Ash and Echoes
The fortress reeked of iron, blood, and smoke.
Crows circled over the battlements, feeding on corpses too blackened for burial. The morning sun shone faintly on burned stone — the residue of the first battle between stag and flame.
Lioran stood on the battlements, cloak streaming behind him, eyes fixed on the south. He saw the plumes of smoke where Kaelen's army had retreated, but he knew better: the duke's troops would come back. Stronger. Better trained.
Below, the Flamebound restored their improvised barricades, dragging timber, retempering blades pilfered from the corpses. Their tone was hushed, religious — telling of the fight, of the dragon's fire, of the lad who had resisted the sacred blaze.
But beneath those tones was discomfort.
Apprehension still lingered in the crevices of the fortress walls.
Lioran could feel it oppressing him like piercing wind.
He shut his eyes. The ember within his chest remained alight, stable now, pulsating in time with the beat of his heart. It whispered softly — almost gently.
They doubt. They falter. But you… you cannot.
His fists curled on the stone.
"I do not," he whispered.
.....
Kyrris's Wound
Below the tower, Kyrris coiled like a snake of gold, its scales ruptured and blackened where white fire from the priests had lashed. The great dragon's breath was hoarse, smoke wreathing with each exhalation.
Lioran knelt beside it, laying a hand upon the tip of its snout. Heat shuddered against his palm — unstable and fevered.
Kyrris's golden eyes cracked open, fixing on him. "Their fire burns false. It smells of fear and faith, not flame."
Lioran nodded. "We'll burn them out before they can gather it again."
The dragon exhaled softly, nostrils glowing. "You are still learning, hatchling. Flame is not only destruction — it is hunger. Hunger never sleeps."
Lioran stared into its eyes. "Then I'll never sleep either."
Kyrris's maw arced into a shape resembling a smile, but its teeth were knives. "Be cautious, little lord. Hunger consumes its own."
...
The Wavering Flame
Below in the courtyard, the Flamebound huddled around flames. They drank, honed blades, and tended wounds.
Renn sat at a distance from them, spinning his knife in his hand, watching the blood dried on the edge. His face was smeared with soot, eyes empty with fatigue — but pride still smoldered in his chest.
The men talked around him:
"Did you see the priest burn? By the gods, I never saw flames like that!"
"He fought alone against the duke's army."
"Alone? Perhaps he is no man. Perhaps he's the fire itself."
But others breathed more sinister phrases.
"The dragon bleeds."
"White fire burns deeper than red."
"If the priests come again, we'll all be ash."
Renn's knuckles clenched on his sword. He rose and bellowed, voice raw, "You all saw him! You saw what he did! No priest, no knight, no god blocked his path! Why speak in whispers like worms when fire made us men again?"
The whispers ceased, eyes upon him.
The outlaw with the scar — the same one who had challenged Renn in the test — spat on the earth. "You speak boldly, boy. But courage melts quickly when there are armies coming. You believe he'll save you once more? He couldn't even rescue half our brothers."
Renn's blade came up of its own accord. "He'll save us all. Watch."
The outlaw sneered and stood. "You'll die first then, cub."
But before steel clashed against steel, Lioran's voice cracked through the yard like a thunderclap.
"Enough."
Everyone stilled.
He stood on the stairway, cloak streaming in the wind, eyes like liquid ash.
"The next man who draws steel on his brother," he said, his tone cold and deadly, "will fuel the fire himself."
No one moved. The only noise was the sizzle of torches.
Lioran gazed over them — broken men, but his men. His army.
"Steel does not build empires. Fire does. And fire devours division."
He turned away, his voice fading into the wind. "We march soon."
....
Mira's Plea
When the courtyard emptied, Mira climbed the tower steps. Her hands trembled with every rung.
She found Lioran alone, standing by the parapet, staring at the dragon sleeping below.
"You'll march again?" she asked softly.
He didn't look at her. "I must. The duke will not stop. Neither can I."
"You can." She advanced on him. "You can stop it before it consumes you. You fought hard, but war won't fill what ails you. It will only empty you more."
He spun around then, the gray of his eyes as unforgiving as metal. "You don't get it. The world bows to power alone. And every time I fail, another burns. I can't cease."
"You're mistaken," she breathed. "The boy I raised thought fire was for warmth, not destruction."
Lioran's mouth clamped tight. For an instant, the ember's whisper trembled — usurped by recollection. A house. Laughter. A life before dying.
But then the ember roared back to life, scorching his mind.
"The boy you raised perished," he told her harshly. "And I can't afford to grieve him."
Mira's eyes welled up. "Then I'll grieve him for both of us."
She spun away, shawl shaking in the breeze.
Lioran stood staring after her, and for a moment, the ember's light faltered.
...
Kaelen's Oath
Deep in the south, Kaelen knelt before the duke's pavilion. Armor still blackened from fighting, face streaked with soot.
Duke Rhaemond stared at him from the map table, face as sharp as a blade. "You saw him again?"
Kaelen nodded. "He grows, my lord. His power… it's not natural. His dragon bleeds and still burns. His fire resists even holy flame."
Rhaemond leaned forward. "And yet you live. You should have finished it."
Kaelen's lips twisted into a grim smile. "No, my lord. I should earn it. That boy's not prey anymore — he's rival. When he burns bright enough, I'll be the one to snuff him out.
Rhaemond studied him, then gestured to the priest standing in the corner — the High Purifier, his eyes pale as frost.
"Prepare the sanctified fire," the duke ordered. "If mortal flame cannot end him, we'll call upon the god's breath itself."
The priest bowed low. "The cleansing will begin."
Kaelen rose, his grin widening. "Then let the dragon rise. And let me be the storm that kills him."
...
Whispers and Schemes
Inside the fortress, the Flamebound converged in the smoldering remains of the banquet hall — what had once perhaps been a lord's court, now charred and thick with smoke.
Renn stood at the periphery, listening.
The burned outlaw leaned against a group of men, voice low. "He ain't one of us. You witnessed the fire. You witnessed how it addressed him. When gods turn their gaze upon a man, he ceases to be man."
A grunted. "You'd betray him?"
"Betrayal," the burned one replied. "Survival. When the duke's army comes back, we'll have to decide. Serve flame… or live.
Renn's eyes narrowed. His hand rested on his knife.
He moved out of the shadows and ran directly to Lioran's tower.
...
The Warning
Lioran stood at the parapet again when Renn came bursting in, breathing hard.
"They're discussing," Renn panted. "Some of them intend to depart. Some worse."
Lioran slowly turned, eyes dimly glowing. "Worse?"
"They believe… they believe to trade you in. To the duke."
Silence.
The spark within him ignited — a vicious thrum that lit his veins with dim orange.
"Who?" he murmured.
Renn hesitated. "The one who is scarred is their leader. But—"
Lioran cut him off. "Enough." He raised his hand. The air grew hot and heavy. "Fire does not wait for treachery to strike. It purifies before the smoke begins to rise."
He strode past Renn, his footsteps ringing like thunder. Renn trailed behind, his heart racing.
They descended to the courtyard, where men sat muttering by the fires.
When they saw Lioran, they froze.
He stopped before the scarred outlaw, who met his gaze with defiance.
"You think fire will spare you?" the man sneered. "You think you're god?"
Lioran's voice was ice. "No god spares fire."
He raised his hand. Flame erupted, devouring the man before a scream could escape. The others staggered back, horror-struck.
The stench of charred flesh lay thick.
Lioran faced them all, eyes two coals. "Fire burns treachery. Do not forget that."
He went away without speaking.
Renn watched him go, hands shaking.
Kyrris's deep voice came from the darkness: "He learns. But the lesson wounds deeply."
.....
The Ember's Voice
That evening, Lioran sat by himself in his room, walls cracked and charred.
The ember beat harder now, its light lighting up his ribs like veins of fire.
"You were good," it breathed. "Fire must destroy weakness. Only ashes construct empires."
Lioran's breaths grew slow. "They did not trust me. They put all in danger."
"They proved you," the voice answered. "And now, none will do so again."
He gazed at his burned fingers. "How many more will burn before peace arrives?"
The ember glowed, soft and pitiless. "Peace is the deception spoken by ashes. Burn, Draven. Burn until there is nothing left to oppose you."
For a while, he just sat, unmoving. And then he got up, going over to the window, looking out toward the southern plains.
The red glow of the distant camps showed through the darkness — the duke's army marching on.
And Lioran Vale — Dragon Lord reborn — spoke softly:
"Then let the fire spread."