Whispers in the Camp
The duke's pavilion smelled of wine and leather, but underneath—barely perceptible—lurked the acrid stench of fear.
Rhaemond stood before his war table, hands braced on its edge, staring at the carved pieces representing his forces. Beside him, the map showed Blackspire as a small black stone, insignificant. Yet it had cost him three hundred men.
"He refused." The duke's voice was dangerously soft.
Kaelen leaned against a support beam, cleaning blood from beneath his fingernails. "Of course he did. The boy's not stupid. He knows single combat is a trap."
"Then we storm the walls at dawn. Overwhelming force. I want that fortress flattened and the boy in chains by midday." Rhaemond's fist struck the table. "I want his dragon's head on a pike."
The Pure Flame priest stepped from the shadows, his pale eyes catching torchlight like ice. "My lord, if I may—the boy grows stronger with each battle. The ember inside him. it feeds on conflict. Storm the walls, and you'll only forge him harder."
"What would you suggest?" Rhaemond's tone dripped with contempt. "More prayers? Your white fire couldn't even scratch him yesterday."
The priest's jaw tightened. "Because he's not fighting alone anymore. The dragon's soul has merged with his own. They're becoming something. unprecedented." He paused. "But there are other ways to break a flame. Ways that don't require steel."
Kaelen's head lifted, interest flickering in his eyes. "Go on."
"Every fire needs fuel," the priest said slowly. "Remove the fuel, and even the hottest flame dies. The boy draws strength from his followers—their belief, their fear, their devotion. Strip that away."
Rhaemond's expression shifted. "You want to turn them against him."
"I want to show them what he truly is. What he's becoming." The priest moved to the tent opening, gazing toward Blackspire's distant silhouette. "The people in that fortress aren't warriors. They're desperate outlaws clinging to hope. Show them their hope is a monster, and they'll tear him apart themselves."
Kaelen pushed off the beam, smiling. "I like it. But how do you show them? The boy's already burned anyone who doubted."
The priest turned, and his smile was colder than his eyes. "We give him a choice he can't hide from. A test that reveals his true nature to everyone watching."
….
The Stranger at the Gate
Dawn broke gray and heavy over Blackspire. Lioran stood on the wall, watching the duke's camp stir to life, when Renn's voice cut through the morning stillness.
"Someone's coming. Alone."
Lioran's eyes narrowed. Not a herald this time—the figure walked with difficulty, stumbling over the scorched earth. As it drew closer, he saw it was a woman, hands bound, a white cloth tied around her throat.
Behind her, just within bowshot, a line of the duke's archers waited.
The woman collapsed twenty paces from the gate. Her voice carried, cracked and desperate: "Please! They said if I delivered their message, they'd let me go!"
Lioran felt the ember pulse warningly. This was a trap. Obviously a trap.
Yet behind him, he heard the Flamebound murmuring. Saw Mira move toward the gate, her face stricken with compassion.
"It's a trick," he said flatly.
The woman sobbed. "I have children! They're holding my children!"
Mira stopped, her hand on the gate bar. She looked back at Lioran, and her eyes held an accusation sharper than any blade. "She's innocent."
"She's bait."
"She's a mother."
The word hung between them like smoke.
Lioran descended the wall slowly, each step measured. He could feel the eyes of his followers on him—judging, measuring. The ember whispered urgently: Weakness. They'll see weakness.
He reached the gate. Through the gaps in the broken wood, he could see the woman clearly now. Mid-thirties, hollow-cheeked, terror written in every line of her body. Real terror. Not the practiced fear of a spy.
"What's the message?" he called.
She fumbled with a scroll at her belt, hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it. "They said—they said if you read this and answer, they'll free me and my daughters. Please, I'm begging you—"
An arrow thudded into the ground three feet from her. She shrieked.
"Read it!" a distant voice commanded. Kaelen's voice.
The woman unrolled the scroll with trembling fingers. Her voice broke as she read:
"To the boy who calls himself Dragon Lord: We have one hundred villagers from the settlements you abandoned. For each day you hide behind broken walls, we execute ten. Starting at sunset today. The first will be children—sons and daughters of farmers who gave you bread, of mothers who prayed for you. Their blood will water the ground you scorched. We will make you watch. Come out and face judgment, or be remembered as the coward who let innocents burn in his place."
Silence crashed over Blackspire.
Lioran stood frozen, the ember in his chest suddenly cold. He could feel it—the shift in the air, the doubt spreading like poison through his followers.
"They're lying," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
The woman was weeping openly now. "Please, I've delivered the message. Please let me go—"
Another arrow. This one struck her shoulder. She screamed, collapsing.
Mira lunged for the gate. "We have to—"
"No." Lioran's hand caught her wrist. "It's what they want. Open that gate, and we're all dead."
"She's dying!"
"She's already dead!" The words came out harsher than he intended. "Can't you see? They'll kill her whether we open the gate or not. This isn't mercy—it's theater."
"Then what are you?" Mira wrenched free, her voice rising. "If you let her die, if you let those children die—what does that make you?"
The Flamebound were watching. Listening. Lioran could feel their faith wavering like a candle flame in wind.
The ember pulsed: They must see strength. Show them strength.
But when he looked at the woman bleeding in the dirt, at Mira's tear-stained face, at Renn's carefully neutral expression that hid disappointment—
For the first time since awakening in this frail body, Lioran didn't know what the Dragon Lord would do.
.
The Third Path
"There's another way."
The voice came from the shadows of the gatehouse. A figure stepped into the light—gaunt, weathered, one of the older Flamebound. He'd been a soldier once, before desertion and desperation had driven him north.
"Speak," Lioran said.
The man gestured to the distant treeline. "The duke's camp sits against the Blackwood. Dense forest, runs for miles. If we could flank them—small group, fast and quiet—we could reach those prisoners before sunset."
"Suicide," another Flamebound muttered.
"Maybe," the old soldier agreed. "But better than watching kids hang while we hide."
Lioran felt the ember recoil at the suggestion. Division. Splitting your forces weakens you.
But he also felt something else—something older than the ember, deeper than fire. A memory of Ashvale before it burned. Of Mira's hands gentle on his fevered brow. Of being someone who saved, not just destroyed.
"How many would you need?" he asked quietly.
The soldier's eyes widened—he hadn't expected agreement. "Ten. Maybe twelve. Light armor, fast blades. We'd have to move before—"
An arrow took him in the throat.
He dropped without a sound, blood pooling on ancient stone. More arrows hissed through the gate gaps, forcing everyone back. In the chaos, no one noticed the woman outside had stopped screaming.
When the volley ceased, she lay still, three arrows in her back.
Kaelen's voice drifted across the killing ground: "Sunset, boy! We'll be waiting!"
Lioran stood over the soldier's body, watching blood seep between stones. The ember raged inside him, demanding fire, demanding vengeance.
But for the first time, he pushed back against it.
"Renn," he said quietly. "Gather twelve volunteers. Fast ones. Tell them." He paused, choosing words carefully. "Tell them the Dragon Lord asks, but doesn't command. This is their choice."
Renn stared at him. "You're letting them go?"
"I'm letting them try." Lioran met his gaze. "Fire consumes. But maybe—" He looked at Mira, who stood with hands over her mouth, staring at the dead woman. "—maybe it can illuminate too."
The ember screamed in protest, but he ignored it.
For the first time since his rebirth, Lioran chose mercy over flame.
And in the duke's distant pavilion, the priest smiled.
"Now," he whispered, "we'll see what he truly values. His power—or his soul."
The trap was set. The serpent waited.
And sunset was six hours away.