Ashvale Waits
Dawn broke gray and sodden, clouds tightening around the sky. Ashvale villagers emerged from their huts with empty eyes, without laughter, without song. The village square was scarred, half the huts still in splintered ruin from the bandit attack, others supported with wonky timbers. Smoke lingered tenaciously on the air.
But worse than desolation was silence.
They had heard the roar of Kyrris in darkness. They had felt the earthquake when flames declared their arrival. All of the villagers understood what it meant: Ashvale was no longer theirs. It was the boy's.
Lioran Vale.
Son of fire.
Mothers hushed their children with warnings. Men honed their scythes—not for the harvest, but for defense or treason, whichever would arrive first. All of them awaited one thing: the southern road.
Because they had heard the duke was arriving.
...
Tomas's Gambit
Tomas rested on his cane in the square, his face gaunt, eyes hard. His plotters congregated about him, the men who had once attempted to ensnare the boy. Their nerve was battered, but desperation gave it new vigor.
"He will not depart," Tomas said. "He will not heed. We cannot take his life ourselves, but when the duke's men come, we can demonstrate our loyalty. We attack from behind as they attack from the front. That is the only method Ashvale endures."
A man spat upon the ground. "And if the soldiers don't succeed? If the boy incinerates them like he incinerated the bandits?"
"Then Ashvale is ash regardless of what we do," Tomas snarled. "Better to die with flame than awaiting for it to devour us."
The men grunted agreement, though none appeared certain. Chains and axes were held close at hand. Ashvale's villagers were peasants, not fighters, but peasants had ever understood how to kill wolves when they were a threat to the flock.
And to Tomas, Lioran was not boy anymore. He was wolf.
...
Mira's Silence
Mira sat in her hut, shaking hands threading a piece of linen. Sleep had left her nights ago. Her eyes puffed, her face gaunt.
She overheard Tomas's words in the plaza, heard the whispers of men moving to attack her son. She needed to scream, to shout that they were idiots, that they could never hold him, never lay hands on him. But her throat closed.
Because she was afraid Tomas was correct.
Her son—her little boy who used to dash through Ashvale after hens and laugh in the sun—was gone. In his stead stood something harder, more fierce. Something she did not comprehend. Something even she dreaded.
And yet… he remained her son. She could not betray him, even though all Ashvale might.
So she remained silent, holding the linen to her bosom, tears falling down.
...
Renn's Oath
At the barn, young Renn stood alone from the men, fists in fists, heart pounding.
He had witnessed the fire. He had witnessed Lioran stand against knights, bandits, priests. And in his chest was not fear—but wonder
They called him curse. Renn called him hope
Renn's father had been killed by bandits. No priest had arrived to rescue them, no duke's soldiers. Only Lioran had burned them to the ground. Only Lioran had preserved Ashvale.
And Renn swore silently: he would stand with the boy of fire. Whatever came.
....
The Vanguard Approaches
By midmorning, the first shudders arrived.
The earth shook. A rumble of far-off thunder boomed across the hills. Then the flash of metal—shields glinting in the sun, helms reflecting like a river of steel.
The duke's vanguard.
A line of fifty men marched in close order, spears held upright, flags of the silver stag cracking above them. At their head rode Ser Kaelen, proudly wearing his mail, pale hair shining, sword on his hip. His youthful face was stern, chiseled by ambition.
By his side rode a priest of the Pure Flame, white robes spotless, silver staff glinting. Lips ran ceaselessly in prayer, eyes ablaze with righteous fury.
Behind them came soldiers with chains thicker than an arm, hooks and iron bars intended not to kill—but to bind.
The people of Ashvale filled the square, their knees trembling. Mothers hugged children. The old men stooped low. Seeing the stag banner gave them relief and fear.
Relief, for someone had arrived.
Dread, for fire was in store for them in their own village.
....
The Confrontation
Kaelen reined in his horse in the square's center. His eyes roamed over the cowering villagers, then locked like a knife on one figure walking steadily forward.
Lioran Vale.
Cloak black, face pale, gray eyes burning faintly like coals. At his side, Kyrris padded forward, wings spreading, scales shining with heat. The dragon grew larger, its body about the size of a stag, its presence unmistakable. Smoke curled from its nostrils as it spat at the armored men.
The villagers stepped back, an empty space between boy and soldiers.
Kaelen's voice rang out, crisp and proud.
"Lioran Vale. By the order of Duke Rhaemond, you are bade to yield yourself and your monster. Kneel, and you may be spared."
The priest raised his staff. "Kneel, heretic! The Pure Flame will purify your evil instantly if you surrender!"
Whispers circulated among the villagers. Tomas rested on his cane, grumbling, "Now. Now the flame will be extinguished."
But Lioran smiled only thinly.
"Kneel?" he exclaimed. His words cut across the square as if steel was rubbed across stone. "I have knelt to none. Not to duke. Not to priest. Not to fear."
The smoke billowed from Kyrris as he growled. The soldiers set their hands more firmly on their spears.
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. "So be it."
He pulled out his sword. The silver stag carved into its hilt shone in morning light.
...
The First Clash
The troops charged forward at Kaelen's wave, shields bracing, spears driving.
Lioran raised his hand. The ember within his chest blazed into life. Fire snapped out in a chain, striking the front row. Spears caught fire. Men bellowed in agony as flames traced down their arms, sending shields crashing. The square became shrouded in smoke.
Kyrris roared, leaping, wings lashing. Its claws tore a shield asunder, teeth digging into a soldier's shoulder, sending him spinning like a piece of cloth.
The villagers shrieked and ran, pulling children into huts.
Kaelen burst ahead through flames, his sword flashing. He sliced away a lash of fire, steel hissing red-hot. His white hair streamed behind him, his eyes light with battle's excitement.
"Fight me, boy!" he bellowed.
Lioran's gray gaze met his, unyielding as stormlight. "Gladly."
...
Duel of Fire and Steel
They clashed in the center of the square.
Kaelen's sword descended, sparks shooting out as Lioran parried it with a lash of flame. The blade seared, waves of heat building, but Kaelen strode forward, his power pushing on.
Lioran stumbled, blood on his lips, but replied with a burst of fire from his hand. Kaelen rolled out of the way, cloak scorched, hair smoldering. He rose to his feet with a smile twisted by the heat.
"You are powerful," Kaelen conceded. "But not powerful enough."
Lioran coughed up blood, his gray eyes burning with a fiercer light. "Burn with me."
The fire within him burned, agony tearing at his frail body. He pushed both hands out, flames swirling into a maelstrom. It crashed against Kaelen's shield, surrounding him in gold and scarlet.
For a moment, the knight was consumed in flames.
The villagers gasped, believing he was ash.
But then, Kaelen burst forth, armor charred, cloak burning—but standing. His eyes flashed with something close to madness.
"Yes!" he bellowed. "This is the fire I looked for!"
And he charged again.
...
Betrayal in the Square
As knight and boy fought, Tomas and his plotters acted.
Chains clutched in hand, they stalked the perimeter of the square. Their scheme was straightforward: if the soldiers shoved, they would attack from the rear, chaining the boy while the knight diverted him.
But Renn observed. His child's eyes widened as he saw his father raise a chain.
"No…" he breathed.
And when Tomas stepped forward to attack, Renn burst from the crowd, pushing his father aside. The chain hit the ground.
"Stop!" Renn cried. His voice trembled, but it carried clear. "He's not curse! He's our last hope!"
The plotters stood stock-still, shocked. The villagers spun around, aghast.
Lioran heard. His gaze snapped once to Renn—and with that, Kyrris let out a deafening roar, fire spilling from its mouth. Soldiers screamed, shields buckled. The square was hell.
...
The Priest's Curse
The Pure Flame priest marched onward, staff held high, in a thunderous chant. The white blaze on its tip was hotter than Lioran's fire, consuming the air.
"Abomination! Ash demon! By the Pure Flame, I bring you low!"
A pillar of fire descended from above, white-hot, smashing towards Lioran and Kyrris.
The hatchling screamed, wings encircling its master. Lioran stood firm, arms up. The ember in him roared out of control, confronting divine flame with human flame.
Blindly, for a moment, the square was erased by light.
....
The Aftermath
When the light receded, the square was reduced to blackened ash. Soldiers groaned, shields broken. Villagers cowered, blinded by the flash.
Kyrris stood smoking, its scales cracked but still intact. Lioran knelt next to it, chest rippling, blood running from his lips. His body trembled with spasms, but his eyes blazed more fiercely than ever.
Kaelen stumbled to his feet, armor half-melted away, his grin erased. He looked at Lioran with grim respect. "So this is the power of fire…"
The priest gripped his staff, horror on his face. "Impossible…"
Lioran stood up slowly, cloak ripped, gray eyes aglow like stormfire. His voice was cold and absolute.
"Speak to your duke. Speak to your Church. Fire does not kneel."
Kyrris bellowed, wings wide, smoke flooding the square.
And Ashvale—shattered, fragmented, frozen with fear—knew this was just the start
The duke's army had just arrived.