Chapter Four – Whispers and Flames
The wind over the Varlund Wastes was dry, sharp, and yellow with dust. The bones of ancient kingdoms lay buried beneath its cracked stone, and the air reeked of smoke and rusted metal. Beyond a broken wall of scorched brick, the ruined outpost of Varlund slouched beneath a dying sun.
Serenya Dravari rode her thin desert horse like a banner on the breeze—copper hair loose, hood lowered, eyes glowing with the red-gold light of dusk. She wore no crown, no silks. Only a simple tunic and travel cloak, stained with ash and salt. She looked like a refugee.
Only her eyes betrayed the fire inside her.
Maerys the Ash-Born walked beside her, barefoot as always, her black robes sweeping the sand behind her like shadow trails. A bundle of cloth wrapped across her back—the dragon eggs hidden within.
Varlund was barely a town. A scattering of stone houses, burned taverns, and half-rebuilt watchtowers surrounded a crooked central square. Fire-scarred faces turned to watch them arrive: mercenaries, deserters, failed lords, thieves. And men who once swore fealty to dead kings.
"I thought you said they remembered," Serenya murmured, surveying the unfriendly glares.
"They do," Maerys said. "They just don't believe yet."
At the far end of the square, leaning against a ruined column, stood a man in patchwork armor. His helm sat at his feet, revealing a face lined by old burns and silver-streaked hair. A deep scar curled from the corner of his left eye to his jaw.
Garran Duskfall. Once knight-captain of House Velderan. Now just another exile.
He looked at Serenya like a man watching a match fall toward oil.
"You the fire girl?" he called.
"I'm the last Dravari," she replied.
"That supposed to mean something?"
Serenya didn't flinch. "It will."
He spat into the dirt. "Prove it."
Maerys stepped forward slowly. She reached into her cloak and unwrapped the smallest of the four eggs—the crimson one, hairline-cracked and glowing faintly beneath the setting sun. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Garran's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, then stopped a pace away, as if something unseen warned him not to take one more step.
"She stole them," Maerys said calmly. "From the vault where her father's bones still smolder. She fled while the palace burned. And she's kept them warm ever since."
"They haven't hatched," Garran said.
"No," Serenya said. "Not yet."
He looked her over again—more carefully this time. Not with the stare of a soldier sizing up a threat, but of a man measuring fire from too close.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I want to reclaim the crown they stole from me," Serenya said. "I want to show the world what the Marrans buried. And I want to make the flame rise again."
"And if I follow you?"
"You'll burn with me," she said. "Or rise beside me."
Later that night, they camped on the outskirts of the ruins, where the wind was quieter and the stars stretched cold across the sky. Maerys knelt by the fireless pit, feeding dried herbs into a bowl of black sand.
Serenya crouched beside her. "Do you think he'll help?"
"He's already deciding. You spoke like a queen. You didn't ask him to believe—you told him why he should."
Serenya lowered her voice. "I'm scared."
Maerys didn't look up. "Good. It means the fire hasn't made you foolish."
"And the eggs?"
Maerys reached back, brushing her hand over the bundle. "One stirs. Just a little. The red one. It's listening."
"To me?"
"To the world. To fire. To hunger. Dragons don't hatch because we want them to. They hatch when something demands them."
Serenya looked into the dark, her voice barely above the wind. "Then let it be me."
[POV SHIFT – Frosthall, The North]
The courtyard stones were slick with frost. Kaelen moved barefoot across them, sword in hand, sweat steaming from his skin despite the cold. Thorne watched from the edge, tail still, ears alert.
Torren stepped into the yard with a training blade in hand.
"Starting early?" he asked.
"Couldn't sleep."
Torren tossed him a waterskin. "Too many dreams or too many memories?"
"Both."
They circled, slowly. This wasn't battle—it was ritual. Brothers measuring the shape of silence between them.
"You saw Ysra with him again?" Torren asked after a few minutes.
Kaelen nodded.
Torren's blade twitched, then relaxed. "She thinks she's in love."
"She thinks she's becoming something they'll finally respect."
Torren lunged—quick, sharp—and Kaelen deflected easily.
"You don't think he loves her?" Torren asked.
"I don't think he knows how."
They trained in silence for a while, swords ringing gently against one another.
When it ended, they stood in the quiet snow, both breathing hard.
"You're leaving soon, aren't you?" Kaelen asked.
Torren nodded. "Father's sending me south—to Eldenreach. The King wants us ready to respond if there's unrest."
Kaelen sheathed his blade. "He's afraid of a girl."
Torren didn't answer at first. Then: "He's afraid of a name."
Inside, Lord Ceyric sat at a firelit table with King Halric once more. The wine between them was untouched. Master Veyr loomed nearby, always just out of reach.
"She's drawing supporters," the King said.
"She's surviving," Ceyric replied.
"With stolen eggs and a priestess who should've burned with the others."
Ceyric frowned. "And if she hatches them?"
Halric met his gaze directly. "Then dragons will rise again—and the realm will burn from both ends."
"I won't send assassins," Ceyric said flatly.
"Then I will," Halric said.
"And what if she hatches them because you force her hand?"
Halric rose. "Then I hope to the gods your wolves are ready."