The egg had shattered at dawn.
Marcus knelt in the clearing outside his cottage, breath fogging in the cold, his eyes locked on the creature before him. No larger than a wolf pup, its scales shimmered like molten gold, streaked with lines of ember-red. Smoke curled from its nostrils with every breath.
The hatchling blinked slowly, studying him—not with fear, but recognition.
As if it knew him.
As if it had waited for him.
It moved closer, claws silent against the frost. Marcus held his breath. Then the dragon pressed its forehead gently against his chest. The world fell silent.
And Marcus Daemon burned.
Not in pain. Not in fire. But in knowing.
Images flooded his mind—fragments of a world lost to time: dragons soaring over Sapphire's mountains, kings riding fire through war, a prophecy whispered in ancient tongues.
A voice echoed through his soul:
> "Flamebound. Last of the line. Keeper of the Ember."
He fell back, gasping, as the dragon curled beside him and let out a small, smoky sigh.
The bond was sealed.
—
Later that night, Marcus stared into the fire inside his cottage, the hatchling asleep at his feet.
His body felt… different.
Stronger. Warmer. His senses sharper.
When he touched the hearth, the flames danced toward his hand.
He whispered a name—one he did not know he knew: "Veyrion."
The dragon stirred, eyes opening.
It was its name.
And Marcus hadn't learned it.
He remembered it.
—
Far to the north, Queen Selene's spies reported that something had hatched in the forest. The magical pulse had been felt in Velmora's towers—just for a moment—but it had been enough.
"He's bonded," Selene said, her voice soft with awe and fear. "The ember has chosen."
She turned to her court. "We must reach him first. Before the others."
—
In Zar-Khalan, Empress Vireya knelt before a blazing altar. Her dreams had shown her the boy in the snow. The flame in his chest. The dragon at his side.
She smiled. "The prophecy is real."
She did not speak again, but her soldiers were already mounting sand-steeds and whispering ancient war cries.
—
Ironholde sent ravens north, calling for bannermen. Drel'Thar sent nothing at all, but its shadows began moving through the southern roads.
And King Levi Daemon stood on the balcony of his tower, watching smoke rise far in the distance—too far for any normal fire.
His hands trembled.
He whispered a name he had not said in seventeen years.
"Marcus."
—
The kingdoms had waited centuries for the return of dragons.
Now that one had returned, they would stop at nothing to claim it… or destroy it.
And at the heart of it all stood a farmer no longer.
Marcus Daemon, Flamebound.
The Last Ember.