He remembered dying.
Not in the dramatic way — no swords to the throat, no sorcery gone wrong, no betrayal in the throne room. No, it had been honest death. A soldier's end. He had held the line as his people fled. There had been fire, and hooves, and the high scream of some war-horn not made by men. The last thing he'd seen was the standard of his empire burning in a red sky.
He had whispered something before the end. Not a name. A vow.
And then — silence.
Not the silence of death. No tomb. No sleep. No peace.
A waiting.
And in that waiting, a presence.
Not a god. Not exactly. But not mortal.
It did not arrive. It was. A shape formed only by concept, clothed in voice and weight and impossible calm.
"You again," it said.
Castann stood upon nothing.
No ground beneath his feet, but he did not fall.
No stars above, but he could see.
No wind, and yet something shifted around him — memory, perhaps, or intention.
He turned slowly, not out of surprise, but recognition.
"You're late," he said.
The presence chuckled. "I'm outside time. You were early."
"I died," Castann replied.
"Again."
They had met before.
Not once. Many times.
In this place — or one like it — Castann had stood on the edge of something old, something watching, something unamused by mortality.
He had spoken to this presence as a boy, once. As a dying king. As a forgotten beggar. Always between.
It did not name itself.
It had no need to.
But it spoke like a scribe who'd grown tired of recording wars.
"I offered you rest last time," the presence said. "You refused."
"I had more to do."
"You always do."
Castann crossed his arms. He still looked like the man he had been — the old Castann, the emperor of Cannor, the Young Gryphon, the Mage-King. His armor was ash-scored. His crown was gone.
"You placed me in Halann."
"I did."
"You watched me win. Then watched me die."
"You were never meant to last," the presence said. "Not in that shape."
"Then why give it to me?"
"Because you were the only one arrogant enough to use it."
He wanted to be angry. But anger had long since dulled in this place.
So instead, he asked the only question that mattered.
"Where now?"
The presence pulsed.
Not light. Not voice. Just certainty.
"A world with dragons."
Castann arched a brow. "I've seen dragons before."
"These are different."
"How so?"
"They remember their names."
He said nothing. That was new.
"And the people?" he asked.
The presence drifted closer. "They worship fire. Forget oaths. Kill kings. But they build. And they break."
"And I?"
"You will be one of them. But not like them."
He nodded slowly.
It was always this way.
A soul pulled from wreckage, reshaped, placed in a world that needed a storm.
"What am I this time?" he asked. "God? King? Child?"
"Child," said the presence. "And something more."
Castann sighed. "Of course. No rest for the storm."
The void shifted.
Below him — or above, it was hard to say — a city formed in fragmented glass. Towers of smoke. Streets of molten gold. And at the center, a throne of carved bone and fire.
Not Halann.
Not Cannor.
Somewhere new.
He could hear screams. Metal. Wings.
The presence whispered:
"Valyria."
Castann turned slowly.
"That name..."
"It is not yours yet. But it will be."
He frowned. "You've chosen again."
"No," the presence said. "You chose."
He remembered.
A girl. Pale hair. Golden eyes. Laughing in the storm.
A dragon's roar in the night.
A boy's hand reaching for a crown while his mother bled.
Visions.
Memories.
Or… prophecy.
"This one will hurt," the presence said.
"They all do."
"No. This one will change you."
Castann clenched his fist.
"I'm tired of change."
"And yet you keep building."
There was no reply.
Only fire.
The presence pulsed again — this time, with something close to sorrow.
"You're not alone, you know."
"Never have been."
"But this time… the fire remembers you."
And then, a new voice.
Smaller.
Not the presence.
Familiar.
Female.
"Aurion."
He turned.
And there she was.
Silver wings folded, golden eyes watching — Liraes, the dragon.
His.
Older now. A little slower in her breath. But there.
Even here.
"I thought I lost you," he whispered.
She moved closer, her voice not spoken but resonant.
"You cannot lose what you carry inside."
He reached out, touched her snout, and the fire rushed in.
Memories. Flights. Wars. Dreams.
A child in Valyria.A boy on black stone.A soul too large for one world.
"I'm not done," he said.
"You never are," she answered.
The presence stirred again.
"This is the last gift I give freely."
"What is it?"
"A name."
Castann frowned.
"I already have one."
"You need a new one."
The presence began to fade.
"You will be Aurion.Son of House Vatraxen.Dragonlord. Heir. Pretender.Reforged soul.One of Forty.The last to rise."
And then—
Flame.
Not gentle.
Not cleansing.
But transformative.
Castann fell through it.
Through fire.
Through time.
Through pain.
He screamed —
And awoke.
A stone floor.
A window of red light.
The air smelled of blacksteel and smoke.
Qohor.
His hands were different. Younger.
But the fire still lived behind his eyes.
The world called him Aurion.
Couple of days earlier..
The sky cracked open just past midday.
Before the fire came, there were signs. They began as whispers — slaves waking with ash in their lungs, dragons shrieking in their sleep. In the Temple of Rhaezos, the crystal mirrors stopped reflecting. The harbor tides pulsed like veins.
But no one listened. Why would they? The Freehold had stood for five thousand years. It had outlasted empires, floods, and dragons gone mad. What could a crack in the earth matter to those who shaped the heavens?
In the eastern quarter of the capital, upon the basalt cliffs overlooking the Smoking Sea, House Vatraxen stood at full strength.
Their banners flew high: a silver flame upon black stone, ringed by seven stars — each one earned in blood. Their towers were built with clean lines and subtle glyphs. No skulls. No screams. Vatraxen did not deal in blood sorcery. They dealt in steel, in flight, in discipline.
They had held the Second Throne twice in six generations.
Their dragons numbered five. Liraes was eldest.
She perched upon the upper aerie of the Citadel like a silent moon, her scales silver-laced and her eyes golden fire.
She did not screech. She did not stir.
She watched.
Inside the High Chamber, the lords of the house dined in quiet ceremony.
Vaemion Vatraxen, the Patriarch, sat at the center — a hard-faced man with shoulders like stone and eyes that had never softened. Beside him, his consort, Serenya, read aloud from the ledger of bonds, naming every pact, trade, and wing-rider contract confirmed that month.
Their eldest son, Aurion, sat quietly.
Seventeen. Newly bonded. Keen-eyed, but solemn.
His dragon — Liraes — had accepted him after three near-deaths and one moment of absolute stillness. Vaemion had watched the whole ordeal without speaking once.
Now, he looked at his son as Serenya's voice faded.
"You'll fly east next month," he said. "To Ghozai. The colonies expect a show of presence."
Aurion nodded. "Will I ride alone?"
"Do you need escort?"
"No."
"Then you'll ride alone."
The servants moved quietly. No clatter. No nonsense.
House Vatraxen trained its stewards like soldiers.
Then, a tremor.
Not a full quake.
Just… a ripple.
Like the earth had inhaled.
Vaemion paused mid-drink.
Serenya set her ledger down.
A single candle on the table flickered and died.
Outside, dragons screamed.
Not in rage.
In terror.
The windows exploded in a wash of red light and pulverized glass.
The sound was not a roar.
It was a howl. Like the sea had torn itself open.
Flame surged skyward on the horizon — not red, but white, brighter than sun, stretching miles high, carving the heavens open like a god's wound.
Aurion rose to his feet.
"What is that?" his younger brother gasped.
No one answered.
Because no one knew.
Within the hour, fire rained from the sky.
The city cracked. Towers fell. Temples collapsed inward, as if pulled by the weight of their own sins. Rivers boiled in their beds.
The dragons went mad.
Some screamed and flew blindly into the clouds.
Some turned on each other, devouring flesh mid-flight.
Some simply fell from the sky like stones — their wings seized, their hearts scorched from within.
Liraes did not fly.
She waited.
Perched atop the aerie, wings folded.
Waiting.
The family descended into the sanctum — the chamber beneath the citadel, forged of pre-Valyrian obsidian, where no spell could pass. Where fire would not spread.
Thirty members of the house gathered.
Old warriors.
Scholars.
Children.
None wept.
None begged.
They were Vatraxen.
Aurion stood at the center, the glow of the destruction painting the dark walls with moving light.
"This isn't natural," he said.
Vaemion grunted. "Neither are we."
"I mean this isn't magic. Not sorcery. Not deliberate."
Serenya's voice was thin. "Then what?"
Aurion closed his eyes.
And for the first time, he heard it.
Something vast.
Moving.
Like a tide under the world's skin.
Like grief given flame.
Then the vault cracked.
Not by fault.
Not by design.
The ceiling broke inward — not from force above, but from something inside the stone unraveling.
Three died instantly — crushed beneath falling pylons.
The rest scattered.
Aurion turned to his father, blood across his face.
"Let me take the children," he said. "I'll fly. I can—"
"No," Vaemion said. His voice was iron. "The bloodline ends here. Dignified."
"I can save them."
Vaemion looked him in the eyes.
"You can't."
And in that moment, Aurion understood.
Not that they would die.
That the world they had built already had.
He turned.
Ran.
Up the stairwell, past screaming wards and shaking walls.
Liraes met him halfway down the northern tower, her head breaking through the archway like prophecy. Her wing curled to shield him from falling stone.
He climbed to her saddle.
She did not need command.
She leapt.
They flew.
Through ash. Through flame. Through the screams of dying dragons and collapsing palaces.
He looked back once.
And saw his home — the citadel of House Vatraxen — split down its central tower.
His father stood atop the balcony.
Still.
Unmoving.
Flame consumed him a breath later.
They crossed the sea.
Liraes flew hard.
Valyria fell behind them — not just the city, but the world.
Aurion passed out in the saddle somewhere above the Broken Lands.
And in that moment…
Castann awakened.
The soul cracked open.
Two minds.
One body.
Castann did not know this sky.
But he knew the shape of power when he saw it ruined.
And he recognized the dragon beneath him.
"Liraes," he whispered.
She answered with a snarl that shook the wind.
The bond reformed.
The Doom had claimed Valyria.
But not all its fire.
Some of it fled.
Carried eastward on silver wings, toward a city called Qohor, where a soul waited to be reborn.
Not to mourn the past.
But to forge something new.