Eight years had passed since the War of Ashes ended.
The great battles were over, but the world had not healed.
In the small, isolated village of Oakhaven, life was simple, hard, and often short. Nestled between the Shadowed Woods and the Stone River, the village was far from the glittering capitals and dragon-haunted peaks where history was written. Here, people cared more about the harvest than about kings or ancient wars.
And here, in a small wooden hut with a moss-covered roof, lived Arin and the woman he called mother.
The morning sun filtered weakly through the pine trees as Arin stepped outside. The air was cool, carrying the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke. He wore a patched tunic and trousers too short for his growing legs. His feet were bare and calloused.
"Arin! Don't forget the kindling!" Elara called from inside.
"I won't, Mama."
He grabbed the worn wooden bucket near the door and set off toward the edge of the forest. This was his chore each morning — to gather dry twigs and fallen branches for the cooking fire. They couldn't afford to buy wood from the loggers, so the forest provided.
As he walked, his dark hair — with its strange, silvery streaks — fell across his eyes. He pushed it back absently. He was used to the stares it sometimes drew from village children. "Storm-haired," they whispered when they thought he couldn't hear.
Near the stream, he found his only real friend: Lira, the daughter of the village potter. She was sharp, kind, and never asked about his hair or his quietness.
"You're late," she said, not looking up from the small clay figure she was shaping by the water.
"Had to fix the hinge on the door again," Arin replied, starting to gather twigs.
Lira nodded. Her family wasn't rich, but they had a trade. Arin and Elara had nothing but Elara's skill with herbs and sewing.
"My father says the River Guard came through last night," Lira said softly. "They were asking about dragon-sign near the old ruins."
Arin's hands stilled. Dragon-sign. Even here, so far from the mountains, the fear of dragons lingered. The war was over, but hatred and suspicion were a slow poison in the soil.
"Did they find anything?" Arin asked.
"No. But they took Old Man Hem's chicken. Said it was a 'tax for protection.'" Lira's voice was bitter.
Arin said nothing. This was the way of the world. The strong took from the weak. He'd seen it his whole life.
While gathering wood deep among the tall pines, Arin felt a sudden, strange pull — a warmth in his chest. He followed it to a small clearing where a great oak tree stood, its bark scarred by lightning.
At its base, nestled among the roots, was a single, pure white flower. It glowed faintly in the dim light.
Arin knelt. He felt a deep calm here. A silence that felt… alive.
Without thinking, he reached out and touched one of the tree's scars. A jolt, like a spark, traveled up his arm. For a single, dizzying moment, he wasn't in the forest.
*He was soaring through clouds, the wind roaring in his ears. Below him, a world of fire and glory. A voice, deep and sorrowful, echoed in his mind: "Remember the sky, my son." *
He stumbled back, his heart hammering. The vision was gone. The flower still glowed. The forest was silent.
Shaken, he finished gathering the wood and hurried back to the village, the strange words echoing in his mind.
That night, as a cold drizzle began to fall, Arin sat by the hearth, helping Elara sort herbs.
"Mama," he began quietly, "do dragons… dream?"
Elara's hands stilled. She looked at him, her eyes filled with a complex emotion — love, fear, and a deep, enduring sadness.
"Why do you ask, my heart?"
"I don't know. I just… wondered."
Elara put down the herbs and pulled her shawl tighter. "The priests say dragons have no souls. That they are beasts of fire and instinct." She looked into the low flames. "But the old stories… the ones my grandmother told… they spoke of dragon-lords who could speak to the stars and remember the birth of rivers."
She looked back at him, her gaze intense. "But those are just stories, Arin. Old, forgotten stories. It's best not to repeat them."
Arin nodded, but he didn't miss the fear in her eyes. He knew, then, that his question had frightened her. He didn't understand why, but he vowed not to frighten her again.
As he lay in his cot that night, listening to the rain on the roof, the words returned to him.
"Remember the sky."
He didn't know what they meant. He didn't know who had spoken them.
But for the first time, he felt a longing for something vast, something wild, something lost.
And deep in the shadows of the room, unnoticed by anyone, the faintest shimmer — like invisible scales — brushed across his skin as he slept.