The Gathering Storm
The dawn seeped chill over the northern hills.
Mist wrapped around the shattered spires of the fortress like spirits on bone. In the valley below, movement crept — tents being set up, banners flying, a glint of armor catching the wan sun.
The duke's army had come.
Trumpets sounded on the southern plain.
The stag pennants of Rhaemond flapped in rows upon rows of warriors — pikes like a sea of iron, siege towers thundering on creaking wheels. Ahead of them, the duke himself rode under a helm black-antlered, Kaelen at his side, the Pure Flame priests marching in somber cadence.
From the battlements, Renn watched the army spread across the horizon until it blotted out the earth. His stomach turned to stone.
"They're countless," he murmured. "We can't hold that."
Beside him, Lioran's cloak flared in the wind. His eyes shone faintly gray-gold, distant, unreadable.
"We'll hold," he said. "Fire never asks how many logs lie before it."
Renn swallowed. He'd like to trust him — he did trust him — but deep down under the wonder there was fear. The same flame that protected them could one day engulf them.
Down below, the Flamebound prepared: oil drenched along the gates, rags-wrapped arrows, the wounded with spears to die on their feet.
And in the courtyard, Kyrris lifted its head, low, thunderous growl that rolled across the valley.
...
The Duke's Demand
A single herald came from the opposing forces, a white flag blackened at the fringes. He stopped before the gate of the fortress, voice thundering through a horn.
"By command of Duke Rhaemond, Warden of the North — yield the witch-born boy and his monstrosity, and the others will live! Resist, and your remains will nourish the earth!
The men grumbled against the walls. Some lowered their bows; some tightened them. Mira stood with them, shawl pulled tight, face waxy.
Lioran emerged onto the wall walk. The wind whipped his hair as he gazed down at the herald. "Inform your duke," he shouted, "the earth already dines enough. But if he craves ash—"
He raised his hand.
A thin stream of fire shot from his hand, hitting the banner. The herald shrieked as horse and rider were consumed by fire. Smoke writhed heavenward where peace had flown.
Lioran's voice came last, quiet and absolute.
"Then come and eat."
The Flamebound bellowed. Their terror blazed into frenzy.
Mira shut her eyes. "Gods help us."
.....
The First Strike
The duke replied by noon.
Siege towers groaned toward the walls, shields interlocked in their shadow. Priests from the back ranks lifted staves, chanting. A pale, burning light filled the air.
"White fire!" Renn bellowed. "Get down!"
The initial blast struck the walls like crashing stars. Melted stone, bursting mortar, men screamed off the parapets. The fortress shook as a divine fire rained down on it.
Lioran stumbled but did not tumble. His chest seared as the ember flared viciously, responding to challenge with challenge. He stretched out both arms, and scarlet fire burst from his palms, colliding with the falling light.
The heavens tore apart — white and red crashing together, screaming like rent heavens. Sparks descended in sheets, igniting the parched grass about the valley.
Kyrris burst into the air, wings glowing in the sunlight. A roar ripped the clouds asunder. The dragon's fire coursed along the siege line, engulfing one of the towers in molten destruction. Screams pierced the cacophony of battle.
But even as the men died, others advanced, their belief strengthened by fear.
Kaelen stood on the southern ridge, raising his sword, shouting over the battle.
"Forward! Drive them into their own fire!"
The stag banners moved forward.
...
Fire on the Walls
Hours of blood and smoke.
Blackspire's walls burned red, blackening under relentless battering. Men clashed with burnt hands, hurling tar and arrows. The air was so hot that it glowed like a forge.
Renn battled among them, knife wet with blood, heart pounding. Beside him the Flamebound yelled Lioran's name as if prayer, not command.
"Dragon Lord! Dragon Lord!"
Out of the tower, Lioran replied to their belief. His frame was shaking now, veins radiating dimly beneath his skin. With each application of the ember, it felt heavier, each inhalation akin to breathing from a furnace that would eventually explode.
He spat fire into the line of the foe until his sight was hazy.
Priests' incantations pounded his head — their white light breaking holes in his flame.
He bit hard until his mouth was full of blood. No god orders fire. Fire belongs to me.
He outstretched his arms, and the walls themselves exhaled flame. A tide of heat rolled outward, curving arrows in mid-air, igniting siege ladders before they reached stone.
The duke's men shattered against it like waves on rock.
Still, the ember cried out for more.
...
Mira's Stand
In the midst of chaos, Mira dashed through smoke and debris, half-dragging the injured towards cover. Her lungs were seared; her shawl had snagged at the hems, but she would not relinquish it.
"Here! Hurry!" she shouted to two men who bore an injured comrade.
They lowered the body beside the chapel ruins, gasping for breath. The odor of charred flesh hung in the air. Mira ripped strips of cloth from her dress to bind a wound, her fingers trembling.
A blast shook the earth. Dust poured down from above. She gazed upward to see Lioran standing on the wall, haloed by flames. He seemed not of this world, his skin aglow, his eyes burning like twin coals of a dying sun.
Her heart constricted.
"That is not my son," she breathed. "That is something else in his skin."
And yet… she couldn't turn her eyes away.
He was handsome. Horrible. Like the gods she used to pray to — before she discovered they were deaf.
...
The Knight and the Dragon
As the evening drew on, Kaelen parted from the line, thundering across the charred field on horseback. His armor was darkened but shining under the light of burning towers.
A detachment followed him, shields raised, forming a wedge.
"Now!" he bellowed. "While he bleeds!"
The group stormed through the broken gate.
Lioran spun, weariness dulling his wits, and spied the white-feathered helm. Awareness sliced through fog like a sword.
"Kaelen."
Kaelen's mount reared. His sword flashed in the firelight. "We finish here!"
He sprang from the saddle as Kyrris descended, jaws agape. Kaelen rolled aside, his blade scraping scales, slashing deep into the dragon's wing joint. Kyrris shrieked, lashing tail; the knight dodged once more, sparks flying from stone.
"Quicker now, little lord!" Kaelen mocked, moving on Lioran. "Demonstrate to me the flame that slew gods!"
Lioran trembled, with smoke curling from his fingertips. The ember in him seethed so intensely he could hardly draw breath.
"Ask," he croaked, "and burn."
He flung out both hands.
Flame burst.
Kaelen disappeared in it — but then emerged again, cloak burning, sword high. He struck, the blade red-hot. Lioran grabbed the edge with bare hands. Flesh crackled. He screamed, half man, half dragon.
Kyrris lunged again, tail smashing through the gatehouse, sending rubble and men flying. Kaelen was flung back, sliding across the blood-soaked stones. He rose slowly, laughing, blood running from a split in his cheek.
"Yes," he gasped. "That's it. Now we're worthy."
Before Lioran could reply, horns blared — the retreat signal. The duke's army was pulling back, the night too fierce, too bright with dragonfire.
Kaelen wiped his lips and stepped back, grinning. "Until dawn, boy. Let's see who has the stronger flame."
He disappeared into smoke.
.....
The Night of Cinders
The siege relented as night consumed the field. The duke's men retreated to their camps, nursing their wounded. The priests' white fire smoldered to embers.
In Blackspire, stillness hung — interrupted only by moans of the dying and crackle of smoldering walls.
Renn leaned against the parapet, too weary to stand. His knife dangled lifeless in his hand. "We lived," he whispered. "Somehow, we lived."
Mira crouched over a dying man, praying words she no longer believed.
And they were both watched by Lioran, who stood atop the tallest tower, gazing into the fiery night.
Kyrris hobbled to his side, trailing one wing. "They will come back," the dragon whispered.
"I know," Lioran said. "And next time, I'll be ready."
The ember pulsed inside him, stronger, louder — almost alive. They come to end you. End them first.
Lioran's lips curved into a faint, weary smile. "Tomorrow, the world learns what it means to fight fire."
Far below, thunder rolled — not from clouds, but from drums. The duke's army was preparing again.
And above them, in Blackspire's shattered tower, the Dragon Lord's fire would not be extinguished.