Mira's Arrival
The northern hills were unforgiving—gravelly slopes and scrubland where crows flew overhead, pecking at carrion left long ago. Mira's feet blistered in her scuffed shoes, her shawl clung to her damp shoulders, and her breathing wheezed with each ascent. But she pushed on.
Every step north was torture, but it was the only way her heart permitted.
Finally, on the fourth day, she saw the fortress. Blackened towers like broken fangs pushed up from the ground. Smoke curled from fires and men's laughter echoed in the air.
Not villagers. Not farmers. Wolves.
Mira's belly twisted. She saw swords glinting, men lolling with mugs of ale, Kyrris's wings folded like golden iron over the courtyard. And among them all—her son.
He was taller than she recalled, cloak tattered, hair a ghostly white in sunlight. His eyes, gray, met hers across the destroyed wall. For an instant, the world narrowed to quiet.
"Mother," he said.
Mira took a step forward, her hands trembling. "Lioran… my son."
The Flamebound spun, their mumbling to one another. Some jeered, some whispered. To them, she was weakness made flesh.
To Lioran, however, she was memory.
...
Fire and Flesh
Lioran made his way down the stone stairs, Kyrris padding at his heels.
"You have no business here," he stated baldly.
"I do have business," Mira replied, her voice shaking. "Because if I don't, you're lost."
The Flamebound sneered. The scarred outlaw growled, "Dragons don't need mothers."
Lioran's gaze blazed, a wave of flame curling along his palm. The outlaw fell silent immediately, backing off.
Mira edged nearer, oblivious to the flame. She lifted a shaking hand to his face, though fire dancing about him seared her flesh.
"I see what you are now," she breathed. "But I recall the boy you once were. And I will not leave him dead in ash."
For a moment, uncertainty flared in his gray eyes. But then the spark in his chest pulsed, insisting, ordering. His jaw clenched.
"Gone is that boy," he said. "Only ash is left."
Her hand dropped. Her eyes welled with tears, but her voice firmed. "Then ash must learn to recall."
...
The Flamebound Divide
The camp was uneasy.
Some Flamebound grumbled that her presence undermined their lord, bound him to fetters of the past. Others spoke in hush of reverence, amazed that even fire's wrath had a mother who could stand against it.
Renn stood with them, his fists balled. His heart wept for Mira, but seethed with devotion to Lioran.
When the taunts increased in volume, Renn jumped onto a stone and cried out, "She is no weakness! She gave birth to him! If fire consumes all, then even it must pay respect to its source of flame!"
The outlaws taunted back, but their cacophony fragmented into debate. The Flamebound were no longer a single voice—they were fragmenting, like sparks blown by the wind.
Lioran held up a hand, stopping them. His gaze scanned the camp.
"She is not chain," he declared. "She is memory. And memory burns flame."
The muttering stilled. His word was law.
But in shadow, resentment festered. The scarred outlaw spat on the ground. "Memory will shatter him. And when he breaks, we will all incinerate."
...
The Duke's Net
Distant in the south, Duke Rhaemond's army stretched like a serpent of steel. Banners snapped and cracked, horns blared, siege engines roared.
Messengers rushed panting to his tent.
"The outlaws have flocked to him. Hundreds now bear his fire."
Rhaemond grinned. "Well. Let them unite—it makes them simpler to break."
The Pure Flame priest pounded his staff into the ground. "Break? Fool! He strengthens with each man he bends. By each night, the dragon grows. He is not army—he is disaster."
But the duke waved him away. "All disasters kneel. Or shatter."
Kaelen advanced, blade shining in his hand. "Then give the command, my lord. Let us slay the cub before he becomes dragon."
Rhaemond's smile hardened. "North, then. We ride at dawn."
And the stag pennons rolled forth, the kingdom's fury on the road.
...
The Ember's Hunger
That night, Lioran was alone in the high tower of the fortress. Kyrris lay by his side, eyes molten gold in darkness.
The ember in his chest beat stronger than ever before, like a second heartbeat. His hands trembled with the urge to call out flame, to burn, to overcome.
He balled his fists. "I will not be slave to you."
But the whisper sounded nonetheless.
Draven Azharel…
You were never slave. You were lord. A world in shackles bowed to you once. It will bow again.
Visions engulfed him—an army of Flamebound millions, cities burning, Mira's voice lost under screams, Kyrris stretching to the sky.
He gasped, perspiration sliding down his skin. His gray eyes shone with a soft light in darkness.
"More," he breathed. "I need more."
...
Renn's Loyalty
Below in the courtyard, Renn honed his blade by candlelight. Mira sat beside him, quiet, gazing into the flames as if they might speak to her.
"You shouldn't have come," Renn murmured.
She faced him, tired. "And leave him to this? To be devoured by it?"
Renn's jaw clenched. "He is not devoured. He commands. I saw it. I felt it. When he stood up to the duke's men, when he spared Ashvale, when he made wolves into Flamebound—he is lord."
Mira's eyes filled with tears. "He is my son."
Renn said nothing further, but in his heart, he had already made his decision. He would stand with Lioran. Even if it meant defying his own village. Even if it meant defying his mother's sorrow.
...
The Test of Blood
At the break of dawn, scouts came back gasping to the fortress.
"An enemy column—moving north! The duke's vanguard. Hundreds of men, priests among them."
The Flamebound broke into shouts. Some eager, some in fear.
Lioran walked into the courtyard, Kyrris's shadow cast against the walls. His voice was cold steel.
"Then fire is tested again."
The men bellowed, blades up. But Mira's voice cut through.
"Lioran!" she screamed. "Each fight makes you less my son and more. something else. Cease before nothing of you is left!"
He hesitated, gray eyes flashing to hers. The ember inside him pulsed, angry. But for an instant, he faltered.
Then his jaw set. He threw up his hand. Fire curled upwards, shining in the dawn.
"Fire does not cease," he said. "It spreads. Today, it spreads in blood."
...
The March to Clash
The Flamebound gathered, ragged but wild. Blades flashed, shields creaked, voices boomed. They marched behind Lioran onto the northern road, Renn with them, Mira standing helpless upon the walls.
Kyrris roared above them, wings casting long shadows, its voice crashing between the hills.
And on the southern horizon, the stag banners rose—black on the gray sky, a forest of spears standing like steel trees.
The duke's vanguard moved unbroken, priests chanting, shields set, their ranks imnumerable.
The stage was set.
....
The World Trembles
Whispers spread faster than hooves:
"The Dragon Lord marches."
"The duke's men ride to meet him."
"Flame and stag will clash."
Merchants closed shutters. Villagers ran into the woods. The kingdom held its breath.
For on the northern hills, a fire-reborn boy lifted his hand.
And on the southern plains, an antler-crowned duke sheathed his spear.
The first genuine battle threatened.
The world would soon discover if it would bend to stag—or blaze to dragon.