Shadows in the North
The hills of the north were unforgiving—thorn-shrouded rocky slopes, gullies infested with wolves, the crumbling remains of old fortresses dissolved into rubble. For centuries, the kingdom had left this land to ruin. Here, only in desperation did men venture now: deserters, raiders, thieves, the sorts of men who lived too long on the wrong side of the law.
And it was to these hills that Lioran Vale made his way.
The ember inside him beat louder with each mile, as if flame itself whispered directions. Kyrris walked beside him, its body bigger still—no longer hatchling, no longer weak. The dragon's scales hardened into shining plates, its wings spreading wider, carrying sparks when it moved.
The people of Ashvale would mutter curse. The priests would scream heresy. But here, amidst men who had nothing further to lose, fire would not be feared. It would be chased.
....
The Camp of Wolves
By sunset, Lioran found them.
A torchlight glowed across a clearing amidst the ruins of some ancient fortress. Crumbling towers tilted like jagged teeth against the sky, and their shadows held a sprawling camp of outlaws—men with tattered armor, rusted but keen blades, feral eyes burning with hunger.
Dozens lay around fires, eating plundered meat, sharing jugs of acidic ale. Some laughed. Some fought. Some simply honed knives, eyes void of hope.
When Lioran emerged from the trees, cloak rent, dragon beside him, the laughter ceased. Dozen heads turned. Dozen hands reached for weapons.
"Who the devil—" one man started, but his words broke off as Kyrris hissed, smoke erupting from its mouth.
The boy's gray eyes sparkled in the flickering light. "I am not here to rob," Lioran declared. His words were weighted with unnatural force, low and even. "I am here to give you more than leftovers. More than terror. I am here to give you fire."
The men glanced at each other. Some spat, cursing. Others stood by in suspicious silence.
One man, taller than the rest, scar running from brow to chin, stepped forward with a sneer. His chainmail clinked as he leveled a blade. "We've no use for boys with big words. And no beast scares us."
Kyrris growled, smoke thickening, but Lioran raised a hand. He stepped closer, unblinking.
"You've no use for me? Then test me."
The scarred man sneered wider. "Gladly."
....
The Trial of Fire
The outlaw lunged, blade flashing.
In the time it took for an eye to blink, Lioran lifted his hand. Fire burst, curling round his palm, striking out like a lash. The knife ignited, burning red, and he had to drop it with a howl.
Before he could get up again, Kyrris struck its claws into the ground at his knees. Sparks blazed. The outlaw recoiled, dropped to his knees.
There was silence in the camp.
Lioran stood tall, the ember burning bright inside him. "This is fire," he said. "You cannot cage it. You cannot fight it. But you can walk alongside it. Serve it. And in return, you will not be rats that run in shadows. You will be wolves again."
The outlaw gasped, gazing at the charred hunk of his blade. His sneer was erased. There was awe—and fear—in its stead.
From the throng, a voice cried: "What do you want of us?"
Lioran's eyes swept them all, unblinking. "Your loyalty. Your oath. Follow me, and you will gain more than gold. You will gain power. You will gain revenge. You will gain a seat in the fire that shall devour this world."
The quiet grew thicker. And then, slowly, men stood up. One by one, they laid down their swords in the earth and knelt.
The scarred man bent his head. "What are you?" he breathed.
Lioran's lips curled into a cold smile. "The world knew me as Lioran Vale. But the flame recalls another name—Draven Azharel."
The camp broke apart, whispers spreading. Dragon Lord. Reborn.
And in that instant, the first oath was taken.
....
The Outlaws' Oath
One by one, the outlaws pressed their blades into the dirt before him.
"I will follow," one muttered.
"And I."
"And I."
The sound grew, swelling into a chorus of ragged voices, binding themselves not to boy, but to flame.
Lioran held up his hand. Flame curled around it, its burning crown arcing in the air. The ember within his chest growled, growing strong off their devotion. Kyrris stumbled back, letting out a bellow that sent shards of stonework tumbling.
"Then listen," Lioran declared. "You are no longer outlaws. You are no longer rats. You are the first of the Flamebound.
The crown of fire exploded outward, showering the men on their knees with sparks that rained among them like stars. They gasped, their faces glowing in gold.
And in their eyes, there grew awe. For the first time in their lives, they were more than they were by hunger or terror. They were given purpose.
...
Mira's Mourning
Mira cried silently in Ashvale
The village was little more than rubble now, half its population dead or lost. But worse than devastation was the ache in her chest. Her son was alive, but lost to her.
She sat in front of the remains of her hut, hands shaking, gazing into the embers. She called out his name, but there was no response.
A nearby neighbor came, voice gentle. "He is gone, Mira. Not dead—but gone. You must release him."
Mira shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "He is still mine. Somewhere, under all that fire, he is still my boy."
But even in speaking, she could feel the truth eating away at her. The boy she had raised was ash. What remained now was something else—something she did not know.
....
The Duke's Horns
Horns sounded in the south, across the army camp.
Duke Rhaemond rode his black horse, silver antlers shining from his helmet. His army stretched out before him—thousands of men, banners flapping, priests chanting, siege engines groaning.
"The boy opposes me," the duke shouted. "He burns villages, he rejects gods. The people speak his name as if it were crown. But he will learn. Fire bows, like all things, to the stag."
The army thundered, shields shaking as one.
By his side, Kaelen clenched his hand around his sword. His smile was narrow, his gaze cold. For him, there was no empire, no conquest. There was fire and steel, hammering each other into powder.
And in the duke's host, darkness, Pure Flame priests prayed—that their enemy be destroyed, not triumph.
....
The Ember's Vision
That evening, the outlaws slept in the rubble, and Lioran sat beside the blaze.
Fire danced more fiercely than it should have, forms changing within—dragons uncoiling, cities ablaze, crowns dissolving. His chest burning with pain and power.
The whisper came again. Draven Azharel… the world is ash without you. Arise. Take what was yours.
His breath stuck, his hands shaking. The ember inside of him growled, begging for more. Not mere survival. Not mere followers. Dominion.
He locked gazes with Kyrris, its golden eyes leveling his. In their gaze, he did not see beast, but partner. A dragon not to be ridden, but to be one with.
And in the moment, he knew: this was no accident. No curse. This was destiny rekindled.
....
The First March
By morning, the outlaws were no longer outlaws.
They awoke with fire in their gaze, swords honed, voices as one. They gazed upon him not with distrust, but awe. The first sparks of an army.
Lioran stood among them, cloak tattered, gray eyes ablaze. "The world brands you scum. Thieves. Traitors. But I brand you Flamebound. And flame will make kings of the forgotten."
Kyrris unfurled his wings, roaring into the morning air. The noise reverberated across the ruins, rolling across the hills like a storm.
The soldiers cheered, their voices carrying with them the burden of newfound belief.
And so began the first march of the Flamebound—tattered, small, rough. But it was the ember of birth.
The ember of an empire.