The sky bled fire on the night the egg was born.
High above the towering peaks of Draconhold, the ancient capital of the Dragonkin, the twin moons of Aerth crossed paths in perfect alignment. A Veil Eclipse, the old ones called it a rare celestial omen — feared and revered — when moonlight turned to blood and the heavens watched in silence.
Below that red-lit sky, deep within the Flameheart Cradle, a vast chamber carved into the mountain's heart, the most sacred of events was taking place.
Queen Ysera, the Flamemother of the Realm, lay curled in the center of the sanctum. Her body — a massive, majestic form of ruby-red scales — shimmered with heat and labor-sweat. Her wings, folded tight along her sides, twitched with each breath. Talons as long as spears clenched into the obsidian beneath her, cracking stone with every contraction. She was in her True Dragon Form yet not even pain could diminish her grace.
Around her, the Flameheart Cradle pulsed with ancient magic. The blackstone floor was etched with glowing red runes. Firelanterns floated in the air, casting soft, golden light that flickered like candlelight on the cavern walls. Molten rivers flowed through carved channels that ringed the chamber, emitting steam and warmth.
Banners bearing the sigil of House Vauren — a rising flame coiled in gold — hung from the arched stone pillars. Even the air shimmered, thick with magic and the scent of ash, myrrh, and molten iron.
A dozen attendants stood at a respectful distance — healers, flamebinders, and lesser dragons — all cloaked in ceremonial robes of red and silver and none dared speak that time.
Among them stood King Vauren, but not in his dragon form. He had taken on his humanoid-draconic form — a towering figure cloaked in black scale armor, his golden eyes glowing like sunfire beneath his horns. Smoke curled from his mouth as he watched in tense silence, fists clenched at his sides. Even now, his powerful frame trembled.
He had fought gods and kings… but this — this was different.
This was the birth of a flame that not seen in thousands of years.
Beside him stood High Elder Thrazir, the oldest of the Council of Wyrms. He too was in draconic-humanoid form — silver-scaled, hunched slightly with age, his left wing tattered from ancient wars. But his gaze was as sharp as ever, fixed on the Queen with reverence and worry.
Then it happened.
A sound pierced the chamber — a sharp, ringing note, like glass cracking under pressure and the magic in the air shivered.
A blast of heat rippled outward from Queen Ysera's belly, hurling several younger attendants backward. Fire curled along the floor, then vanished. The Queen arched her long neck, her eyes glowing white, and then she released one final roar.
A burst of flame erupted from her jaws, lighting the cradle in a storm of gold and crimson and from between her coils, swaddled in soft velvet flame…
An egg slid forth, not just any egg. It was Crimsonflame.
Gasps rose from the chamber.
The egg pulsed softly, as if it was alive. Its shell was a deep crimson with veins of gold, glowing faintly like molten lava beneath crystal. Flickers of fire danced across its surface — not burning it, but dancing with it. Runes shimmered along its curve, though no hand had carved them.
Every elder, every servant, every witness — even King Vauren — dropped to one knee.
Thrazir's voice broke the silence.
"Crimsonflame," he whispered. "Not seen since the age of gods…"
Ysera was exhausted, her body trembling, but her eyes never left the egg.
King Vauren stepped forward, his voice low, reverent. "It bears the mark?"
Thrazir approached slowly, claws clicking softly against stone. He knelt before the egg and exhaled a gentle stream of blue fire.
The flame curled around the shell, twisted… and rose into a spiral of ancient runes — not in dragon tongue, nor in human. It was older, Primal, and forgotten.
Thrazir paled.
He stumbled back. "Two flames…" he murmured.
Suddenly the chamber froze.
"What do you mean?" asked General Vekros, the captain of the flameguard, armored in obsidian and gold.
Thrazir turned to him, face stricken. "I mean this egg carries two souls."
Vauren's eyes narrowed. "Impossible. No dragon egg can carry two."
"One is new," Thrazir said slowly, voice shaking. "One soul is yours, born of your union, it's a royal flame but the other…"
He looked down at the egg, which pulsed again.
"The second is ancient. Dormant… but wounded. It remembers battle, betrayal, and the throne. It is not its first birth."
Queen Ysera, her head lowered near the egg, whispered: "You dare say… he is reborn?"
Thrazir met her gaze. "No, my Queen. I dare say… he has returned."
The flames in the chamber guttered, as if the air itself paused.
Outside, thunder rolled over distant mountains, though the skies were clear.
The egg pulsed again — warm, gentle… aware.
And though no voice came from it, every dragon in that chamber felt something.
They felt a presence. It was old and that presence was watching and waiting.
The news spread quickly that Crimsonflame had returned.
The spires of the palace burned bright red, their flames shifting hue in response to the omen. Dragons flew spirals over the mountains, marking the skies with sacred patterns. Across the realm, from the stormbound isles to the molten wastes, messages flew on enchanted winds.
—
In the Firevault — a chamber buried beneath the palace, carved from ancient stone — the Council of Wyrms gathered.
Twelve elders stood in a circle around a roaring soulfire pit, each clad in the traditional robes of their bloodlines. Above the flames floated a projection of the egg, spinning slowly in the air.
Thrazir addressed them.
"This is no ordinary birth. The Crimsonflame has not returned in ten thousand years. Not since the First Flame died."
The room fell silent.
Then Elder Zurnok, narrow-eyed and coal-scaled, spoke.
"There is only one known to return in flame."
A murmur: "Dravonox."
Even the fire lowered in reverence.
Dravonox — the Dragon God, the First Flame — slain in the war of gods. His soul shattered and his name erased from the tongues of men and dragon alike.
Until now.
Thrazir's voice turned grim. "If the second soul is even a fragment of Dravonox… then this child may carry his fire or his wrath."
"And if that wrath awakens?" another elder asked.
"Then the world will burn," Thrazir answered. "Again."
—
For thirty-three days, Queen Ysera never left the egg's side.
Though she weakened, she refused all rest.
By day, she sat coiled in dragon form, wings draped gently over the nest. By night, she slept beside it in humanoid-draconic form, one hand on the shell.
Sometimes, the egg pulsed gently, like a heartbeat of fire.
Sometimes… it wept. Not with sound — but with emotions of grief, memory and regret. It shared dreams.
Dreams of a tower broken. Of gods torn from the sky. Of a dragon with wings like galaxies falling into black fire.
And once, just once, the Queen heard a name.
Not Aurenyx — the name she and Vauren had chosen.
But something whispered on the edge of thought.
"...Dravonox…"
The egg cracked on the thirty-third night with a soft sound — like frost breaking. All across the palace, dragons felt it.
Queen Ysera woke, her hand already on the egg. King Vauren, still armored, stepped into the chamber in silence.
The egg glowed and golden light poured from the cracks, seeping through like dawn.
And then, with a sound like the wind crying through stone…
The egg burst. A whelp tumbled into the silks.
He was small and still perfect. Scales of crimson overlaid with gold. Horns curled back from his crown like rising flames. And his eyes…
They were bronze, Molten, and watching.
He didn't cry but stared. As if seeing something that wasn't there.
Queen Ysera lifted him into her arms.
"Aurenyx," she whispered, and the name echoed like flame on stone.
—
Far away, beneath forgotten ruins buried in ash and time…
A broken soul stirred, It remembered fire and betrayal. And this time…
This time, the flame would not fade.
—
Later that Night…
The stars moved in silence above the high glass dome.
Aurenyx slept in his cradle of crystal fire, wrapped in warm silk and a thin veil of flame.
But his eyes opened — not blindly, but with a strange calm. Like one waking from a long, bitter dream.
Shadows shifted and from the dark, a shape flickered. It was not real and also not fully. It was a vision and a memory.
A dragon stepped forth — vast, divine, its body formed of flame and starlight, wings stretching across eternity.
It was Dravonox.
Or what remained of him. He looked down at the child, eyes burning with sorrow and purpose.
His voice — or maybe just thought — echoed softly:
"You are me… and not just me. My fire reborn and my vengeance rekindled.
You must do what I could not. Unite them, burn them, Save them or all shall fall again."
And then… he was gone. Aurenyx blinked.
Just for a moment — just a flicker — his bronze eyes turned gold and the flame in the cradle surged.
And with it, destiny stirred awake.
To Be Continued…