Ashvale's Wailing
The village was not a village anymore.
It was a pyre.
Night burned with the radiance of dawn breaking too soon, roofs tumbling in showers of sparks, beams screaming as they cracked under the flames. The villagers' screams echoed among the fire, desperate, shattered, desperate.
Children cried in their mothers' arms. Men hauled buckets of water only to discover wells burned dry and ropes already to embers. The fire was alive, advancing from thatch to timber, licking walls with hungry tongues.
And at the center of the conflagration stood Lioran Vale.
His cloak was devoured, reduced to black rags that danced in the heat. His white chest was smeared with soot and blood, but his gray eyes glittered brighter than any spark. In his hands the fire wrapped not wildly, but purposefully, as if flame had lain waiting for centuries to be commanded again.
At his side, Kyrris prowled. The hatchling no longer seemed delicate. Its wings spread broad, fire running between its teeth, golden eyes burning with molten rage. The dragon wasn't merely responding—it was luxuriating.
Boy and dragon, together, were flame incarnate.
...
The Betrayers' End
Tomas and his men fled like ants, their chains left behind, their valor dried up. Some hid in cellars, but the fire consumed their doors. Others ran into the fields, where Kyrris flew low, pouring ribbons of fire before them.
Lioran's voice boomed in the square, iron-heavy.
"You desired to bind me? To bind fire?"
He lifted his hand. Sparks flashed into a lash of scarlet fire. It cracked, ensnaring one man by the chest. His shriek ripped through the night before the fire reduced him to ash.
A third conspirator lurched into the chapel, clutching at a wooden cross, appealing to the gods for mercy. Lioran's eyes spotted him. The flames followed, engulfing the chapel whole, its bell falling in liquid silence.
"Mercy is the deceit of the weak," Lioran announced. "You tried to betray me. This night you learn truth—fire knows no exceptions."
Tomas alone stood upright in the square, his cane shivering but his jaw clenched. He did not flee. He could not.
"Beast," he cursed, voice rough but firm. "I warned them. I warned them you would bring devastation alone. And here it stands. Ashvale is dead due to you."
The villagers, grouped at the periphery of the flames, listened. Their faces danced between horror and wonder, caught between Tomas's words and the undeniable truth of the boy's power.
Lioran walked forward, Kyrris pacing along beside him. The boy's eyes fixed on the old man, cold and unforgiving.
"No," Lioran said softly. "Ashvale is dead because of you. You planted treason, and fire harvests it.
He raised his hand once more. A fire wreath spun up, molding itself into a crown before the flames descended.
Tomas's cane fell as fire enveloped him. His own scream ceased in silence, and there was nothing left but ashes.
...
Mira's Plea
"Lioran!"
The cry pierced fire and death as well. Mira flung herself into the square, shawl charred at the fringes, hair astray, eyes brimming with tears.
She shoved through the smoke, through the villagers who shrank away from her, until she stood directly before her son.
"Stop!" she cried, her hands trembling, palms open. "You'll burn everything. You'll leave nothing but ruin."
Lioran stood tall, unyielding, his chest rising and falling with every breath of flame. Kyrris growled low, protective, glaring at her as if she were threat rather than kin.
"The village deceived me," Lioran sneered. "Chains for fire. Death for dragon. They made their choice."
"They're scared!" Mira wept. "They don't see what you are. They never did. But I do. I know you. I raised you. You are my son."
For an instant, his gray eyes blinked. The spark within him faltered. But then it blazed all the brighter, all the hotter, devouring doubt.
No," he breathed, voice such as steel shattering at heat. "I am not son. I am fire born."
Her legs collapsed beneath her, but she did not step aside. Her tears carved paths through the soot upon her cheeks. "Then fire has no mother."
The words pierced deeper than any blade. But Lioran did not stumble. His features set into stone. He strode past her, Kyrris behind him, and the flames rampaged still higher.
...
Renn's Defiance
Not all of them cowered.
Renn ran into the square, the smoke burning his lungs, ash stuck in his hair. He glared up at Lioran with wide, wild eyes.
"Enough!" the boy bellowed. His voice broke, but it still carried. "You've demonstrated your strength. You've shown them fear. But if you incinerate it all, then there's nothing left to rule. Nothing to protect!"
Lioran spun gradually, his eyes contracting. The flames surrounding his fingers spat, but not at him.
"You have the temerity to command fire when to ignite?"
Renn swallowed hard, shuddering, but fisted his hands. "Yes! For if you murder everyone, then you are no lord—you're simply another beast like the ones you vowed to transcend.
The villagers gasped. Whispers filled the edges of the square. Who was this boy to speak so? Who was he to confront fire?
Lioran stepped closer, each stride radiating heat. The ground scorched beneath his feet. He towered over Renn, gray eyes glowing like molten steel.
"You think me monster?" Lioran asked.
Renn's voice cracked but did not falter. "I think you're more. Prove it. Don't burn them all. Lead them."
Kyrris growled, wings spreading wide, but Lioran raised a hand to quiet the dragon. He watched Renn in quiet, his eyes probing. For the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
And in the stillness, a glimmer of potentiality flashed.
...
The Fire Dies Down
Lioran slowly dropped his hands. The flames that danced there flickered, and went out. The cacophony of fire across the square faded to a low hiss.
The villagers gazed in shock. Smoke still filled the air, ash still covered their cheeks, but for the first time since nightfall the fire wasn't advancing.
Lioran's voice called out, riding over their whispers.
"You betrayed me. You bound yourselves to treason. Ashvale burns because Ashvale chose chains over fire. Remember this."
He spun, cloak ripped, Kyrris behind him. "But fire does not burn fuel already consumed. Live, if you can. Fear me, if you must. But never again imagine binding me.
And with that, he walked into the woods, Kyrris's bellow ringing through the night, rattling the shattered bones of the village.
The fires gradually went out, and black destruction was left behind.
...
Ashvale's Divide
Morning dawned gray and heavy.
Half the village lay in ashes, reduced to smoldering rubble. Smoke poured from each ruin, staining the horizon with ash.
Villagers stood in the center square, eyes empty. Some cried outright. Some cursed under their breath. And a few—just a few—spoke softly with reverence.
"He spared us."
"He could have destroyed us all, but he did not."
"Maybe he is truly lord."
For every phrase of wonder, there was another of loathing.
"He is curse."
"He is monster."
"He'll come back and finish what he began."
Ashvale was no longer a village. It was a battlefield, separated not by fire but by faith.
And at its heart, Mira sat silently, her eyes blank. She had lost her neighbors, her family, her tranquility. But most of all, she had lost her son.
..
The Duke Prepares
Far to the south, in Dunghal Keep, word reached them. Messengers stumbled into the hall, their faces burned, their throats raw with smoke.
They spoke of fire. Of treachery. Of a boy who rode a dragon and burned his own home.
Duke Rhaemond heard, his keen smile slicing across his face.
"So the lad prefers fire to loyalty," he whispered. His voice was low, but every knight and lord in the room trembled. "Good. May the kingdom shake with his rebellion. When I shatter him, when I join dragon and boy, it will not be the duke's conquest. It will be the dawn of an empire."
By his side, the Pure Flame priest fumed, staff gripped white-knuckled. "He cannot be bound. He cannot be tamed. He must be cleansed."
Rhaemond laughed only. "Cleanse him? No. Crown him—in my chains. Prepare the army. If the boy wishes war, then the realm will march."
Kaelen, waiting in silence by the hall's edge, did not utter a word. But his hand lay upon the hilt of his sword, and his eyes shone with cold hunger.
He did not desire an empire. He desired one thing: the fire-born boy standing opposite his blade once again.
....
The Road Ahead
In the woods, Lioran and Kyrris camped on the riverbank. The dragon placed its head on his lap, wisps of smoke emanating from its nostrils, its body seared but stronger.
Lioran gazed in the water, his reflection shattered by ripples. His gray eyes gleamed faintly in the current, no longer quite human, no longer quite mortal.
"They fear me," he breathed. His words were soft, unyielding. "They despise me. But some… some will come."
He touched Kyrris's head, the dragon's golden eyes meeting his.
"Then let them decide. Let them split. From their fear will be born fire. And from fire… a kingdom."
The ember in his chest beat louder, hungrier. He could feel it—this was only the start.
The world had forgotten dragons.
Now, the world would remember.