Chapter Three – Embers in Ash
Ashmir Temple sat quiet beneath the burning sky, its towers long fallen, its statues of dragonkind broken and headless. What once echoed with flame chants now held only dust, silence, and two women who had no right to still be alive.
Serenya Dravari, the last blood-born daughter of a slain line, watched the wind whip through the cracked arches. Her hands, callused and scar-scored, rested on the altar that had once crowned kings. She stared at the symbols etched into it—flame, fang, wing—and said, "They think the fire died with us."
Maerys the Ash-Born moved like a shadow behind her, always barefoot, always listening. Her robes were blackened at the sleeves, one arm wrapped in silk to cover the burn that marked her skin from wrist to shoulder.
"They think wrong," Maerys said. She knelt beside the altar and laid down a bundle wrapped in rough linen. With slow care, she peeled back the cloth.
Four dragon eggs gleamed in the dim light—one black as obsidian, one crimson like dry blood, one gold-veined and cracked, and one the pale blue of a dying flame.
Serenya's breath caught. Even after seeing them for months, they still didn't feel real.
"You took these," she whispered. "From the royal treasure vault. Before the slaughter."
Maerys nodded. "The fire spoke to me. Told me where to go."
"And they've done… nothing."
"They sleep." Maerys traced her fingers over the black egg. "And no one knows why."
"The last dragon to rise with a Dravari rider was nearly two hundred years ago," she said. "Since then… the blood has thinned. The magic waned. The fire forgot."
Serenya stepped closer, eyes fixed on the eggs. "But I have the blood. You said so."
"You do. But fire remembers betrayal."
They sat together in silence for a while, the kind of silence that only grief and purpose can hold.
Then Maerys spoke again.
"We go north."
Serenya turned sharply. "Why?"
"To the ruins of Varlund Keep. There are still those who remember your house. Exiles. Mercenaries. Broken lords. They drink too much and whisper about old flames."
"You think they'll rise for me?"
"No," Maerys said. "But they'll rise for vengeance. For hope. For dragons, if they see them."
Serenya folded her arms. "They haven't hatched."
Maerys smiled. "But they're watching. They'll hatch when one of them decides you're worthy."
Serenya frowned. "And if none do?"
Maerys placed the black egg back into its linen wrapping.
"Then you die. And with you, the fire goes out forever."
Serenya touched the altar once more, then stood.
"Then I'll become what they fear. The girl who escaped their blades. The princess who never burned. And when they come for me…"
"I'll show them what's left in the ashes."
[POV SHIFT – The North]
Kaelen's blade snapped upward, catching his brother's strike just before it landed against his ribs.
Torren grinned. "You're too quick with the left."
"And you're too slow on the feints," Kaelen shot back.
They circled each other in the training yard, swords flashing in the cold light. Snow drifted down in lazy spirals. Nearby, Thorne and Frostjaw watched like silent judges.
Torren attacked again—this time a series of tight, controlled swings. Kaelen dodged, countered, and swept his leg, but Torren braced and rolled instead of falling. He came back up smiling.
"I'm still better."
Kaelen wiped his brow. "You're still heir."
"That too."
They stood for a moment, breathing heavily, frost fogging from their lips.
"Do you ever wish you were?" Torren asked suddenly.
Kaelen blinked. "Wish I was what?"
"Heir. Born with the name, not just the blood."
Kaelen shrugged. "I don't think Father does."
Torren looked down at the snow. "He does. But it's a dangerous thing—loving a son you're not supposed to name."
[Later – Council Chamber of Frosthall]
Lord Ceyric stood at the war table, a half-unfurled map before him.
King Halric had removed his heavy cloak, revealing a red surcoat marked with his house's golden falcon. His expression was grim.
"She still lives," the King said. "Serenya Dravari. And she's not hiding anymore."
"Where?" Ceyric asked.
"Avaren," said Master Veyr, leaning forward with ink-stained fingers. "In the ruins of a flame temple, near the Ashmir cliffs. She travels with a woman known as the Ash-Born."
Ceyric didn't blink. "The fire cults are dead."
"Some of them," Veyr said. "But not all. This one—Maerys—was in the palace the day we took it. She disappeared with a wagon of relics. And the girl."
The King's jaw tightened. "Reports say she carries dragon eggs."
The room went silent.
"That's impossible," Ceyric said.
Halric turned. "Would you stake your children's lives on that?"
Torren, seated at his father's right, stiffened.
Kaelen stood at the rear of the chamber, arms crossed, silent as always.
"Do you want her dead?" Ceyric asked.
"I want her stopped," Halric growled. "I want her erased."