The sun was heavy that morning, a bloated red disk rising over the hills as if it as well had been seared by the fire in the forest. Ashvale woke unwillingly, as if the earth itself was aware that it was waking up into a time that would no longer tolerate silence.
There was still smoke lingering in the trees, shrouding the village in a gray mist.
Lioran stood at the square's edge, cloak wrapped tightly about him, not from cold. His muscles quivered after the night's experience, his veins still smoldering from ember flame. He stood erect nonetheless, for weakness beckoned teeth—and Ashvale had more eyes than ever upon hi
Kyrris paced beside him, wings half-furled, tail whipping back and forth. The hatchling had become restless, every movement infused with the predator's ease. Villagers recoiled from the beast as it walked by, whispering prayers under their breath, or grasping tools as if iron rakes and wooden staves could keep dragon fire at bay.
Mira followed him, stiff in step, face white. She had not spoken since the evening altercation. Her silence rang out over the village gossip.
...
The Market Meeting
By noon, Ashvale's tattered villagers congregated in the marketplace square, though no commerce occurred. They convened due to fear insisting on listening. Rumors traveled faster than wind-borne grain, and now everyone craved explanations—or scapegoats.
Old Tomas was at the lead, his gnarled fists grasping his cane. His eyes darted from Lioran to Kyrris and back, never going soft.
"Do you see it?" a woman whispered to her husband. "The boy no longer struts like a boy. He walks like. like a lord."
"A cursed lord," the husband spat. "A flame-bearer. Haven't we suffered enough without drawing kings' eyes?
Lioran heard everything. He always did. But he said nothing, allowing their whispers to wrap tighter around their own necks.
Finally, Tomas lifted his cane. "Ashvale does not keep secrets. Not this one. Word of fire will spread past these fields, and when it does, soldiers will arrive. Knights will arrive. And we shall be trodden under their heels."
Shudders of assent ran through them.
Tomas's eyes drilled into Lioran. "You have done this to us. If you love Ashvale, you will depart before the worse comes."
Mira winced, her mouth opening in protest, but Lioran's voice sliced through the buzz like blade.
"And when I depart, Tomas? Who then will keep the bandits at bay? Who will keep the wolves from returning the first moment they catch the scent of weakness? You?
A stern silence ensued. The old man quivered, but his jaw remained clenched.
Lioran stepped forward, Kyrris keeping pace beside him. His shadow fell long across the square, black as oil. "You call me curse, but curses will not stand between you and death. You call me flame, but flames bring warmth as well as destruction. I ask you, Elder—would you choose to freeze in the dark, or burn in the light?"
Gasps. Villagers bowed their heads in shame. Others stared harder, fear turning to hate.
Tomas stood up straight. "I would rather not be burned at all."
For an instant, the square was on the brink of explosion. But then Kyrris emitted a low, grumbling growl, smoke escaping its nostrils. That was enough to drive off the brushest tongues.
The gathering broke apart in mutters and curses, people hurrying back to their huts. Only Tomas lingered, shaking his head, before turning away.
Mira pressed her hand to Lioran's arm. "You're tearing the village apart."
His eyes, gray and burning, remained on the dispersing crowd. "No. I'm shaping it. Ashvale must choose. Fear me, or follow me. Nothing in between."
.....
The Bandit's March
Deep in the forest, far from the village, the scarred bandit captain eyed his men as they gathered.
Dozens swelled to scores. Scores grew into a small army. Grizzled killers, war deserters long past, thieves and butchers attracted by rumors of spoils.
The captain's scar contorted grotesquely as he smiled.
A dragon, I hear. A hatchling with black scales. And a boy who breathes fire like a drunken torch. Fools. That is worth gold. Power. A monster such as that can be sold—or broken. And if not… then it will burn beautifully, with the village as well."
He raised his axe aloft. The assembled bandits bellowed.
"Tonight we ride. By morning, Ashvale will be dust!"
...
The Ember's Bond
Lioran sat cross-legged that evening in the hut, Kyrris curled at his side. The warmth of the hatchling pressed into his flank, its golden eyes half-shut yet watchful, as if sharing his mind.
He reached deep inside, seeking the ember. It glowed brighter now, not only his fire but theirs. When he breathed in, Kyrris breathed in. When he breathed out, the hatchling's chest rose. Two hearts, two fires, beating as one.
You sense it too," he whispered, his fingers tracing the grooved scales along its spine. "We are no longer distinct flames. We are stronger together."
The ember glowed at his words, yet with power came agony. His body wracked, the brittle vessel trembling under the power. Kyrris leaned in, as if to give its own power. The agony receded slowly.
Mira sat in the corner, her face wet with silent tears. She didn't say anything. She had no words left to offer him.
...
Rumors of Soldiers
The following morning, as Mira brought water, a panting boy dashed into the village. His voice broke as he called out for everyone to hear.
"Riders! Riders on the south road! Soldiers with banners!"
Panic erupted at once. Villagers swarmed out of huts, grumbling about lords, taxes, and punishments. Old Tomas thumped his cane on the ground, attempting to calm them, but his words were lost in the mounting noise.
Lioran appeared into the square, Kyrris beside him, cloak billowing like smoke. The villagers stepped back as if he had called the soldiers himself.
Mira came back, her bucket sloshing water. She went pale at the sight of him. "Please," she whispered in haste, holding onto his arm. "Do nothing foolish. If they are soldiers, they'll kill us if they get upset."
Lioran's eyes narrowed, his lips twisting into the slightest smile. "Then they had better not upset me."
...
The Riders Arrive
By noon, the rumble of hooves rattled Ashvale's earth road. Three men rode in—knights, armor-clad but travel-worn, with the emblem of the neighboring duchy on their banners: a green stag on silver.
The villagers bent low, shaking. Tomas moved forward, bending so far that he almost fell.
The knights stepped down, eyes scanning the village with icy precision. The commander, a man of hard eyes and sharp jaw, raised his helm. "We arrive on the word of fire. Word comes that a boy summons flame, and a creature not of this world trots among you."
The villagers stood transfixed. None could meet Lioran's eyes.
The knight's eyes swept the square and found him instantly. His lip curled. "That would be you."
Lioran did not bow. Did not speak. Only stood, gray eyes blazing. Kyrris hissed softly beside him, wings fluttering.
The knight's hand dropped to his sword. "By the order of Duke Rhaemond, you are to be brought in for questioning. If you fight, you will be killed."
The villagers stopped breathing. Mira grabbed her chest.
Lioran's voice rang out, soft but cutting. "Questioning? No. You are mistaken. I do not take orders from dukes."
Gasps.
The knight tensed, then barked a laugh. "Brash words, peasant." He waved his hand. "Take him."
The two soldiers moved forward.
Kyrris snarled, fire dancing in its throat. Lioran held up his hand, the ember burning within him. Sparks danced in his palm, striking the air like serpents ready to strike.
"Draw closer," he spoke, his voice the kiss of steel, "and you will be incinerated."
The soldiers hesitated.
The knight snorted. "Burn you will, demon." He unsheathed his sword.
Before the clash could spark, a horn blared from the forest's edge. All heads turned. Shadows spilled between the trees—dozens, scores, too many.
The scarred bandit leader had arrived.
The knight cursed. "Bandits!"
Villagers screamed, scattering.
The bandit leader strode from the treeline, axe gleaming, scar twisted in delight. "Well, well. Knights and peasants both, gathered in one place. A feast." His eyes found Lioran. "And the boy with fire. You're mine."
Chaos exploded.
.....
The Triangle of Fire
Knights stood up, swords flashing, as bandits flooded into the village. Torches soared, huts blazing. Shrieks filled the air.
Lioran took up the center, the ember burning in his heart. Kyrris screamed, wings outstretched. Fire danced its jaws.
For an instant, time froze. Three sides, with their hunger:
Bandits for loot.
Knights for duty.
Villagers for survival.
And at the core of it all, him—the Dragon Lord reborn.
He smiled, grim and determined. "So be it. Let the world know."
He lifted his hand. Flame obeyed.