The Scars of Dawn
The current of the river was slow, hugging the ground, as though even the water carried the burden of ash. Lioran knelt on the ground beside it, his reflection shattered by ripples, soot streaked across his chest. Kyrris slept close by his side, its golden eyes dancing on the verge of sleep, its body misting softly where scales had broken due to the night firestorm.
The forest was quiet. There were no birdsong. The wind itself appeared unwilling to move.
Lioran dipped his hand into the pool of water, observing it spit as droplets struck burned skin. His lips curled into a thin smile—remind was pain. Pain fueled him.
Behind him, the smoke still curled over Ashvale. He could smell it, even here. Smoldering destruction, charred wood, death. He had not glanced back when he departed. Fire didn't look back for what it had destroyed. But now, alone with the river and his dragon, he felt a slight pressure against his chest.
Not regret. Never regret. But awareness.
The spark inside of him beat stronger, warning of weakness if he faltered. And weakness was something he could not afford. Not now. Never.
...
Ashvale's Ruin
Dawn did little to comfort those in Ashvale.
The villagers converged among charred beams, hacking smoke from their lungs, red-rimmed eyes. Half the cottages had been destroyed, and half the hope gone with them.
Mothers hunted for children lost. Fathers raked through coals for the char of their grain. The well had run dry. Even the chapel, once a pride of Ashvale, was a gutted shell, its bell run into slag.
And they all spoke of his name.
Lioran Vale.
Curse.
Monster.
Lord.
The line was now divided, as distinct as ash from snow. To some, he was hell. To others, salvation. But to all, he was no longer theirs.
Mira sat by herself at the square's edge, a shawl draped across her shoulders yet the air was thick with smoke. Her eyes were puffy and red, her hands shaking as though breathing were a labor. She had lost her son—not to death, but to something more, something greater than herself.
And despite her broken heart with grief, part of her understood what Tomas had never acknowledged: the world would not allow Lioran to ever be just a boy.
...
The Priest's Wrath
Deep in the south, in the duke's restless army, seethed the Pure Flame priest.
He knelt in front of his brazier, reciting prayers, smoke wafting up from the bowl. But no vision comforted him, no word of the gods eased his fury. He had summoned holy fire, the holiest flame of their god, and it had been foiled. The boy had resisted.
A sheen of sweat covered his forehead as he clutched his staff. This is no child. This is blasphemy fleshed out.
He stood, robes whispering, and strode into Duke Rhaemond's command tent.
"My lord," he said, his tone biting with anger. "The boy has to be killed. His fire cannot be controlled. I have seen the devastation he will leave—the world charred black, temples to ash, dragons obscuring the sun. If you do not kill him, then you condemn us all."
Rhaemond relaxed in his chair, goblet grasped, lips twisted in that same hunting smile. "And if I do kill him? Then what? Power of the fire goes back into nothingness? For naught?"
"It is not power, it is pestilence," the priest snapped.
The duke laughed. "All pestilences can be controlled—with the correct hand." His dark eyes danced. "And my hand was born for it.
The priest struck his staff on the ground. "You toy with damnation, my lord."
But Rhaemond merely brushed him aside. "Prepare your prayers. I will prepare my armies. Between steel and flame, the boy will kneel. Or burn."
At the rear of the tent, Kaelen said nothing. He honed his blade in silence, each scrape a vow.
...
Renn's Resolve
One boy among Ashvale's survivors defied silence.
Renn stood before his father's ashes, teeth clenched, fists shaking. Tomas was dead—not killed by raiders, or soldiers, but by fire. By the very force Renn had decided to believe in.
But even as sorrow flamed within him, he did not curse Lioran.
He recalled the chains. He recalled his father's scheme to betray. And he recalled the spark in Lioran's eyes when he, Renn, had defied, standing there with words, for a moment. For a heartbeat, fire had faltered.
That was enough proof.
"If no one else will," Renn whispered to the ashes, "I will stand with him. I will follow him."
He faced the charred wood, the wisps of smoke still rising on the horizon. Fear clutched him, but determination pushed harder.
If Ashvale despised him, if the duke pursued him, then maybe only one course remained: walk into the flames voluntarily.
...
The Ember's Hunger
Lioran woke from his watch at the river by evening. Kyrris lifted its head, curls of smoke puffing from its mouth, wings outstretched against the horizon.
"We cannot tarry," Lioran whispered. His hand smoothed the dragon's scales, broken but mending, growing with each passing day. "The duke moves forward. The priests pray. They will arrive in chains, in steel, in fire that is not their own."
The ember burning within him beat fast, urgent. He sensed its hunger—an ache, not simply to survive, but to conquer.
Then let them come," he breathed, gray eyes slit. "But first… we must fuel the fire."
He glanced north, where legend had it that ruined fortresses and outlaw groups took cover in the hills. Men without masters. Men without hope. Men who would follow a brighter flame.
Lioran stood, Kyrris at his side, the trees inclining to their warmth.
"Fire does not wait," he uttered. "It spreads."
...
Ashvale's Fear
Returning to the devastated square, Mira debated with the remaining elders.
"He will come back," one grumbled, twisting his hands. "He will return and complete what he started."
"No," another breathed, nearly awed. "He will rise. And when he does, we must stand prepared to follow. Otherwise, the duke will crush us underfoot, and the boy is our only defense."
Mira was standing alone, her voice shaking. "You don't realize. Either road is devastation. Whether he becomes king or gets burned, Ashvale is lost. The only thing left to wonder is if we will live long enough to witness which it is."
The whispers swelled, angry and split, as villagers clung to what little was left.
And high above them, carrion crows flew in black curves, feeding on the desolation of a village already ravaged by fire.
...
The Duke's March
Horns blasted over the hills of the south.
Duke Rhaemond's entire host came forward: banners flying, silver stags shining, armor aglitter in the wan sun. Columns stretched for miles, spears rising like a steel wood.
At their forefront rode the duke himself, black plate glinting, helm topped with silver antlers. His presence was not only one of power, but of inevitability. Kaelen followed, sword at his side, riding in silence. The Pure Flame priests sang hymns, their staffs softly aglow.
The kingdom was on the move. And its destination was one boy, one dragon.
A Whisper in the Flames
That evening, Lioran sat beside his fire, Kyrris curled at his side, its body heating the clearing. He gazed into the flames, the ember in his chest beating with their tempo.
And then he heard it. Faintly.
...
A whisper.
Not from Kyrris. Not from the woods. From the flame.
Draven Azharel…
The name hit him like a bolt of lightning. His breath stopped, his gray eyes growing wide. That name was not his. And yet. it was.
The ember pulsed, deeper, heavier, with memories not his own. A throne of black stone. Cities in the presence of flames. A crown of dragon bone.
You were lord. You will be lord again.
He panted as the whisper dissipated, leaving silence in its wake. Sweat dripped from his brow. His hand shook against Kyrris's warm hide.
Draven Azharel.
The name of fire past.
The name of fire to come.
And he knew then—Lioran Vale was but the husk. Fire had awakened something ancient. Something fated.
...
The Spark Spreads
In distant towns, beyond Ashvale, gossip grew like sparks among dry grass.
They whispered of a boy who controlled fire.
Of a reborn dragon.
Of Ashvale burning not to raiders, but to its own son.
Some blasphemed his name. Some prayed to it. But all spoke it.
The Dragon Lord has come back.
And as the rumors spread further, men for no reason, mercenaries and outlaws, started to pay heed.
For where dukes and priests held sway over men, maybe fire was the only authority remaining that was any use to follow.