The Ash Road
The hills of the north woke to thunder.
Not storm-thunder, but the thunder
of boots.
The host of Duke Rhaemond pushed north, iron-shod feet upon fields, banners snapping, priests chanting. Rumors spread more quickly than their advance—rumors of a boy who had incinerated his village, of dragon legend made real, of fire that would not submit.
Farmers ran from their homes at the sight of stag pennants. Merchants took side roads to get out of the shadow of the army. But even in their fleeing, rumors spread:
"The Dragon Lord has returned."
"Ashvale burns."
"The duke will crush him—or be crushed."
And in the ashes of a northern fort, those rumors were sown.
....
The Flamebound Restless
The Flamebound-stirring outlaws woke with the dawn.
They were tough men—tainted deserters, small-time brigands, broken soldiers. Fear had once bound them. Now, fire had freed them.
But fire, once lit, required tinder.
"Why do we take refuge in rubble?" one grumbled, sharpening a notched axe.
"We pledged to fire, but we feed on crumbs," another snarled.
"If he is lord, let him demonstrate it."
Their voices hummed, agitated, threatening. A pack of wolves required a hunt. Otherwise, they would turn on their own—or their master.
Lioran stood silently behind a crumbling wall, cloak tattered, Kyrris huddled at his feet. His gray eyes sparkled, reflecting the torches like burning coals.
He did not scold their grumblings. He allowed them to simmer, then rose, allowing the spark within him to vibrate like a drumbeat.
"You starve," he cried, his voice heard. "So do not feed on crumbs. Feed on the meat of dukes."
An instant's silence fell. Men ceased looking down at blades and bowls.
"The duke's army is marching north from here," Lioran went on. "Its vanguard is thin, wagons laden with grain, steel, and gold. Priests march with them, bound to prayers. That is your hunt."
Growls gave rise to murmurs. Murmurs roused shouts. Flame danced in the air before them, hungry, ravenous.
"You name yourselves Flamebound," Lioran raised his hand. Embers spat around his palm. "Then bind yourselves in flame, not fear. Tomorrow, we claim our first blood together. Tomorrow, the realm remembers us."
Kyrris stood back and let out a deafening roar, wings cracking like thunder. Men shouted, pounding their chests. Their hunger had been given purpose.
.....
Mira's Prayer
A long way off, in Ashvale's ruins, Mira sat at the gutted chapel. Its bell was broken, its roof open to the gray sky. Smoke still curled weakly from charred beams.
Her knees dug into charred earth as she prayed softly, though she no longer knew if gods heard.
"Spare him," she sobbed. "Spare my son. If he is curse, burn me in his place. If he is scourge, take me in his place. Spare him."
Her voice shook, her hands trembled. In her head, she still saw the boy running after hens, laughing in the sunshine. But that boy was ashes. Now she prayed not for Lioran, but for what fire had transformed him into—that it would cease before destroying the world.
But even while she prayed, she dreaded that the answer was silence.
.....
The Priest's Fire
Inside Duke Rhaemond's battle camp, the Pure Flame priest readied.
His brazier blazed white-hot, much brighter than any usual fire. He crouched in front of it, sweat running from his brow, lips parched from incantations.
Images swirled once more: cities wrapped in fire, dragons ripping the sky apart, temples falling in ash. And within it all, gray eyes burning with stormfire.
He fell forward, gripping his staff. "The gods warn me anew," he spat. "The lad is no blessing. He is destruction.
But when he brought the words to Rhaemond, the duke only laughed.
"Doom to my enemies, perhaps," Rhaemond said, raising his goblet. "All the better."
Kaelen stood close, quiet, honing his sword. His eyes did not lift, but his mind seethed with one thought: Soon.
.....
The Ambush
At dawn, the Flamebound came down from the hills.
The duke's train rumbled down the northern road: wagons loaded with grain, water barrels, lances of spears, crates of coin. A hundred guards accompanied it, armor shining in feeble sun, banners flapping in the breeze.
They had not anticipated wolves.
Lioran lifted his hand from a ridge above. The ember inside him boomed, and the Flamebound roared down like a tide.
Arrows hissed. Spears rattled. Men howled.
Kyrris dived overhead, wide wings spewing fire that scorched wagon cloth and threw horses into shrieks of terror. Fire engulfed the front cart, smoke filling the road.
Lioran dived into the fight, fire wrapped around his arms. His whip lashes of flame smashed shields, set men ablaze where they stood. Every sweep of his hand was a bonfire.
The Flamebound replied with howls, steel flashing, axe biting. No longer starveling outlaws, they were predators turned loose.
The soldiers fought bravely, but fear of flame unmade them. Men dropped shields to smother fire on their cloaks. Others ran into the trees, only to be cut down.
Less than an hour later, the road was carnage. Wagon fires burned, soldiers lay motionless, the cries of the wounded drowned beneath fire's roar.
And when it was done, the Flamebound cheered. They waved sacks of grain, armloads of spears, goblets of pilfered coin.
"Flame! Flame!" they shouted.
Lioran stood in the wreckage, chest panting, blood trickling from his lips. Kyrris came to ground beside him, scales shimmering, eyes running molten with triumph.
The boy lifted his hand, and fire coiled around him, throwing his shadow like a king's.
"Today we eat," he declared, his voice low but heard by every last man. "Tomorrow we kill."
.....
The Birth of Legend
Word traveled faster than hooves.
Merchants hushed of warriors immolated, of a dragon descending on the duke's lifeline. Peasants whispered stories of a lad who gave himself fire reborn, who made brigands into heroes.
Some damned his name. Others begged to it. All, however, spoke it.
The Dragon Lord has come.
...
Renn's Choice
In Ashvale, Renn saw the whispers turn his village further asunder.
"He burns everything he touches," cursed one of the villagers.
"He saved us from raiders," shouted another.
"He'll bring the duke's wrath down on us," warned a third.
"He is our only hope," breathed a fourth.
Renn's fists were clenched. His father's ashes still haunted him, but so did his recollection of Lioran's eyes warming at his stand.
He knew what he needed to do.
That evening, Renn pilfered food from the dwindling larders. He took his father's old knife. And without speaking to anyone, he slipped into the northern hills.
If Ashvale would not follow fire, then he would.
...
The Duke's Fury
Duke Rhaemond heard of the ambush days later.
A courier, half-burned and shaking, fell to his knees. "The wagons… destroyed. Men burned. A dragon… a dragon flew above them…"
Rhaemond's goblet had broken in his fist. Wine ran down his gauntlet like blood.
"Good," he growled, though his voice shook with barely concealed fury. "Let him burn my wagons. Let him burn my men. Every spark he spreads makes the fire shine brighter—so when I chain him, all will know it was the stag who domesticated flame.
The Pure Flame priest slammed his staff on the earth. "He cannot be controlled! With each passing moment, he becomes more powerful!"
"Then all the better," Rhaemond growled. "The more beast, the greater glory when it kneels."
Kaelen did not speak, but in his heart flared a single vow: I will meet him again. Fire and steel. Until one shatters.
.....
The Flamebound Feast
That evening, the Flamebound dined among the ruins of their fortress.
Wine poured freely from barrels, meat roasted over fire, pilfered coin shone in heaps. Men laughed, sang, and for the first time in years, hope struggled free from despair.
"You made us wolves again!" one yelled, holding a jug high to Lioran.
"Not wolves," another steadied himself on his feet. "Flamebound!"
Lioran sat outside their jubilation, Kyrris huddled defensively beside him. His gray eyes shone, but his chest shook with agony. The ember craved more, always more. Every triumph fueled it, but every flame burned him from the inside out.
He clenched his fists, commanding the flames to submit. I will not be devoured. I will be master, not tinder.
Kyrris prodded him with its snout, golden eyes serene, unblinking. They were flame made flesh, the two of them.
And when the men bellowed his name, he whispered to the dragon:
"This is just the start."
....
The Whisper of Ash
Later, after the camp had drunkenly collapsed into sleep, Lioran sat alone in front of a fire.
The flames writhed. Twisted. Whispered.
Draven Azharel…
You once were master of fire. You will be again.
Visions rushed him: cities bowing, kings kneeling, dragons wheeling through blackened skies streaked with smoke. A throne of flame and bone.
He gasped, sweat running down his face, holding his chest as the ember pounded like a second heart.
Rise, the whisper urged. Rise, and make the world remember.
And in the darkness of night, with only Kyrris observing, Lioran swore:
"I will."
...
The Road Ahead
Morning dawned with crows flying overhead above scorched wagons and shattered shields.
The armies of the duke advanced. The priests honed their prayers. Ashvale lay in devastation. Mira mourned in silence.
But in the northern hills, flames were being gathered.
The Flamebound followed their Dragon Lord, tattered but afire, bearing pilfered steel and born purpose.
The world had forgotten dragons.
The world had forgotten fire.
Now, it would remember.