Dragonborn

Ash Between The Snow

Snow fell like scattered feathers, soft and quiet over the thatched rooftops of Emberfall, a sleepy village cradled in the shadow of the Cradle Peaks. Smoke drifted from chimneys. The air smelled of pine resin and frost, carrying the distant creak of trees weighted with ice. The world seemed peaceful, as if winter itself had settled in for a nap.

But Ash knew better.

Winter's coming meant the worst was on its way.

He stood at the edge of the frozen lake, boots resting on cracked ice, holding a charcoal pencil in one hand and a worn sketchbook in the other. His fingers were numb, but he didn’t feel it. His breath misted, and in its ghostly curl, he saw it again— the dream.

A colossal dragon of golden flame, roaring in agony, its body pierced by obsidian spears. A crown of fire splitting the heavens. His own reflection staring back at him, with glowing ember eyes.

Ash blinked, and the vision vanished with the mist.

"No, not again." His voice was a bare whisper even the wind threatened to take away.

He pressed the pencil against the page, scratching dark lines. At first it was smooth and precise but it slowly turned violent and unstable. The tip of the pencil bled lead as it ate at the book until wings unfurled across the paper like they were alive. His hand moved like it wasn’t his own, tracing scales, horns, symbols. Some pages already bore strange markings— spirals, runes, a language he didn’t know.

For as long as he had known he had been drawing the things he always saw in his dreams, it was the only way to get them out of his mind.

But the more the tried to clear his mind the more uncontrollable his emotions became.

“Still drawing weird stuff?” came a familiar voice.

Ash looked up to see Tomas, his best friend— a broad-shouldered, loud, and loyal young man. He had a hunting spear slung across his back, his coat was lined with deer fur and stitched with love by a mother who still thought they were ten.

Ash gave a half-smile. “Just… dragons.”

Tomas squinted. “You and your fire breathing obsessions. Come on, old man Orric said we’re late for kindling duty. We wouldn’t want him getting mad at us again now, would we?”

Ash smirked and closed the sketchbook carefully. Its pages were filled with drawings of dragons— not the monstrous beasts from bedtime threats, but regal, wounded creatures. Some looked almost human. Some bore symbols he didn’t remember drawing.

The reason he had drawn them in the first place remained a mystery to him.

Dragons had not been seen for years, he had only heard stories. They were made to either scare children or to entertain them, depending on the moment.

Every time his eyes gazed at the sky above him he always felt a deep pain eating away at his heart. It was like the sky longed for their massive wings that once broke the clouds, but they had vanished into stories and ashes. Yet somehow, despite never seeing one before, Ash managed to draw them as though he remembered every detail.

He shook his head free of the thoughts, he had priorities at the moment. And they were much bigger than his hallucinations that had plagued him for a long time.

Winter was around the corner.

Ash had grown up knowing Tomas as his brother, they were raised by the same mother and under the care of Orric, the village's head. Ash was told that he was an orphan, his mother died birthing him and his father, little to nothing was known about him.

He walked alongside Tomas through snow-laden paths, boots crunching in rhythm. Emberfall was awake with festival preparations. Children darted through the square, clutching bits of carved wood shaped like suns. Women wove wreaths of pine needles to hang above doors. Men hauled logs to the central pyre, their breath fogging the air like smoke from dragons unseen.

Tomas noticed Ash being a bit unsettled, he shoved him lightly and spoke with a bit of a dashing persona. "Don't be so glum, everyone is in high spirits."

Ash tried to smiled but his face, no his heart was against it. He managed to will a weak smile to curl up slightly. "I'll try."

"Did you have another nightmare this time?" Tomas asked.

Ash looked forward, took on a deep breath and spoke. "I don't want to talk about it. Sorry."

Tomas chuckled and ruffled his hair. "No worries, I'm always here if you need me. Your dependable big brother."

The festival of Hollow Hearth was approaching, it was a time when villagers honored the Old Flame, a dying myth to most. They believed once, long ago, a great fire watched over the world. It kept the winter at bay, listened to whispers, and loved those who had been cast away. Until it was betrayed.

Or so the myths say...

Now they lit lanterns for luck, carved sun symbols into logs, and prayed not to freeze before spring. There were winters when spring never came, when snow devoured fields and children’s laughter fell silent. This year, the air was colder than any memory, and people clung tighter to their prayers like a taut string waiting to snap.

Tomas elbowed Ash lightly. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the Old Flame’ll finally wake up, eh? If it does, you can stop drawing your creepy dragon nightmares and start drawing bonfires instead.”

Ash chuckled, though his chest tightened not from the blow but from the discomfort he felt growing. “If the Old Flame is still watching, it’s not listening to us.”

“You sound like Orric,” Tomas groaned. “Always with your doom and gloom. Just once, I want to hear you say something hopeful.”

Ash shrugged. He wanted to say I dreamed the Old Flame burning, but that would have been a lie. He wanted to say something is coming for us. But he would that be true also. It was easy to sound hopeful when you didn't spend your life trapped in a dream that felt just as real as reality did.

Tomas had always been his anchor, the one who laughed at the shadows and dared to call them harmless. Ash couldn’t take that away from him.

By the time they reached the square, the pyre was nearly stacked. Ash bent to help, the firewood rough against his frozen hands. Villagers bustled around him— women gossiping, men shouting orders, children weaving between legs like sparks leaping from a fire. For a moment, Ash almost felt normal.

Then it came.

A gust swept through the village, it carried an unnaturally bitter aura. The lantern flames flickered. Chickens screeched in their cages. The snow turned gray in the air, swirling like ash.

Then... Emberfall went silent.

Ash froze mid-motion, a log slipping from his grasp. He felt it— like a sting in his chest, sharp as a knife. Something hot coiled behind his ribs. He staggered, clutching his shirt.

In the midst of the rising tension, only one person noticed this shift.

“Ash?” Tomas frowned, steadying him. “You okay?”

Ash tried to answer, but the burning grew sharper, brighter— as if a spark had ignited inside him. He could feel something— a glow pulsed beneath his skin, just over his heart.

Then a scream split the air, but it wasn't his.

“Raiders!”

The alarm bell clanged— harsh, jagged and desperate.

From the forest’s edge, shadows darted between the trees. Cloaked figures emerged like wraiths, tall and lean, with strange weapons and silver masks that glowed faintly in the twilight. Fire spread behind them unnaturally fast, climbing roofs and devouring timber as though the snow were kindling.

Chaos erupted. Mothers grabbed their children. Men scrambled for their axes and spears. Villagers scattered like startled birds.

Tomas unslung his spear. His face, usually so careless, had hardened into steel. “Stay back, Ash!” He sounded like an assuring older brother.

But Ash didn’t hear. The firestorm in his chest roared, drowning out Tomas’s voice. His skin burned, his breath came ragged. The masked raiders seemed to blur at the edges of his vision— except for one, who stopped mid-step and flinched when his eyes met Ash’s.

The masked raider seemed to recognise him.

The pain peaked. Ash dropped to his knees, gasping, and clawing at the snow. Then the world shattered.

A blast of heat tore from his chest. The air around him rippled, snow melted in an instant. Fire bloomed in a perfect ring around him, curling outward like the petals of a blazing flower. The nearest raider was hurled against a wall, his body limp before it struck the ground.

Ash stood in the eye of the inferno, untouched. Flames danced along his arms like tame serpents. His eyes burned with ember light.

Everyone froze.

The villagers stared in horror and awe. Tomas stared, his spear hanging limp at his side. Even the raiders hesitated, their advance stalling.

From the treeline just outside Emberfall, a voice whispered in an ancient tongue.

A young woman stepped forward. Her armor gleamed violet and black, runes etched across the plates. Silver hair spilled down her back like smoke. Her eyes glowed like pale moons, cold and knowing. Two long daggers rested at her hips.

The fire bent away from her as she passed through it untouched. She looked at Ash with something between triumph and sorrow.

And then she spoke. Just one word.

“Found you.”