The fire was extinguished, but the smoke remained.
Ashvale stank of burnt wood and blood. The previously peaceful village now creaked under devastation—half its huts became ashes, fields stomped by hooves and the dead, the well contaminated with ash. The morning sun did not make it warmer; rather, it only highlighted despair.
Villagers crept like specters, pulling the dead into ranks, crying as they bound the bodies in strips of linen. Sorrow clung heavy in the air, yet beneath the grief was something darker.
Fear.
Fear that bore a name.
Lioran Vale.
.....
Mourning Fires
Mira labored alongside the other women, hands chapped as she placed cloth upon cold faces. Her mouth quivered with silent prayers, words spoken to comfort the dead, though her eyes wandered ever to the hut whence her son disappeared along with the beast.
Each time she looked in that direction, her heart was torn asunder.
The boy she had raised was gone.
And in his stead. something else roamed.
She did not dare say its name aloud.
Old Tomas limped through the ruins, cane thudding against earth. He had made it through another night of terror, but his eyes were heavy as lead. When the villagers implored him for advice, he spoke but a single word:
"Do not provoke the flame. Keep your heads low. Pray that it does not burn us all."
.....
The Dragon's Rest
Inside the hut, Lioran was seated cross-legged next to the pallet. Kyrris was curled against him, its breath shallow, its previously shining scales matted by exhaustion. Faint smoke still rose from its nostrils, evidence of the fire it had created.
Lioran caressed its ridged spine slowly, sensing the soft beat of warmth within. "You burned well," he breathed, voice low with pride. "Too well for a hatchling. But you will grow. Stronger. Fiercer. As will I."
The ember in his chest throbbed in response, harmonizing with the hatchling's beat. His body still hurt, his veins seared by the power he had pushed through them, but he grinned through the agony.
All the pain was evidence of improvement.
Mira's shadow crossed the threshold. She did not enter.
"You're destroying this village," she croaked.
Lioran didn't glance at her. "No. I am rescuing it. They only don't have eyes to see."
Her fists were tight. "You're talking like the riders who rode once with flames and crests. I buried friends due to them. Don't you understand? You are turning into them.
He finally turned at that. His gray eyes were as sharp as steel.
"No," he whispered. "I will be worse. Because only worse can guard what is left."
Mira's lips parted, but nothing issued forth. She turned away, shaking shoulders, and departed.
Lioran turned his eyes back to Kyrris, running a hand over the hatchling's warm scales. "Do not be afraid, little one. Let them question. We will prove it to them in time."
...
The Riders' Report
Far from Ashvale, three riders rode swiftly down the southern road. Their armor was soot-blackened, their faces ashen from what they had seen.
At their front rode the commander, Sir Caldus, his jaw set. He had seen horrors in combat before, but none such as these—a boy wielding fire, a hatchling spewing flame.
When the towers of Dunghal Keep appeared on the horizon, relief did not strike him. Dread instead curled tighter in his chest. For he knew what his words would reap.
The duke had to know.
And when the duke knew, armies would come.
...
A Village on Edge
Ashvale was rebuilt in stages. Smoke was stripped from walls, beams propped with whatever timber they could find. But with each hammer blow, there were sidelong glances—toward the hut in which the dragon rested.
Children whispered of gold eyes in the night. Farmers grumbled of flames that incinerated men whole. Some spat imprecations, others bowed their heads to themselves in silence when Lioran walked by.
No one confronted him directly. Not after what they had seen.
Tomas alone spoke, rounding up the villagers on an evening as darkness fell. His cane banged out against the square, summoning their tired eyes.
"We live now," he croaked, "but at what price? Bandits might come at us again. Knights might come at us again. Armies will ride. And all because of the boy."
Mutters of assent arose.
"He is not boy," another grumbled. "He is fire with boy's skin."
"And fire burns everything," Tomas completed bitterly.
.....
The Ember's Strain
That evening, Lioran went out into the forest once again, Kyrris at his heels.
He flung his arms up towards the heavens and bade the ember appear. Fire flared, stronger than ever before, writhing through the limbs. Kyrris bellowed, calling it forth, their flames entwining together.
The force was too great. His chest burned, his sight ran red, his knees gave way. He fell, spewing blood onto the ground.
Kyrris let out a shriek, nestling its heat against his chest, calming the gush. The ember grew dull, simmering rather than burning.
Lioran wiped his mouth, red smearing his chin, and laughed roughly.
"Not yet… but soon. Soon, the world shall see."
...
Dunghal Keep
In the stone hall of Duke Rhaemond, torches danced as Sir Caldus kneeled, helm banging against the stone.
"My lord," he said, voice low but firm, "we found it."
The duke's eyes narrowed. "Found what?"
"A dragon," replied Caldus. "And a boy who controls fire."
The hall was quiet. Lords and captains looked at each other with shocked faces.
Rhaemond leaned forward on his throne, lip curling. "A dragon, you tell me. In my territory."
"Yes, my lord. A hatchling. Black scales. Fire-breathing. And the boy—he is no ordinary man. His fire killed men like lightning. He disobeyed me and lived."
Whispers echoed through the hall. Some said omens, some spoke of curses. But Rhaemond's eyes shone with hunger.
"Bring me the court mage," he commanded. "Summon the Church. If this is true, then the beast belongs to me. And the boy will kneel—or burn.
In the rear of the hall, a younger knight—little more than a teenager—stood in stunned silence. His armor shone, his stance proud, but his hand clutched the hilt of his sword too hard.
It was not politics for him.
It was challenge.
...
The Rival's Shadow
In Ashvale itself, villagers gathered in huddles, whispering. Mira prayed for mercy. Tomas foretold doom.
And in his hut, Lioran slept with Kyrris curled beside him, the ember burning in time with the hatchling's pulse.
The world outside was awakening. Armies, lords, and rumors of fate were moving in with each breath.
And somewhere, in the halls of Dunghal, another knight honed his sword, swearing to confront the boy of fire and challenge him false.