Dawn crept across the ruins of Ashvale like a wounded beast — slow, limping, and pale. Smoke still curled from the blackened rooftops, rising into the colorless sky. Elijah stood at the edge of what had once been the village square, his cloak heavy with ash. The fires had died, but the silence burned deeper.


He had spent the night searching for survivors. There were none. Not a voice, not a footstep, only the faint hiss of smoldering timbers. Yet somehow, in the heart of ruin, he felt watched — not by men, but by something older.


He crouched by a shattered well, washing soot from his hands. The water rippled faintly, even though there was no wind. When he looked closer, his reflection wavered — for a heartbeat, his eyes glowed faintly gold, like molten metal. He blinked and the vision vanished, leaving him shaken.


“Elijah…” The whisper returned, softer this time, almost mournful.

He froze. “Who are you?”

But the voice faded into the crackle of cooling embers.


He needed answers. The only one who might still have them was the village elder, Ardan — a man older than the stones, who had lived on the outskirts where the forest met the hills. If anyone knew what the falling fire meant, it was him.


Elijah set out toward Ardan’s hut, the pendant warm against his chest.



---


The forest was strange that morning. The trees, once green and full of songbirds, now stood silent and scorched at the edges. Ash drifted like snow, and beneath it lay tracks — not human ones. Long, deep grooves, as though something massive had dragged its claws through the earth.


He followed the trail, heart hammering, until the trees thinned and the old hut came into view. Its roof had caved in, but the door still hung crookedly on one hinge. Elijah stepped inside.


The smell of herbs and smoke greeted him, faint but familiar. Candles had melted into twisted shapes across the floor. And in the corner, beneath a pile of blankets, the elder stirred.


“Ardan,” Elijah breathed, rushing to his side.


The old man’s eyes opened, dull but burning faintly red — not with life, but with something deeper. “So… you survived,” Ardan rasped. “The flame did not take you.”


“What happened here?” Elijah asked, gripping the elder’s hand. “The fire—it came from the sky.”


Ardan nodded slowly. “The Firefall. It has begun again.”


“What do you mean?”


The old man coughed, blood flecking his beard. “You’ve heard the stories. The Age of Dragons ended in blood and betrayal. When the last Dragon King fell, their kind vanished — or so we believed. But prophecies endure. The fire from the sky… it is their call. A summons. And you, Elijah… you are bound to it.”


Elijah shook his head. “Bound to what? I’m just a farmer’s son.”


“No.” Ardan’s grip tightened with surprising strength. “Your father was no farmer. He was the Keeper of Scales — protector of the last dragon flame. He hid it here, beneath Ashvale. And now, that flame has awakened… inside you.”


Elijah stepped back, stunned. “Inside me?”


“Your blood carries the mark of dragons. That is why the fire spared you. That is why you hear the voice.”


The pendant around Elijah’s neck pulsed with warmth, as if agreeing.


Ardan reached for a pouch beside him and drew out a small crystal shard — clear, but burning with light deep within. “Take this. It is part of the Dragon Sigil. The rest lies scattered across the realms. Gather them, and the dragons will rise again. Fail, and the world will drown in shadow.”


The elder’s breath grew shallow. “You must go to the Cavern of Embers… beyond the Vale of Mourn. There you will find the first flame.”


Elijah fell to his knees. “Please, come with me.”


The old man smiled faintly. “My path ends here, child. But yours… yours begins with fire.”


With a final exhale, the elder’s body turned to ash — scattering into the air like smoke, leaving only the glowing crystal behind.


Elijah stood in stunned silence. The hut was dim, save for the light in his palm. The pendant burned hotter against his chest, and for the first time, he saw faint patterns forming along his skin — glowing lines like scales beneath the flesh.


He looked toward the forest again, toward the mountains rising far beyond.


“The Cavern of Embers,” he murmured.


He sheathed his sword, pocketed the crystal, and stepped back into the light of the dying day.


Behind him, the wind whispered through the ruins of Ashvale:

The dragons are waiting.