The Smoke of Morning
The square smoldered. Black ash fell like snow, dusting the thatched roofs, the ravaged soil, the faces of villagers who stood stunned in the wake. The air was heavy, each breath smacking of smoke and blood.
Troops twisted where they lay, armor fused to their bodies, screams piercing the stillness. The living dragged themselves from the boy of fire, pulling comrades with shattered arms, burned legs, blank eyes.
Kaelen stood with them, blackened and dented armor, snow-white hair disheveled. Sweat poured down his temples, but his white-knuckled hand remained on the hilt of his sword. His chest heaved and fell, not in fear, but in exhilaration.
The priest stumbled back, robes charred, staff fading. He had deluged down the power of the Pure Flame—and failed. His lips quivered with prayer, but his eyes were wide with fear.
And in the middle Lioran, cloakrent, lips bleeding, his gray eyes ablaze like two dying embers. Next to him Kyrris shook itself, cracked scales giving off wisps of smoke, golden eyes blazing with anger. The two of them stood like king and dragon, born from devastation.
The villagers did not shout. They did not cry. They simply stood, shivering in awe of something they no longer knew.
...
Mira's Horror
Mira clamped her palms against her lips. She had observed the collision from the doorway, knees trembling, heart thudding. Each time flame erupted, she hoped her son would not fall under its weight. Each time the knight's sword clashed, she hoped it would not stab him.
But now, as she gazed at him standing there beside Kyrris bellowing, her heart had no idea whether to shatter with fear or pride.
The son she had carried, given birth to, fed by hand—now seemed to bear no resemblance to her child. His voice was icier than any man's, his eyes less human than any animal's.
Mira cried openly, yet her voice never rose. She did not plead with him to cease. She could not. Something warned her he would not listen to her even if she did.
...
Tomas's Fury
Ancient Tomas, resting on his cane, seethed from the throng. His breast heaved, his ancient bones shaking with rage.
The chains had fallen from their grasp. The duke's vanguard had been defeated. The priest's curse had not quenched the flames. And the boy, instead of being killed, had worsened.
Tomas's heart shook—not just with terror, but with anger. Anger that his village had been lost to him, that his kin now spoke in wonder of a monster.
This is not salvation," he spat, though only his intimate friends could hear him. "This is damnation."
And even as he spoke, he knew he was too quiet. Too many had witnessed Lioran rushing to meet steel and divine fire. Too many had seen the ground tremble at Kyrris's bellow. Fear was being overshadowed by something much more sinister—faith.
.....
Renn's Stand
Renn was different from the rest, chest panting. His dad's handprint still burned him on the shoulder where Tomas had pushed him back. But he had yelled. He had cried out. He had stood up for Lioran, when nobody would.
The boy of fire had listened. Lioran's eyes had flashed to him in the melee, and Renn could have sworn he had seen the barest glimmer of recognition.
In that moment, Renn knew his decision was made. He was no longer Ashvale's son. He was fire's.
...
Kaelen's Challenge
Kaelen raised his sword, the tip directed at Lioran. His words rang across the square, firm despite the blood upon his lips.
"This is not done, boy. You burn hot, but even fire flickers when fuel is spent."
Lioran's eyes were icy, his voice iron. "Then bring all your firewood. I will burn until there is nothing left."
Their gazes clashed, two tempests meeting. It was not hatred for Kaelen. It was hunger—the hunger of a man who had discovered a peer. It was not competition for Lioran. It was inevitability. One of them would kill the other.
The men bore their wounded off. The priest hauled himself to his feet, shaking, muttering that reinforcements would come with the duke in person.
Kaelen slid his knife slowly back into its sheath, never looking from Lioran. Then he mounted up, armor creaking.
"We will return," he vowed, voice like iron on rock. "And when we do, you will kneel—or you will burn."
He turned his horse, the vanguard's survivors behind him south. The stag banner swirled once in the smoke and then vanished behind the hills.
..
Whispers of Fire
When the echo of hooves had gone, Ashvale burst into whispers.
"He fought them all."
"He burned them to ashes."
"No soldier could stand against him."
"No priest could halt him."
For each voice of wonder, there was one of terror.
"He is not boy—he is monster."
"Knights will come with thousands."
"We will all perish because of him."
The village divided itself in two—half shaking with reverence, half shaking with hatred.
Mira stood in the middle, not able to belong to either half.
...
The Duke's Wrath
Deep to the south, Duke Rhaemond was given the shattered vanguard. Blackened soldiers, burned priest, scarred but unbroken Kaelen.
The duke listened, unmoving, as Kaelen recited the battle—the boy's fire, the dragon's increasing power, the refusal to bend.
When Kaelen was done, the duke smiled. It was a slow, predator's smile, as sharp as shattered glass.
"So he spurns me," Rhaemond said. His voice was velvet, but threaded with iron. "Excellent. Let him incinerate my men. Let him disobey my priest. When I arrive, I will shatter him in front of all the realm. The dragon's power will not be squandered—it will be mine."
The priest pounded his staff on the ground. "He cannot be captured, my lord. He must be destroyed! I have seen it in the fire—cities destroyed, temples collapsing, the world consumed by ash!"
The duke dismissed him like a annoying fly. "You saw power, idiot. And power is mine. Prepare the banners. Prepare the horns. We depart at dawn."
Kaelen bent his head, yet his eyes shone. To him, it was of no consequence if the boy served or fell. As long as he might fight across swords from him once more.
...
Mira and Lioran
That evening, Mira accosted her son.
"You think you've won, don't you?" she breathed, her voice husky. "You think sending them back on their heels makes you king of Ashvale."
Lioran sat by the hearth, Kyrris wrapped in his arms, smoke curling from the nostrils. He did not glance at her.
"They arrived with chains," he said matter-of-factly. "They departed in ashes. That is triumph."
Mira shook her head, tears glistening in the firelight. "No. That is doom. You've only bought us more fear. The duke will not stop. The Church will not stop. And Ashvale will be trampled between them and you."
Lioran's gray eyes lifted to hers at last. They burned with an ember's steady glow.
"Then let Ashvale burn," he said softly. "Better ash than chains."
Her heart shattered. She spun around, holding her hands against her chest. She no longer knew the boy she raised.
...
Tomas's Last Scheme
In the shadows, Tomas mustered his men again. Their faces were white, shaken by the confrontation, but Tomas's voice snapped like a whip.
"Do you see? He will not spare us. He will not stop until Ashvale is nothing but cinders. We must end this before the duke arrives. Tonight."
"But he cannot be touched," one grumbled. "The fire protects him. The beast watches over him."
"Then we strike the mother," Tomas spat. His cane shook against the ground. "Cut the root, and the tree dies. If the boy loses her, he will falter."
The men blanched. Even for traitors, the idea was sacrilege. But desperation is more heartless than honor. And so, with trembling hands, they consented.
Renn heard in the shadows. His blood turned cold. He knew what he had to do.
...
Renn's Choice
Renn slipped into the darkness, pounding heart. He ran through the forest to where he knew Lioran trained with Kyrris. Embers flared between the trees, bathing trunks with gold and red.
He discovered the boy in the clearing, bare chested, fire whirling from his hands, blood and sweat dripping as he compelled flame into shape. Kyrris danced around him, half-spread wings, echoing his movements with running streams of fire.
Renn charged forward, dropping to his knees. "Lioran! They're going to kill her! They're going to kill your mother tonight!"
Lioran stood still. The flames in his hands faltered, then roared hotter. His gray eyes opened wide, then slitted, rage igniting.
"Who?" he shouted. His voice rumbled like thunder.
"Tomas," Renn panted. "And the others. They're on their way now."
Kyrris screamed, tongues of flame shooting from its mouth. Lioran's chest panted, the ember within burning like a furnace.
"Then Ashvale has chosen," he breathed.
He spun to Renn, eyes blazing like stormfire. "Back off. Tonight, Ashvale discovers the price of treason."
...
Ashvale in Flames
The betrayers stalked stealthily through the village, knives flashing, chains clanking. They approached Mira's hut, the last place they assumed the boy would anticipate.
But when they flung the door open, the world went berserk.
Flames erupted from the roof, shooting upwards in a column that ignited the whole village. Kyrris plunged from the darkness of the night with a shriek, claws ripping through the earth. And Lioran emerged from the flames, cloak burning, eyes blazing with condemnation.
"You bound yourself to chains," he declared, voice trembling the ground. "Now harvest your ashes."
The conspirators shouted and fled, but fire pursued them. Huts burned, roofs falling in embers. Kyrris pursued them as game, smoke and fire behind its wings.
The villagers swarmed into the square, screaming, some pleading, some cursing. Ashvale burned—not by raiders, not by bandits—but by their own son.
Mira staggered into the square, calling his name. "Lioran! Stop! Please, stop!"
But he did not listen to her. Or at least, he did not respond.
Ashvale was burned.