"
He stroked the hatchling's scales, golden eyes looking back at him in complete trust. "Fear? No. What I fear is staying weak. What I fear is wasting this second chance."
Mira swallowed hard. "And what about us? About Ashvale?"
Lioran met her gaze. His words were soft, yet firm. "Ashvale will survive because of me. Or in spite of me. That choice will be theirs."
The hatchling stirred, stretching its wings. Lioran's eyes glowed with quiet fire.
From the ashes of a peasant's son, from the ruins of a forgotten village, the Dragon Lord's ember grew.
And with Kyrris by his side, the world would remember.