THE DRAGONFORGE HEIR: A BLOODLINE OF FIRE AND RUIN

Chapter 4: The Oath and the Ashes

The tunnel was a tomb of silence.

Dain’s breath came in shallow gasps, his ribs aching from Serra’s kick, his jaw throbbing where her fist had connected. The gauntlet on his forearm pulsed like a second heartbeat, its runes casting eerie blue shadows on the damp stone walls.

The hammer, now cold, its fire extinguished, felt foreign in his grip. He had never held a weapon before tonight. He had never needed to.

Serra moved ahead of him, her bone-white armor gleaming faintly in the dark. She didn’t look back. Didn’t speak. The lie she had told the Order still hung between them, heavy as the rubble blocking their escape.

"Why?" Dain finally asked, his voice raw.

She didn’t stop walking. "Because I saw your face when the mountain roared."

Dain clenched his fists. "That’s not an answer."

Serra spun, her blue-flamed sword flickering to life in her grip. The light carved sharp angles into her face, high cheekbones, a scar cutting through her left eyebrow, lips pressed into a thin line. "You want the truth? Fine. The Order has been hunting your bloodline for centuries. Every Heir before you has either been killed or corrupted by the Wyrm’s blood. I’ve seen what happens when the fire takes hold. I’ve burned the bodies."

Dain’s stomach twisted. "And you think I’m different?"

"I think," she said, stepping closer, "that you’re the first one who didn’t beg for death when the mark appeared."

A distant rumble shook the tunnel. Not from the Order. From Mount Vorthas.

The Wyrm.

Dain’s skin prickled. The gauntlet’s runes flared, and a jolt of pain shot up his arm. He hissed, stumbling against the wall.

Serra’s eyes narrowed. "It’s calling to you."

"It’s hurting me," Dain snapped.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she turned and continued down the tunnel, her boots splashing through the shallow water.

Dain had no choice but to follow.

The tunnel opened into a cavern, its ceiling lost in darkness. The air smelled of sulfur and old blood. At its center stood a stone altar, its surface cracked and stained. A mural covered the far wall, a dragon coiled around an anvil, its jaws wide as if screaming. The same symbol from the gauntlet.

Dain’s breath caught.

"This place is older than the Order," Serra said, tracing the mural with her fingers. "Older than the Covenant. This is where the first Heir bound the Wyrm."

Dain stepped forward, the gauntlet’s pulse quickening. The mural shifted. The dragon’s eyes, once empty, now glowed red.

"It’s watching us," Dain whispered.

Serra’s grip tightened on her sword. "It’s always watching."

A scraping sound echoed from the shadows.

Dain whirled, hammer raised.

A figure emerged from the dark, tall, cloaked in tattered black, their face obscured by a mask of polished bone. A sickle dripped with something dark and viscous in their hand.

"Ah," the figure said, their voice a rasp like dry leaves. "The Heir lives. How… disappointing."

Serra’s sword ignited brighter. "Veyla."

The masked figure tilted their head. "Serra of the Silver Flame. I didn’t expect to find you here. Then again, I didn’t expect you to lie for him."

Dain’s pulse spiked. "You know her?"

Veyla’s laughter was a hollow thing. "Oh, Dain. We’ve met before. Though you wouldn’t remember. You were just a child when I last saw you."

Dain’s mind raced. "That’s impossible."

"Is it?" Veyla stepped closer, the sickle dragging against the stone. "Your father brought you to the Ashen Covenant when you were six. He begged us to take you. Said the fire in your veins was too strong. That you’d burn the world if we didn’t."

Dain’s chest constricted. "You’re lying."

"Am I?" Veyla reached up and removed her mask.

Dain recoiled.

Her face was half-scared, the left side a web of glowing veins, pulsing with the same black light as the gauntlet’s runes. Her right eye was milky white, blind. The left was black as the Voidscars.

"The Wyrm’s blood doesn’t just mark you," she said. "It changes you."

Serra moved between them, sword raised. "Stay back, witch."

Veyla ignored her, her gaze locked on Dain. "Your father knew what you were. He knew what you’d become. But he couldn’t kill you. So he hid you. And now here you are, just in time for the awakening."

Dain’s hands trembled. "What awakening?"

The ground trembled again. This time, the cavern walls cracked, dust raining from above.

Veyla smiled. "The Wyrm isn’t just waking, Heir. It’s hungry."

A deafening roar split the air. Not from the mountain.

From beneath them.

The altar exploded.

Stone shattered as something massive burst from the ground, a claw, black as void metal, its edges jagged like broken glass. It slashed through the cavern, missing Dain by inches. He hit the ground, rolling as the claw slammed into the wall, sending chunks of rock flying.

Serra lunged, her sword clashing against the claw’s talons. "It’s a Voidspawn! Move, Dain!"

Dain scrambled to his feet, hammer raised. The creature pulled itself free, a monstrosity of shadow and bone, its body a writhing mass of tendrils, its maw a pit of endless dark.

Veyla didn’t move. She laughed.

The Voidspawn’s gaze locked onto Dain. Its voice was a chorus of whispers: "Heir…"

The gauntlet burned. Dain gritted his teeth as the pain seared through him. The runes glowed white-hot, and suddenly, he understood.

The creature wasn’t here to kill him.

It was here to claim him.

"Dain!" Serra shouted, shoving him aside as the Voidspawn’s tail lashed out. She barely dodged, her sword carving a line of blue fire across its hide. The creature hissed, recoiling, but only for a moment.

Veyla raised her sickle. "It’s too late for her, Heir. But you… you can still choose."

Dain’s vision swam. The gauntlet’s voice echoed in his skull: "Use me."

He didn’t think. He swung.