THE DRAGONS ASHES : The Chronicles of Kildry

CHAPTER 3: THE HIGH HIGHWAY

The wind above the cloudline did not bite; it roared. It was a living, breathing thing that tore at cloaks and scoured the skin clean of ash and soot.

At ten thousand feet, the violent tempest that had battered Castle Oakhaven into submission had collapsed into a vast, rolling blanket of silver fog beneath them. It stretched out like an endless frozen ocean, illuminated from below by the dull, malevolent crimson glow of burning settlements. The lowlands were bleeding fire, a jagged constellation of ruin that marked the march of the dark armies.

Samson sat crouched between the massive spine-ridges of the dragon, his fingers hooked deep into the thick, leather-like scales near the base of its neck. The beast moved with effortless, hypnotic power. Each deliberate stroke of its wings drove them through the upper atmosphere at a velocity that blurred the distant stars into long streaks of silver light. The cold air rushed past them, yet warmth radiated from the creature’s hide, a steady thermal current that kept the mountain chill at bay.

Ignis.

The name echoed in Samson’s consciousness—not spoken in human words, but projected as an overwhelming, sensory collage of volcanic fire, ancient mountain peaks, and bloodlines stretching back to the world's dawn. The dragon shared its mind with him freely, offering memories of a forgotten era when the sky belonged exclusively to those who bore the Dragon Crest, long before ambitious mages built their high towers, erected ward-stones, and carved up the fractured continent into petty, squabbling kingdoms.

Samson closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the dragon’s alien thoughts wash over him. He felt the vastness of the sky, the pulse of the ley lines far below, and the terrifying, dormant strength resting in the muscles beneath his thighs.

Below, through a sudden tear in the churning fog, the Great Northern Road appeared as a thin, muddy ribbon winding through the pitch-black expanse of the Whispering Woods.

Suddenly, Ignis let out a low, bass rumble deep in his chest—a warning vibration that rippled straight up through Samson’s palms and into his bones.

Samson leaned forward, narrowing his golden eyes against the slipstream. A mile ahead on the road, a convoy of heavily iron-reinforced carriages had been ambushed and trapped. Dark magic hung heavy over the canopy. Unnatural purple flames licked at the ancient branches of the trees, and the faint, ringing sound of steel clashing against bone echoed up through the cloud cover.

"A royal crest..." Samson murmured, his sharp gaze spotting the silver gryphon emblazoned on the shattered side of the overturned lead carriage.

It was the vanguard of the Royal Guard, tasked with escorting high delegates from the capital. Surrounded by dozens of chanting dark cultists and snarling, summoned abyssal hounds, a desperate handful of surviving knights were forming a final, bloodied shield wall around a central armored carriage. Their armor was dented, their banners dragged in the mire, and their numbers were dwindling by the second.

Samson patted the warm, armored scale beside his knee. "Take us down."

Ignis folded his massive, leathery wings and plunged into the drop.

The air shrieked in Samson’s ears as they descended like a falling star, gravity and momentum turning them into a lethal projectile. The dark cultists below barely had time to look up, their incantations faltering as a colossal shadow blotted out the crimson glow of the forest fire.

Ignis slammed into the center of the clearing with the devastating force of a siege engine.

The earth shattered beneath the impact. Stone, soil, and black-robed cultists were thrown fifty feet into the air by the kinetic shockwave, scattering like autumn leaves in a hurricane. Before the debris could even settle, Ignis swept his massive, spiked tail in a broad, fluid arc, crushing three lunging abyssal hounds into thick, ink-like vapor before they could recover their footing.

Absolute silence fell over the road in an instant, broken only by the crackle of burning brush and the heavy, ragged breathing of the surviving men.

Samson dropped lightly from the dragon’s shoulder, his boots splashing softly onto the muddy road. The surviving royal knights lowered their chipped, blood-stained swords, staring in dumbfounded, terrified shock at the youth standing casually beside a mythical beast of legend.

From the reinforced window of the central armored carriage, a young woman pushed aside a heavy velvet curtain.

She had sharp, silver hair cropped close to her temples and wore the intricate, rune-woven robes of a High Magistrix. Her eyes widened in genuine astonishment as she felt the suffocating, ancient pressure radiating outward from Samson—a heavy, sovereign aura that made her own high-level mana veins thrum in instinctual submission. This was no ordinary traveler; this was a nexus of power.

"Who... who are you?" she breathed, her hand trembling slightly as it rested on the hilt of a glowing, rune-etched rapier.

Samson stepped forward, the falling rain parting naturally around his body as his golden aura flickered softly to life against the pitch-black darkness of the ancient forest.

"My name is Samson," he said quietly, his voice carrying an unnatural resonance that commanded the space around him.

He turned his gaze away from the smoking wreckage and fixed his eyes upon the distant, faint lights of the capital shimmering on the southern horizon.

"And I'm here to reclaim the realm."