The first thing he felt was cold.
It clung to his skin like frost on glass, biting and numb. Snow drifted down in slow, silent spirals from a colorless sky. He could not speak. He could not move. His body was small—fragile, weak. And his mind, blank.
Who am I?
The question echoed in his thoughts, but there was no answer. No name. No memories. Only the sting of wind and the strange weight of being alive, but not whole.
Then, above him, a shadow loomed.
A man stood there, wrapped in heavy wool and leather, snowflakes melting into his black beard. His eyes were dark, unreadable beneath thick brows, and his face—ashen, cold, and stern—looked down with a chilling smile. There was something unnatural in the stillness of that smile, something distant, like a blade just before it cuts.
The baby—he—stared back, helpless, watching the man's eyes flick upward.
A low roar split the sky.
A massive shape passed overhead, wings stretched wide as sails, scales the color of storm clouds. A dragon. The wind from its wings howled through the mountainside, kicking up flurries of snow and dust. The bearded man did not flinch. He turned slightly, and the baby saw another figure—a woman, pale, cloaked in gray, standing in the snow behind them.
Without a word, the man handed the child to her.
She took him gently. Her arms were warm.
The man turned away.
The dragon circled once, then dropped like a falling star.
Steel hissed.
He stepped forward into the open, cloak flaring behind him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
The dragon screeched—an ear-splitting sound that rattled stone and bone alike. Its eyes glowed like molten gold, and its breath steamed even in the frigid air. It lowered itself toward the earth, landing with a thunderous crash that sent cracks spidering across the frozen ground.
The two faced each other—man and beast—beneath a gray, spiraling sky.
The dragon reared its head and unleashed a blast of flame, bright and roaring.
The man did not flinch.
He drew his sword.
It came free of its sheath like ice breaking from a glacier—clean, sharp, and with a sound that stole the heat from the air. The blade gleamed pale blue, runes along its flat flickering to life as if awakened by the dragon's fire.
The fire met the man—and stopped.
Mid-air, the flames froze. They cracked and shattered into a thousand shards of glassy orange, falling harmlessly to the snow.
The sword pulsed in the man's grip.
He stepped forward slowly, deliberately.
The dragon roared again, furious, and lunged. Claws like scythes slammed into the earth where the man had been—but he was already gone, moving with uncanny speed, rolling under the blow and slashing across the dragon's leg. Ice bloomed instantly where the blade touched—crystals spreading across scale and muscle.
The dragon screeched and whipped around, tail sweeping wide. The man jumped—higher than any ordinary man could—landing atop a jagged outcrop.
Then, he spoke.
Not loudly. Not in a shout. But with quiet weight that seemed to still the wind:
"Let frost remember the name of flame."
The blade in his hand ignited—not with fire, but a burst of cold light that cast shadows like moonlight on a frozen lake.
The dragon spat another torrent of flame.
But this time, the cold came first.
A wave of freezing wind, drawn from the very breath of winter, surged from the man's sword and met the fire in a violent collision. The two forces battled in mid-air—flame pushing forward, frost pushing back—until the cold won, extinguishing the inferno in a burst of snow and steam.
The dragon roared, backing away. Its front leg was stiff with ice. One eye was dimming.
It lunged again, jaws wide.
The man leapt forward to meet it.
He landed on the dragon's head, driving the sword straight into the skull between its eyes. The beast screamed in rage and pain, thrashing, but the man held fast.
Then, with a single motion, he drew the blade down—cutting through scale, bone, and fire-born flesh.
The dragon convulsed once.
Twice.
Then, fell still.
Its body split in two, crashing to either side of the man as he stood in silence, steam rising all around him.
Its body crashed to the ground, smoke and blood staining the snow.
The baby stared from the woman's arms, eyes wide, heart racing in a body too small to hold the fear rising within.
He didn't know the man.
He didn't know the woman.
He didn't know himself.
But something deep within him—older than language, older than memory—told him this was not his beginning.
*****
The dragon's body steamed in the cold.
Its severed halves lay motionless, blood hissing against the snow where heat met frost. The bearded man stood still for a moment, sword low, breathing calm despite the violence. Without a word, he turned and walked past the woman and the baby. They followed him, wordlessly, through the snow.
Eventually, the three came upon a cave—dark, hollow, and dry. The walls were jagged but the wind didn't reach inside. A fire was made quickly. Sparks crackled into life, casting warm light onto cold stone.
For a long while, there was silence.
The baby lay swaddled in the woman's arms, his small body finally warmed by the firelight. His mind, however, stirred with unease. The man sat by the flame, eyes deep in the flickering orange glow. From his bag, he withdrew a piece of charred meat—dragon flesh, the child somehow knew.
*****
The dragon's body lay in two massive halves, steaming in the snow like a fallen god.
Its scales shimmered gold even in death—dull now, but still majestic, each one the size of a man's hand, edged in black where the ice had bitten through. Its wings, once vast enough to darken the sky, were crumpled like torn banners, folding into the earth with broken grace.
Boiling blood poured from the wound that split it, thick and luminous, searing the snow as it flowed—until it met the man's blade.
Where the sword came close, the blood stopped bubbling.
It hissed, cracked, and turned to brittle crystal. Frozen veins branched through the dragon's flesh like lightning captured in ice. Steam rose where heat met cold, but the frost always won.
The bearded man knelt by the corpse.
He set his sword in the snow beside him—its runes still faintly glowing—and drew a smaller blade from beneath his cloak. It was jagged and dark, shaped like volcanic glass: obsidian, old and sharp enough to whisper through bone.
With calm precision, he cut into the dragon's side.
Its golden flesh resisted at first, dense with heat and muscle, but the obsidian slid through—guided not by force, but experience. He carved slowly, methodically, removing slabs of meat while the woman watched silently, the child resting in her arms.
From his belt, the man withdrew a small pouch and placed a single item inside: a tooth, long and curved like a dagger, still warm to the touch.
Only one.
Then he stood.
The fire behind his eyes had not faded.
******
'He took one of its teeth,' the baby thought suddenly. The memory was clear. 'Just one. Why only one?'
The question puzzled him. It shouldn't have mattered—he was a child, barely even that. And yet his thoughts moved with clarity beyond his years.
Was I... someone?A saint? A mage? A king reborn?No... Something else.
The thoughts faded as hunger returned. The woman shifted, adjusting her cloak, and guided him gently toward her chest. He hesitated, then instinct took over. He tried to nurse, but only a few drops came. Not enough.
She frowned, not in frustration, but sorrow.
Then, slowly, she leaned toward the man by the fire and pressed her head against his chest. Her hair fell like a curtain of night against his cloak. The firelight danced across her tired face.
The man placed a hand on her back and said, in a voice deep and worn—but not unkind:
"Eat."
Just one word. But it carried warmth.
She nodded and took a piece of the meat. As she bit into it, her face—drawn and pale—began to change.
The meat was dense—muscle forged by flight and fire. Her teeth struggled against it. It was dry, sinewy, and laced with lingering heat, as if the dragon's spirit still clung to it.
It hurt to chew.
But she did not stop.
She bit again, jaw tightening, and swallowed. Not for flavor. Not for satisfaction. But because it was food—and they were still alive.
The man watched her, his expression unreadable, though the firelight softened the hard lines of his face.
The child lay quiet in her arms, his eyes wide, absorbing everything. The warmth of the fire. The taste of milk that barely came. The scent of smoke and blood. The woman's heartbeat, steady now.
Her expression softened, color returned to her cheeks, and the light in her eyes flickered back.
The baby watched her, and something within him stirred. A warmth not of the fire, not of the meat, but of something older.
This woman... she is my mother.
His gaze shifted to the man, still watching the fire, silent and grim.
And he... is my father.
And for the first time since he opened his eyes in this strange, cold world—
He did not feel alone.