Ashvale's Fear
The riders' thunder faded down the road, but their absence brought no peace.
Ashvale stood like a carcass waiting for scavengers. Half its huts still smoked from the raid, the square bore black scars of fire, and the air reeked of fear more pungent than blood.
The villagers stood in clusters, hushed conversations with nervous urgency. Glances always lingered toward the hut that Lioran and Kyrris vanished into.
Some of them spoke of miracles.
Most of them spoke of curses.
"It isn't human," a farmer whispered, shaking his hands.
"It will bring the duke's ire," another feared.
"Better to turn him in now than burned at the stake with him.
Mira overheard these words as she walked by, head lowered, basket held close to her body. Their hushed tones cut more deeply than blades. She raced back to her hut, praying to every deity she could think of that her son would come round.
But when she entered the hut, the scene that greeted her immobilized her heart.
...
The Fire's Edge
Lioran held center in the hut, hands upraised. Flames nipped at his fingers, curling into a spear of light. His gray eyes blazed with fierceness, face as white as a shroud from tension.
Kyrris huddled beside him, wings splayed in mimicry, a tiny tendril of fire gushing from its throat. Boy and hatchling together built a furnace of heat that made the air ripple.
"Again," Lioran breathed, voice torn. "Again."
The spear shattered, splintered, and exploded into sparks. He sank onto one knee, spewing blood into his palm.
Mira gasped. "Lioran!"
But he pushed past her, hauling himself to his feet, beads of sweat running down his bony body. "Not yet. My body remains too frail. I cannot… not yet."
Kyrris thrust its burning snout against his ribcage, whining low, but the boy patted its scales with grim determination.
"Patience," he whispered to the dragon. "We will forge this body to carry flame. We must."
Mira's tears spilled freely. "You will kill yourself before the duke even arrives."
He looked at her then, eyes sharp as burning steel. "Better to burn myself than bow to them."
She turned away, trembling. The boy she had raised was gone. In his place stood something she could neither understand nor control.
....
Old Tomas
That night, in the village square, stood Old Tomas, his cane firmly rooted in the ground. A small group of people surrounded him, faces etched with fear and despair.
"He belongs to no one anymore," Tomas croaked, voice ringing over the rasp. "No longer Mira's son. You saw him challenge a duke's knight and the Pure Flame's priest. You saw the flames. Will lords overlook such affront? Will the Church pardon such blasphemy?"
A murmur of agreement arose.
"He rescued us from robbers," someone breathed frailly.
Tomas's cane hit the ground. "And condemned us to soldiers. Better a handful of bandits than the whole army of lords. Mark me: if we do nothing, Ashvale will be burned. The only question is whether we burn alone, or whether we burn with him."
His words ran like poison through the village, settling in exhausted hearts.
...
Mira's Breaking
That evening Mira sat beside the fire, shaking hands. She could still hear Tomas's words. He is no longer ours.
Lioran slept alongside her, wrapped in a heap of cloak and dragon, his chest rising with shallow, irregular breaths. Even in slumber, his face was grimly set, as though he dreamed only of wars yet to be fought.
Kyrris moved, a single golden eye opening, narrowing on her. For an instant, Mira believed the hatchling could see right into her terror.
She buried her hands in her face, stifling sobs. She had hoped against hope that he would live when illness threatened to claim him. She had prayed to the gods to save him. And they had replied—
—but in this form.
Was this a blessing? Or a curse worse than dying?
....
The Messenger
Two days hence, with the first light of dawn touching the horizon, a figure emerged from Ashvale's edge.
A gaunt and bitter man named Farren wrapped his worn cloak about himself and walked swiftly down the southern road. His son had been killed in the bandit attack, and bitterness had soured into hate. To him, every word Tomas uttered was gospel.
He would not let Ashvale be destroyed for the sake of a boy with fire that was accursed.
His destination: Dunghal Keep.
.....
Training in Fire
And as treason rode down the road, Lioran pushed his body to the limit.
He knelt in the woods, hands open, compressing flame into form. Whips of flame snapped, shields flashed, spheres ignited in his palms. Each attempt left him shaking, blood streaming from his nostrils, but still he stood again.
Kyrris kept pace with him, breath steadier, fire keener. The bond grew. When Lioran faltered, the hatchling leaned hard against him, sharing heat, sharing will.
For brief moments, he was complete—like the fire did not tire him, but lifted him.
"This is but the start," he murmured, hand on Kyrris's neck. "When the armies arrive, they will see. The world will remember fire."
The ember within his chest throbbed, stronger, hungrier.
....
The Duke's Hall
Distant, in Dunghal Hall's vaulted stone, Farren knelt before Duke Rhaemond, shaking as he spoke.
"My lord… forgive me… I have news. The boy in Ashvale… he uses fire. And he has a beast. A dragon. A real dragon."
The hall became a whirlwind of whispers. Lords and captains whispered, eyes wide with fear and hunger.
Rhaemond hunched forward over his throne, hawkl-like eyes narrowing. "So the whispers were true."
Farren planted his forehead against the stone. "He will bring destruction upon us all. Ashvale cannot hold him. For the love of the gods, my lord, send your troops before it is too late."
The duke's lips curled into a smile—not mercy, but greed. "Yes. Troops will march. Not to lay waste—but to take. Dragon and boy will be mine.
By his side, the priest of the Pure Flame seethed, white-knuckled on his staff. "The Church does not bargain power with heresy. The boy will be burned."
But the duke merely laughed. "Power is not yours to bestow, priest. Nor to withhold."
And in the corner of the hall, Ser Kaelen honed his blade, recalling gray eyes that burned hotter than steel.
....
Ashvale's Division
In the village, the divide grew deeper.
Some spoke in hushed tones of betraying Lioran in public, of binding him before soldiers came. Others were too afraid to move against him, recalling bandits incinerated in the square.
Children wept at seeing Kyrris, mothers dragging them away. Farmers cursed under their breaths, spitting on the ground. But a few—just a handful—looked on with reverence, hope burning in their eyes.
"He saved us once," said a young man named Renn. "He might save us again."
But his words were overwhelmed by the flood of fear.
....
Mira and Lioran
That evening, Mira finally confronted her son.
"Do you not see what is approaching?" she begged, throat raw. "They will not rest. Not the duke. Not the Church. The villagers whisper of submitting you. They want to bind you like a goat to the slaughter."
Lioran petted Kyrris's scales, eyes fixed on the fire that danced within his hand. "Let them gossip. They will come to understand."
Her fingers trembled. "And if they betray you? If they summon guards to slay you?"
Lioran's eyes finally rose, unhurried and icy. "Then Ashvale will burn before I yield.
Mira reeled back, horror etched upon her face. She did not know him anymore—not the boy she had healed, but something else. Something born anew in flame.
....
The Foreshadowing
The night hung heavy, stormless, still.
But in the south, banners were already unfurled. The stag of Rhaemond flew above armored columns. Priests honed their chants to weapons. And Kaelen prepared, not with fear, but with eagerness.
For in his heart, he yearned to try himself against the boy of flame.
And in Ashvale, Lioran stood by the fire, Kyrris at his feet, the ember burning within him. He sensed the darkness drawing near, like the air before lightning.
He smiled, thin and cold.
"Let them come."
The hatchling agitated, golden eyes burning in the dark.
"The fire has just begun to awaken."