From the private journals of Kaelen Duskveil, Officer of the Wardens of the Flame, Year 348 AE, Era of Twilight.

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I. Fifth Day of Emberwane

The winds howl across the ruined spires. It is the same each dawn: the echoes of the Last Sky War linger in every broken stone, every scorched banner. Today, Flamebearer summoned me in the shadow of the Citadel’s cracked dome. His eyes, always bright with resolve, seemed clouded. “We must seek the Ember’s promise,” he said, “or Itharûn will dwindle to memory.” He placed a fragment of ancient scale in my palm—smooth, warm, shimmering with copper light. Sky-Dragon, yes, but not from any living drake. “A nest remains,” he whispered, “deep within the Veiled Ridges. Daranor the Unmoored guards it still…or so the winds say.” I thought of old tales, of dragons who turned from mortals after the war, their hearts seared with grief. I gathered my cloak and sword, the sigil of the Wardens heavy on my chest. Ysara Flamewing would join me—her own grief newly kindled by the loss of her bondmate, Aerithas. I pray courage will guide us. —

II. Sixth Day of Emberwane

The climb into the Veiled Ridges is treacherous, the paths half-swallowed by landslides and time. Ysara walks ahead, silent but for the crackle of her torch. “Do you trust the Flamebearer’s vision?” she asks. I answer with a shrug; trust is a luxury in this era. We pass old battlements, their stones melted where Magma-Drakes once swept down. Ysara kneels at a patch of blackened earth, murmuring a rider’s prayer. I see the tension in her jaw. “If Itharûn is to rise, it must be with the dragons,” she says, almost to herself. At dusk, clouds gather—rose and gold, tinged with ash. I write these words by firelight, knowing sleep will be thin. Somewhere above, a shadow circles. The air smells of ozone. —

III. Seventh Day of Emberwane

We are not alone. At dawn, a Stormrider—one of the famed lightning-drakes—descended upon our camp. Its scales crackled with blue light, its eyes sharp with wary intelligence. No rider astride its back; these dragons have not bonded since the Sky War. Ysara stood firm, hand outstretched. “We come for hope, not conquest,” she called in the old tongue. The dragon watched, then vanished into cloud with a rumble of thunder. I take it as a sign—warning or blessing, I cannot say. We press on, deeper into the mountains. Ysara finds a clutch of scorched feathers: sky-eagle, prey of the great drakes. My sword feels lighter. The air thrums with magic. —

IV. Eighth Day of Emberwane

We reach the cavern said to be Daranor’s refuge. It yawns beneath a shattered spire, rimmed with veins of quartz and ancient fireglass. The scale in my hand pulses, guiding us. Ysara lights a lantern, illuminating claw-marks that score the stone. “Do you remember the stories?” she whispers. “Daranor the Unmoored, last to turn from the pact, breaker of chains.” I nod. He was once Flamebearer’s bondmate, before hope fractured with the sky. Inside, the air is warm, heavy with the scent of smoke and old sorrow. We move with reverence, each footfall echoing centuries. At the cavern’s heart, we find him. Daranor, vast and coiled, his silver mane streaked with ash. His eyes blaze—a storm beneath glaciers. “Why come you now, children of fire?” he growls. Ysara bows her head. I do the same, speaking Flamebearer’s plea: “We seek the nest, and the future it holds.” The dragon’s gaze lingers on us, unreadable. —

V. Ninth Day of Emberwane

Daranor tests us, as all dragons do. He demands we answer for the war—the pride that shattered bonds, the hubris that cast dragons as weapons. Ysara’s voice trembles as she recounts the pyres of lost riders and the empty eyries. I speak of the Wardens’ vow to rebuild not through conquest, but through unity. Daranor’s tail lashes, stirring embers. “You seek an egg, but do you seek forgiveness?” he asks. The question is knife-sharp. Ysara steps forward, tears in her eyes. “We cannot undo the war, but we can honor what was lost. Let us try.” The silence that follows is deep as the mountain roots. —

VI. Tenth Day of Emberwane

Dawn brings an answer. Daranor rises, vast wings unfurling. He leads us through a twisting passage, deeper into the earth. There, upon a bed of gold-veined crystal, lies a single egg—gleaming with firelight, veined in storm-silver. Ysara falls to her knees. I feel the weight of centuries lift, if only a little. Daranor speaks: “Guard this hope as you would your own heart. The future is not won by swords, but by trust renewed.” We promise—by oath and by flame. —

VII. Eleventh Day of Emberwane

We return to Highspire Citadel, the egg cradled in Ysara’s arms, Daranor’s blessing echoing in our minds. The Flamebearer receives us beneath the battered banners of old. When Ysara presents the egg, the gathered Wardens weep openly. For the first time since the war, hope feels real. I record these words with a steady hand. Itharûn is not yet restored, but tonight, beneath the mountain stars, we remember who we are: not conquerors, but keepers of the flame. May this ember endure. —