The ash road stretched endlessly beneath Aren Vale's feet, pale and cracked like the bones of a dead giant. It wound through the Ash Lands in long, unforgiving curves, cutting across fields of scorched earth and skeletal trees that had not grown leaves in generations. Aren had run this road more times than he could count—at dawn, at dusk, in blistering heat and bitter cold—carrying messages between villages that survived on stubbornness more than hope.
The Ash Lands were quiet most days. Too quiet.
People said the silence came from the past. From ancient wars that had burned the land so deeply it never healed. The soil here was thin and gray, poisoned by fire and blood, and crops grew only through relentless effort. Even the wind felt cautious, as though afraid to disturb something sleeping beneath the earth.
Aren welcomed the ache in his legs and the burn in his lungs. Running kept his thoughts from wandering to places he didn't like—places filled with questions about why his parents had died on this same road years ago, and why the Ash Lands never seemed to let anyone truly escape.
His boots kicked up small clouds of dust as he ran. The air smelled faintly of smoke and dead grass, remnants of the last firestorm that had swept down from the northern ridges months ago. The elders said it was nothing unusual. Firestorms were part of life here.
Still, Aren had learned to listen to his instincts.
And today, everything felt wrong.
The sky above him was a dull, heavy gray, the clouds hanging low as though burdened by secrets they refused to release. Birds circled overhead in erratic patterns, their cries sharp and frantic instead of melodic. Aren slowed his pace, glancing upward. Birds never flew like that unless something was hunting—or something was coming.
The wind shifted.
It wasn't gradual. It snapped.
The warmth vanished, replaced by a sudden, unnatural stillness. No breeze. No rustle of leaves. Even Aren's breathing sounded too loud in his ears.
Then the sky screamed.
The sound tore through the world like a blade. It wasn't thunder, and it wasn't the roar of any beast Aren had ever heard. It was deeper. Rawer. Filled with agony and fury so immense it made his chest tighten painfully. The scream vibrated through bone and blood, as if the world itself had been struck by something impossible.
Aren skidded to a stop, heart hammering. His knees almost buckled.
Above him, the clouds twisted violently. Black and red streaks tore through the gray, spiraling as though the sky were being ripped open from the inside. The ground beneath his feet shuddered, the tremor growing stronger with every heartbeat.
"Aren!"
He turned as people poured out of nearby homes in panic. Farmers abandoned their plows, merchants dropped baskets of fruit that burst open on the road, children screamed and clung to their mothers. Even the elders—men and women who had survived wars and famine—looked afraid.
"Get inside!" someone shouted.
"By the flames—look at the sky!"
Then a single word cut through the chaos, spoken with pure terror.
"Dragon!"
Aren barely had time to react.
A pillar of fire split the horizon, erupting upward like a blazing spear. It scorched the clouds, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and crimson. Heat washed over the land in a sudden wave, stealing the breath from Aren's lungs even from miles away.
His stomach dropped.
The legends were real.
Then something fell.
The impact was world-shattering.
A deafening crash echoed across the Ash Lands as the ground convulsed violently. Aren was thrown forward, hitting the ash road hard as rocks and debris scattered like shrapnel. His ears rang. Dust filled his mouth. For a moment, all he could hear was his own ragged breathing.
When the shaking stopped, silence followed.
Not peaceful silence.
Dead silence.
No birds. No wind. No distant voices. Only smoke rising in thick, curling columns beyond the hills, drifting upward like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky.
Aren pushed himself to his knees, coughing. Around him, villagers were already fleeing—some praying aloud, some sobbing, others screaming warnings to loved ones. No one noticed him as they ran past.
He should have gone with them.
Every story he'd grown up hearing told him what dragons did to places like this. Entire villages reduced to ash. Nothing left but bones and blackened stone.
Yet something else tugged at him.
Curiosity burned hotter than fear.
Before he could stop himself, Aren stood and turned toward the smoke.
"You're an idiot," he muttered under his breath.
Then he ran.
The closer he got, the heavier the air became. Ash coated the ground, sinking beneath his boots with every step. The smell of sulfur stung his nose, sharp and bitter, mixed with something metallic that made his skin prickle.
When he reached the hill's crest, the land fell away before him.
A massive crater scarred the earth, its edges glowing faintly as molten rock cooled. Heat shimmered in the air. At its center lay something enormous.
A dragon.
It was larger than anything Aren had imagined. Golden scales shimmered beneath layers of ash, cracked in places and glowing faintly with internal heat. Steam hissed from deep wounds along its body. One massive wing was bent at an impossible angle, its torn membrane trailing uselessly across the crater floor.
The dragon was breathing.
Barely.
Aren froze, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure the creature could hear it.
Villagers gathered at the crater's edge, forming a wide, fearful circle. No one dared step closer. Mothers clutched children to their chests. Elders whispered frantic prayers to forgotten gods.
This was no rampaging monster.
This was a fallen king.
Aren took one step forward.
The dragon's massive golden eye snapped open.
It locked onto him.
The weight of that gaze crushed him. Aren felt stripped bare, as though every memory, every fear, every secret thought had been laid open. His legs gave out, and he dropped to one knee in the ash without realizing he'd moved.
"I… I won't hurt you," he whispered, voice shaking.
The dragon did not attack.
Instead, its eye studied him—slowly, carefully.
There was no rage there. No hunger.
Only pain.
Slowly, impossibly, the dragon lowered its massive head.
Warmth washed over Aren, not burning, but comforting—like standing near a hearth on a cold night. His heart raced as something deep inside him stirred, a strange spark igniting where there had once been emptiness.
He swallowed hard and took another step forward.
Then a low growl rolled across the crater.
Not from the dragon.
Aren spun around.
Shadows moved at the forest's edge—large, fast, deliberate. Branches bent and snapped as something massive pushed through the trees. More than one shape.
Hunters.
Or worse.
Aren's blood ran cold. He looked back at the dragon. Its broken wing twitched uselessly, its strength clearly fading.
Whatever was coming would reach them soon.
And when it did, everything would change.
The sky had screamed.
Now the world was holding its breath.