The Scorched Night
The night was thick with smoke and fear.
Lioran was at the entrance of his hut, flames dancing across his fingers, Kyrris beside him with wings half extended. Before them trembled the men of Ashvale, ropes and chains scattering to the ground as if they had singed their palms.
No one stirred. The fires dancing at his side lit their faces red and gold, turning fear into horrid masks.
"You risked it," Lioran breathed, the words biting harder than any sword. "You slunk about like rats, hoping to tie me up while I slumbered. Did you think fire slept?"
The soldiers trembled. One fell to his knees, stammering, "Forgive us—please, we only wished to—
"Survive?" Lioran completed for him. His stormlight-filled gray eyes flashed. "Then learn this: survival is not granted. It is seized. By fire. By strength. Not by chains."
Kyrris released a growl, smoke pouring from its nostrils. A few of the men took a step back, their hands cupping their faces.
Tomas alone did not move. His cane shook, but his eyes met Lioran's with stern determination.
You are no longer one of us, boy," Tomas growled. "You are not Ashvale's son. You are the son of fire. Curse, not kin. If we do not bring you in, Ashvale burns with you."
The villagers murmured at his words, some of them nodding, others shrinking.
Lioran cocked his head, smile as cold as ash. "Maybe you are correct. Maybe I am not yours. But you forget, Tomas—fire does not ask to be owned. Fire owns all it touches."
He raised his hand. Sparks flew higher, writhing serpents of light.
The plotters staggered back in horror, the chains falling from their fingers, stumbling over one another to run. Alone, Tomas stood, cane firm.
"Strike me down, then," he rasped. "Do it, and show yourself monster."
There was a moment of stillness. Kyrris's breathing was the only sound, deep and thunderous.
Then Lioran released his hand. The sparks went out.
"No," he said. "Mercy is death. You shall live, Tomas. You shall live to see what befalls when fire is withheld. And you shall know that you are the one who lit it."
With that, he spun on his heel, cloak billowing, and disappeared back into the hut. Kyrris trailed after, tail switching.
The plotters dispersed like whipped curs. Tomas stood by himself in the square, cane planted in the ground, sweat rolling down his creased face.
But his spirit did not break. He would attempt it again.
...
Mira's Shattered Heart
Inside, Mira rested against the wall, shaking. Her son—her child—had stood on the outside as a master of fire, uttering words that frightened her more than the flames themselves.
She buried her face in her palms, holding back tears. "Gods… what have you done to him?"
Lioran sat beside Kyrris, running his hand over the warmth of the dragon's scales, not caring for the tears in his wake. His tone was deep, unflinching. "Do not cry, Mother. They made their choice. So have I."
She rose, face red and wet. "Do you not see? You are losing yourself. Day by day, more fire, less boy."
He gazed at her, face impassive. "Maybe that is what will work. A boy cannot save Ashvale. A boy cannot defy a duke, and not the Church. Only fire can."
Tears streamed down her face. "Then my boy is gone."
Lioran turned again to Kyrris, wordless. The hatchling buried its face in his chest, and the ember in him pulsed in answer.
....
Renn's Choice
That evening, Renn—Tomas' boy who had been listening—paced within his father's barn. His heart raced, fists balled.
He had witnessed the blaze. He had listened to the phrases. And in his own chest seared not fear, but wonder.
Lioran was no beast. He was power. Power Ashvale had never experienced, power which could keep them safe if only they had the courage to believe.
But Renn was young, and his voice was tiny against Tomas's steel words. He was afraid that if he did speak, he would be marked traitor—worse, chained.
So he remained silent. For the moment.
But within him, a spark of loyalty implanted. A spark that would grow.
....
The Duke's Advance
South of Ashvale, the ground shook beneath iron boots.
The duke's troops advanced swift and steady, columns lining the horizon. Banners streamed behind them, the silver stag shining. Armor glinted like seas of steel.
Ahead of them, Duke Rhaemond sat tall in his black plate, helm topped with silver antlers. His eyes shone with appetite, lips drawn tight into a predator's grin.
At his right hand sat Ser Kaelen, his sword freshly honed, his eyes fixed straight ahead. With each mile they rode, his eagerness increased. The boy of fire was waiting for him. Their duel was already ordained.
Behind them rode the Pure Flame priests, their hymns crying out in cadence. Their leader held his staff so hard his knuckles turned white. His nightmares had revealed cities ablaze, blackened skies from dragon wings. He would not permit such destruction to roam free.
Rhaemond scoffed at the priest's fervor. "Curse or blessing, boy or monster—it matters not. What matters is control. Dragon and flame will bow, and with them, all the kingdoms."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. He did not dream of control. He dreamed of victory.
...
Ashvale's Division
By dawn, whispers spread through Ashvale like plague.
Some whispered of the unsuccessful betrayal, of chains cast in the ground and Tomas standing before the boy of fire unwavering. Others murmured that Lioran had only spared him to toy with his victim, as a wolf amongst sheep.
Fear grew.
"He is no longer ours."
"He will burn us when he chooses."
"The duke must come quickly."
But a few—only a few—spoke in awed reverence.
"He stood against knights. He stood against bandits. He never wavered."
"He would guard us if we obeyed him."
"Perhaps fire is not curse, but salvation."
Ashvale divided down the middle—half with fear, half with wonder. And all of them awaiting the shadow of armies.
....
The Priest's Conviction
Within the duke's camp, the Pure Flame's high priest sat in front of a brazier, flames dancing high as he whispered his prayers.
Visions returned: cities in ruins, temples ablaze, a dragon so large it blocked out the sun. The boy's gray eyes blazed with fire, looming over ash fields.
The priest gasped, his hand grasping his chest. Sweat poured down his face.
"No gift," he muttered. "Scourge. He will not serve the duke. He will not serve anyone. He will burn the world."
He stood, resolve fierce. "If Rhaemond will not kill him, then the Church must. Better Ashvale burned than the world afire."
...
Tomas's Defiance
In Ashvale, Tomas brought together his conspirators once again.
They were shaken, quivering after exposure to the boy's rage. But Tomas's voice echoed as hard as steel.
You saw him spare you. Do not confuse it with mercy. It was mockery. He will burn us when it suits him. And when the duke arrives, he will burn us all in the crossfire."
"But he is too powerful," one grumbled. "Chains slipped from our grasp. We cannot capture fire.
Tomas banged his cane into the ground. "Then we wait. Wait for the duke. When soldiers arrive, we demonstrate our loyalty by fighting with them. That is the only course of action left to us."
The men nodded, hanging in there but desperate. Survival always trumped everything.
....
Mira and Lioran
In the evening, Mira lashed out at her son once again, voice trembling with both rage and sorrow.
"You frighten them. You frighten me. Even if you never intend to hurt us, fear will be enough to kill Ashvale. Can't you understand? You are curse to us."
Lioran slowly stood, the light of the fire casting his face in soft gray and red. Beside him, Kyrris raised its head, molten golden eyes.
"Curse? No, Mother. I am reminder. The world has forgotten fire. Forgotten dragons. I will remind them."
"And if Ashvale burns in the reminder?" she wept.
His eyes did not falter. "Then Ashvale will be the first to learn truth: fire spares none who deny it."
Her heart broke. She turned away, weeping, unable to see the boy she carried as the lord of flame he had become.
....
The Spark Ignites
Night fell once more. Clouds consumed the moon. Ashvale rested in uneasy repose, though none rested at all.
On the bordar of the forest, Lioran stood beside Kyrris, the spark in his breast glowing hot. He looked south, and although the darkness concealed it, he could sense the vibration of marching feet, the darkness of banners ascending.
"They have arrived," he breathed.
Kyrris growled, wings quivering.
The child grinned, hard and sure.
"Let them come. Let the duke bring his legions, let the priests bring their prayers. Fire will not kneel. Fire will not yield. Fire will rise."
The hatchling unleashed a roar into the darkness, ringing across the darkened sky.
And in Ashvale, all of the villagers rose from their beds, hearts pounding, understanding in that instant—
Ashvale no longer was theirs.
It was fire's.