Talen had always dreamed of dragons.
Not the kind that soared through golden skies in tales sung by bards, but the real ones—the ones with eyes like dying stars and breath that turned stone to ash. He saw them every night in his sleep, coiled around thrones of bones, whispering names he almost remembered.
And now, they were coming for him in waking life.
The village of Eldenmere lay behind him in smoldering silence. Smoke curled into the gray sky like ghostly fingers, reaching for the heavens that refused to answer prayers. Homes reduced to cinders. Fields scorched black. People gone.
All because of the dragon.
He stood at the edge of the ruin, sword slung across his back, cloak wrapped tight against the cold wind that carried the scent of fire and death. His boots were still caked in soot from the last village. And the one before that.
They said Vorathax was growing stronger.
Hungrier.
No one knew where it would strike next.
But Talen did.
It would be here.
It always came back to the beginning.
"Talen."
He turned at the sound of his name, voice soft but weighted with worry. Kaela stood behind him, arms crossed over her chest, eyes sharp beneath the hood of her traveling cloak.
"You don't have to go," she said.
He looked out over the horizon, where the mountains loomed like ancient gods waiting to judge the worth of men.
"I do," he replied. "Before it comes back."
She stepped forward, placing a small charm in his palm—a carved wolf's head, worn smooth by time.
"For luck," she whispered.
He gave her a faint smile.
"I won't need it."
Then he turned and walked away, toward the road that led to the mountain, toward the destiny no one else dared follow.
Toward the dragon.