Chapter Five — The Fire at Hollowridge
The night sky above Hollowridge was black as pitch, no moon to shine upon the jagged cliffs or the winding river that split the village in two. A mist clung to the streets, carrying a wet chill that seemed to whisper warnings in every breath.
Kairo pulled his cloak tighter against the cold, his eyes darting to every shadow. Beside him walked *Princess Lyra*, her silken hair damp from the river spray, her sword slung at her side. Just behind them, the monk *Joren* carried the Dragon's Tear in a satchel bound with wards that glimmered faintly in the dark.
They had come to Hollowridge seeking refuge. Instead, they found an empty village.
"This place isn't right," Lyra muttered, her voice low. "Not even a dog barking."
Joren stopped, raising two fingers to test the air. "There's smoke… but it's not from hearth fires."
Kairo's gut twisted. "We should keep moving."
They reached the village square, and that was when the mist shifted—like it was breathing. Out of the thick fog stepped figures draped in tattered robes, each wearing a mask shaped like a dragon's skull. Their eyes glowed faintly crimson.
"Children of the Endless Flame," Joren whispered sharply. "Cultists."
One of the masked figures stepped forward. His voice rasped, as though it had clawed its way from a long-dead throat.
"You carry the Tear," he said. "It does not belong to you. It belongs to the Dragon That Sleeps."
Kairo bristled. "If you wanted it, you should've brought faster hands."
The cultists hissed at him in unison—then attacked.
The square exploded into chaos. Lyra's sword flashed silver in the darkness, catching the torchlight as she struck down two cultists in a breath. Joren traced wards into the air with swift, practiced motions, each one erupting into walls of pale blue flame that threw back enemies.
Kairo darted between shadows, his dagger finding weak spots in the cultists' guard. Yet no matter how many fell, more emerged from the mist.
And then—
A roar split the night.
It wasn't the roar from Kairo's visions. It was real.
From behind the chapel at the edge of the square, a creature emerged—half-man, half-dragon, its body plated with magma-like scales, eyes bright as molten gold. Smoke poured from its jaws with each breath.
"It's been bound to the Tear," Joren shouted over the fight. "It's here for you, Kairo!"
The beast lunged.
Kairo barely managed to roll aside, heat scorching against his skin. He could feel the Tear inside the satchel burning—not from fire, but from recognition.
Images flashed again in his mind: the colossal dragon from his vision, chains of light wrapping around its form, and a shattering sound like breaking stars.
"Kairo!" Lyra's voice snapped him back. "We need to move!"
Kairo grabbed the satchel from Joren, and for a heartbeat, the burning stopped. The beast hesitated, snarling, as though sensing something had shifted.
Kairo stepped forward, clutching the satchel close. "I don't know what you are," he said quietly, "but if you think I'm handing this over… you'll have to take it yourself."
The creature roared again, but Kairo didn't flinch. Instead, he thrust the satchel toward the sky—and for the first time, the Tear's light burst free, blazing like a miniature sun.
The mist recoiled. The cultists screamed. The dragon-beast staggered back, covering its eyes.
And then the light vanished.
When Kairo lowered the satchel, both the cultists and the beast were gone—leaving only the empty square and the fading smell of smoke.
Lyra sheathed her sword with a sharp motion. "Whatever that was, it wasn't the last we're going to see of them."
Joren nodded grimly. "The Tear called something tonight… and eventually, it will answer."
Kairo glanced at the dark road beyond the village and tightened his grip on the satchel.
"Then we'd better be ready," he said—and without looking back, the three of them stepped into the fog, toward whatever waited beyond Hollowridge.