Chapter I: The Sundered Heights

The winds atop Highspire Citadel taste of old fire and sorrow. I have breathed them every morning since the Last Sky War, since the sky was torn by dragonflame and the mountains echoed with the cries of riders and wyrms alike. I am Kaelen Duskveil, once Captain of the Wardens of the Flame. Now, I am only another weary soul, tasked by Flamebearer to rebuild what little remains. We are fewer now—twenty Sky-Dragons, if that, and even fewer riders. The forges are quiet. The banners hang limp. Yet the mountains endure, and so must we. Ysara Flamewing finds me in the shattered courtyard. Her eyes, once bright with promise, are rimmed red. She clutches a battered gauntlet—her brother’s, lost in the final charge against Thar Zûl. She was always the fiercest among us, but grief has left her brittle. “Kaelen,” she says, voice frayed. “Flamebearer calls for us. There’s word from the Watchers—something stirring near the old eyrie.” Her gaze flickers with something dangerously close to hope. I nod, don armor that smells of ash and old blood, and follow her. The halls are quieter than I remember, each step echoing with memories of laughter and song. I wonder if we will ever know such sounds again.

Chapter II: The Eyrie’s Secret

The path to the eyrie winds along knife-edged ridges, where the wind howls like lost dragons. Ysara walks ahead, her back straight despite the weight she carries. I do not speak of her brother, nor of my own doubts. There are things the mountains swallow that words cannot touch. At the eyrie, the Watchers—grim, torch-lit figures—await. One gestures to a hollow in the cliffside, lined with blackened scales. Within, cradled in the ashes, lies an egg. Not broken, not cold—alive, its shell flickering with embers. A Sky-Dragon’s egg. Ysara falls to her knees. The Watchers bow their heads. I can scarce breathe. It should not be possible; the last clutch was lost in the war, their mothers slain by Thar Zûl’s firelords. But here it is, a miracle or a curse. “We must return it to Highspire,” Ysara whispers, voice trembling. “The Wardens need hope. The dragons… need kin.” I see the shadows in her eyes—the fear that this, too, might be taken. The fear we all carry.

Chapter III: The Ascent of Doubt

We set out at dawn. Ysara and I move carefully, the egg wrapped in a cloak against the cold. The mountains are not empty; carrion drakes and ash-wolves prowl the ruins, emboldened by our weakness. I lead, blade drawn, mind haunted by memories of my lost riders. Ysara is silent, but her steps falter. The egg’s warmth seems to burn through her gloves. “Did we fail them, Kaelen?” she asks quietly as we pause beneath a shattered archway. “All those who fell. My brother. The dragons who trusted us.” I have no easy answer. “We did what we could. We survived.” Sometimes, survival feels like the cruelest burden. A Stormrider circles overhead, lightning crackling along its scales. Its rider—one of the last—salutes as they pass, a rare gesture of kinship. I feel a pang of longing for the old days, when the skies were alive with our kind, when hope was as common as sunrise.

Chapter IV: Scars and Promises

We stop at a ruined outpost to rest. Ysara tends the egg, singing a lullaby in the old tongue: the song of the Bonding, once sung whenever a dragon chose a rider. Her voice is thin, but the notes linger. I study the egg’s shell—run through with veins of gold and fire, as if the mountain’s heart beats within. I remember Daranor the Unmoored, the eldest Sky-Dragon, who has not taken a rider since the war. Some say he mourns our failures; others that he waits for a sign. “Do you think Daranor will accept the hatchling?” Ysara asks, tracing the shell with reverence. “If he still believes in us,” I reply. “If we prove worthy.” She laughs, bitter and bright. “After all we’ve lost?” “Especially after,” I say, surprising us both. We share a silence. There is no comfort, only the promise that we will try.

Chapter V: The Trial of Ash

Near Highspire, the wind shifts. Smoke curls from a distant ridge—a fire, unnatural and cruel. Thar Zûl raiders, scavenging for dragon relics or vengeance. We could hide, but the egg’s warmth pulses, restless. Ysara’s jaw tightens. “We cannot let them near,” she says. “Not again.” We move through the rocks, blades ready. The raiders are few, but desperate. Their leader, face marked with scorch-scars, shouts a challenge. Ysara meets him head-on, fire and fury. I flank her, old training guiding my sword. The fight is ugly, brief. We stand victorious, but not unscathed. My arm bleeds; Ysara’s cloak is torn. The egg remains safe, its shell thrumming with life. Afterward, Ysara kneels among the fallen. “No more war,” she whispers. “Not for this one.”

Chapter VI: Homecoming

We cross the last bridge to Highspire as dusk falls. The citadel glows softly, lanterns flickering in the twilight. The Wardens gather as we approach, faces drawn but eyes wide with wonder at the egg in Ysara’s arms. Flamebearer himself descends the steps, regal even in exhaustion. He touches the egg, bowing his head. “You have given us more than hope, Kaelen. Ysara. You have given us a future.” Ysara weeps, silent tears for her brother, for the lost, for all that might yet be saved. I stand beside her, humbled by the weight of what we carry. In the great hall, the egg is placed upon the altar of the Bonding. Songs rise—soft at first, then stronger, echoing off the stone. The fire in the hearth burns brighter than it has since the war.

Chapter VII: Embers Rekindled

That night, I stand atop the citadel, watching the stars wheel above the mountains. Ysara joins me, her face aglow with the reflection of the hearthfire. “We did not bring back the old world,” I say. “But perhaps we have kindled something new.” She nods. “For them. For us. For the dragons yet to come.” Below, the egg pulses with golden light—a promise that the bond between dragon and rider endures, even when all else is ashes. Itharûn will rebuild. And so will we.