Smoke in the Wind
Three days had gone by since the battle.
Ashvale no longer smoldered, but the wounds would never heal. Blackened remains of huts stood as scorched ribs, shattered carts were strewn about, and blood had penetrated so far into the ground that no water could wash it away.
The villagers labored, hammering, hauling, salvaging—but in silence. No children's laughter, no voices raised in song. Only whispers. Always whispers.
With every pass of Lioran, with Kyrris pacing behind him, the whispers intensified. Mothers hugged their children tight. Old men spat on the ground. Even those in his debt for life averted their faces, their eyes shifting from his searing stare.
To them, he wasn't a boy of Ashvale anymore.
He was something else.
And in their fear, they started thinking about how one gets rid of fire.
...
Mira's Plea
Mira Vale stood before him at the edge of the forest as he walked back from training, cloak charred, veins still pulsating with flame.
"Lioran."
He stopped, Kyrris blowing smoke at his heel.
Her skin was white, eyes puffy from nights without sleep. "I pleaded once. I'll plead again. Leave this village. You've caused enough destruction. If you love me… if you love your home… leave."
Lioran's gaze softened for a moment, but only a moment. "And what of you? Of them? Without me, they'll perish the moment the next raider arrives. Or when the soldiers of the duke arrive."
"Better to die unknown than burn in the memory of kings!" she screamed, voice cracking.
He shook his head. "No. Better to stand and be remembered. I was not born to run away from my enemies, Mother. I was born to rise above them."
Kyrris growled low in his throat, as if repeating his words.
Mira's shoulders slumped. She buried her face in her hands, shaking. "You sound less like my son with every sentence."
Lioran walked away, the ember burning in his heart. He would not—could not—yield to fear.
.....
Dunghal Hall
Somewhere deep in the south, Duke Rhaemond rested in his stone hall, stag banners hanging heavy behind him.
Kneeling before him was Sir Caldus once more, come from reporting. He was flanked by the duke's court mage, a hunched figure with silver eyes that glowed but dimly, and by a priest of the Church of the Pure Flame, white robes stiff as marble.
"And you are sure?" Rhaemond repeated, his voice like gravel. "A dragon. A boy."
Caldus bent his head. "Aye, my lord. My men witnessed it. The boy's fire killed dozens. The beast breathed fire itself. We hardly escaped."
The mage spit. "A dragon should not exist. Not now. Not after all the centuries. Unless." His eyes locked sharply. "Unless it is omen. Or curse."
The priest lifted his chin. "Then it is abomination. The Church declares all such abominations must be cleansed. Boy and beast together.
But Rhaemond merely sat back in his throne, lips twisting. "Purge? No. Possess. A dragon is power above cost. Whoever possesses it possesses fear. Whoever possesses fear… possesses the realm."
His eyes burned with hunger. "The boy must be brought to me. Alive. If he kneels, he will be my servant. If he resists… then his dragon will do service in his place."
The priest's bristles stood on end, but he remained silent. The mage bowed his head in consideration.
Standing at the edge of the room, the young knight who had stood by to hear now came forward. He was long of leg for his years, with hair the color of pale steel and eyes as hard as tempered glass. His voice was as sharp as a blade.
"Allow me to go, my lord. I will return with the boy."
Rhaemond's eyes considered him, then nodded slowly. "Yes… Ser Kaelen. You will ride with the Church's envoy. Test this fire-born. If he is boy, break him. If he is more… then bind him.
The rivel had been choosen.
...
Whispers in Ashvale
Back in Ashvale, rumors spread like the plague. A merchant traveler said he had seen soldiers on the road to the south. Another vowed that duke banners were sighted near the river crossing.
The villagers were nervous. Some spoke of running into the hills, leaving behind their homes. Others grumbled of turning Lioran over to the lords, surrendering him like a lamb in order to save themselves.
Old Tomas spat on the ground, voice grating. "You idiots believe lords spare survivors? Whether he remains or departs, Ashvale is doomed anyway. May you die soon when soldiers arrive."
His words had stopped them, but hope only hardened.
.....
The Ember's Push
That evening, Lioran practiced. He did not crave mere sparks anymore. Now he wanted forms. Fire writhed in his hands—chains, whips, spears—unraveling and reforming with each gasp. Kyrris followed him, fire crackling from its maw in strings that lengthened, intensified, starved.
But at a cost to his body. His lungs were bleeding. His arms trembled until he fell over. His knees hit the earth, blood trickling from his nose.
Still he smiled.
"More," he breathed. "Always more. We have to prepare."
Kyrris chattered, nestling up against him, its eyes shining pale gold in the dark.
....
The Duke's Hand Comes
Next morning, the shout went around from the fields.
"Riders! Riders on the east road!"
Villagers flocked to the edge of the village, hearts thudding. And there they saw them: five riders in silver-and-green, a flag of the stag flapping over. Leading them was a knight whose armor shone though worn by travel, his face proud and young. To his left rode a priest, robes shining white, sun glinting off the burnished silver flame at his breast.
The villagers bowed their heads, shaking.
Mira wrapped her shawl close to her. Old Tomas frowned. Children gazed from beneath the skirts of their mothers.
And at the center of the road, Ser Kaelen pulled on the reins of his horse, eyes falling at once upon the youth who came forward with a dragon beside him.
Lioran Vale.
The air fell quiet.
Kyrris snarled, wings quivering. The priest raised his hand, speaking words of prayer. Villagers knelt on their knees, muttering of judgment.
Ser Kaelen's voice was clear, cut like steel.
"By the will of Duke Rhaemond, and the decree of the Church of the Pure Flame, you are commanded to kneel."
The villagers gasped, holding their breath.
Lioran's grey eyes did not falter.
The ember blazed in his chest.
And he whispered—only Kyrris heard:
"Let them try."