The city of Elyndor was beautiful from afar. From the cliffs, you could see the crystal towers rising like spears of light, bridges spun with gold and silver threads, and the floating lanterns drifting above the streets like captive stars. Songs echoed from the high courts where nobles gathered, their voices trained and proud. To the humans who had never stepped foot inside, it was the jewel of the hidden empire—a place of endless wonder.
But beauty was a mask. Beneath the gleaming towers and marble roads, there were alleys where the light barely reached. That was where Kaelen lived.
The air smelled of smoke and damp stone in the Outskirts District, where the gutters overflowed and magic barely sparked. It was where the half-bloods were shoved—those like him, born of two worlds, belonging to none. He was nineteen now, tall but lean, with dark hair that fell in his eyes and an angular face that made him look sharper than he felt. Most people didn't meet his gaze long enough to notice the faint bronze flecks in his irises, the ones that shimmered when the light struck them just right.
He kept his head down as he moved through the morning market, a basket hooked over one arm. Voices crowded around him—merchants shouting, children laughing, nobles sneering as they passed through the district on their way elsewhere.
"Watch yourself, half-breed," a scaled vendor muttered as Kaelen brushed too close to his stall. The man's skin was dusted with emerald scales, a pure-blooded drakkin who considered himself better than any half with dragon heritage.
Kaelen muttered an apology and kept walking. He was used to it. He'd been hearing the same insults since he was old enough to understand words. Half-blood. Tainted. Mistake.
But still—something stirred in him each time. A slow burn in his chest, like embers trying to wake.
He reached the baker's stall at the far end of the street and handed over the last of his copper coins for a loaf of coarse bread. It was hard, nothing like the soft golden loaves reserved for nobles, but it was enough. He tucked it into his basket and turned back toward the alleys, hoping to reach the safety of his corner before trouble found him.
Of course, trouble found him first.
A group of young men stepped into his path, blocking the narrow lane. They wore fine tunics, their collars edged with silver thread—nobles' sons, spoiled and cruel, who had wandered down here for entertainment. Their leader, Deyric, was tall, his silver hair tied back in a ribbon, his smile sharp as a knife.
"Well, well," Deyric drawled. "If it isn't the ash rat."
Kaelen froze. He hated that name. They'd given it to him years ago, when his skin had burned under the sun, leaving faint patterns like scales across his shoulders. Ash rat. As if he was a creature scurrying from the flames.
"I don't want trouble," Kaelen said quietly, his grip tightening on the basket.
Deyric laughed, glancing at his friends. "Hear that? He doesn't want trouble. And yet, here he is, walking our streets like he belongs."
"These aren't your streets," leave me alone Kaelen muttered.
That was the mistake. Deyric's smile dropped, and in the next breath, the noble lunged forward and slammed Kaelen against the wall. The basket tumbled, bread rolling into the dust.
"You speak when spoken to, half-blood," Deyric hissed. His hand pressed against Kaelen's chest, pinning him. And for a moment, Kaelen felt it again—the burn. Not just in his chest this time, but under his skin, in his veins, a heat rising fast and dangerous.
Stop, he told himself. Not here. Not now.
But the heat didn't listen.
Deyric shoved him again, laughing. "What's wrong? Going to cry? Or maybe breathe smoke like your filthy ancestors?"
The words cut deeper than the shove. Kaelen's breath hitched—and then the world shifted.
A spark lit inside him, sudden and violent. His chest burned, his throat seared, and for one heartbeat he swore fire flickered behind his teeth. His vision sharpened, colors turning fierce—the silver of Deyric's hair gleamed like molten metal, the red banners overhead glowed like living flame.
Kaelen pushed back. Not with his strength, but with something else. Something more.
Heat surged from his palm where it pressed against Deyric's tunic. The noble gasped, jerking back as if stung. Smoke curled from the fabric, a blackened scorch spreading across the fine cloth.
The entire alley went silent.
Deyric staggered, staring at his chest. His friends whispered in shock, their faces pale.
Kaelen's heart thundered. He clenched his fists, willing the heat to fade. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think—had anyone seen?
Then the whispers rose louder.
"Did you see that?"
"Fire—he burned him."
"Dragon blood."
The words carried down the street like sparks on the wind. Dragon blood. Not half-blood. Not ash rat. Dragon.
Kaelen's heart dropped.
"No," he rasped, shaking his head. "No, I didn't—"
But it was too late. Deyric's fear twisted into fury. "Guards!" he screamed, pointing at Kaelen. "He's cursed! He's one of them!"
The market exploded into chaos. Merchants scrambled, children shrieked, guards' horns blared in the distance. Kaelen ran, shoving through the crowd, his breath ragged. Behind him, voices rose—accusing, terrified.
Dragon blood.
They would come for him.
He turned down an alley, heart pounding, the taste of smoke still burning his tongue. His hands trembled as he looked at his palms, half-expecting to see scales or flame. There was nothing. Just skin.
But he knew what he'd felt. The fire was real. The stories were true. And if people believed it, he was as good as dead.
As he stumbled deeper into the shadows, a voice whispered from the dark.
"I saw what you did."
Kaelen froze. A figure stepped from the alley, cloaked in black, their face hidden beneath a hood. Their presence was strange, heavy, as though the air bent around them.
"You're not just a half-blood," the stranger said, their tone calm, almost reverent. "You are something more. Something the empire has feared for centuries."
Kaelen's throat tightened. "Stay away from me."Leave me alone.
The stranger tilted their head, as though studying him. "You can run, Kaelen. You can hide. But fire doesn't stay hidden ,the flames will always show . And when the time comes, you'll have to choose.
Before Kaelen could say a word , the cloaked figure melted back into the shadows, vanishing as though they'd never been there.
Alone, Kaelen pressed a hand to his chest, where the fire still burned .
He didn't understand what had just happened. He only knew one thing: his life in the shadows was over.
And the city of Elyndor—the entire empire—would never look at him the same way again.