THE HIDDEN DRAGON

"Run, Seraphina! Take the boy and run!" High Lord Kael's voice thundered over the roaring flames as the sky bled crimson.

The winds howled like demons. Smoke thick as betrayal clawed at the fortress walls. The Citadel of Embers, proud and defiant for centuries, was collapsing—stone by stone, oath by oath.

Lady Seraphina Drakar stumbled through the corridor, her emerald cloak now singed and clinging to her blood-splattered armor. Cradled in her arms was an infant wrapped in golden linen, barely old enough to cry. But he wasn't crying. No, Rayden Drakar, last seed of the fireborn bloodline, was deathly silent. Too still.

"Hold on, my love," she whispered, pressing a trembling kiss to his forehead. "You are not dying today. You are prophecy. You are vengeance wrapped in the skin of innocence."

The Night of Scorching Winds had come without warning. The betrayal had come from within. Their trusted allies, the Council of Flame, had turned, sold their loyalty for whispers of power from the East. The Drakar Clan had ruled not with tyranny, but honor. But in a world ruled by ambition, honor was a fool’s currency.

Seraphina burst into the sanctum—the Sacred Forge. The place where fire met fate. The air shimmered with ancient power. She collapsed to her knees before the Ember Altar, the ancient runes glowing with heatless flame.

"Protect him," she cried, raising the infant high. "By the ashes of our ancestors, by the first fire, hide him from their eyes! Let him rise when the world forgets our name. Let him burn their memory into the bones of the earth."

The altar pulsed. A flame wrapped around the child like a cocoon of light. The baby’s eyes fluttered open—eyes the color of smoldering coals. He did not cry.

From the smoke emerged a figure—Master Juno, the Drakar’s old historian and flame whisperer. He limped forward, his beard streaked with ash and sorrow.

"Juno..."

"Give him to me, Lady Seraphina," he said, voice cracked. "I know where to take him. Where even fire fears to tread."

She hesitated. Her arms refused to let go. But a scream echoed—Kael's voice, cut short by steel. Seraphina winced. She knew that scream. The sound of a man betrayed. The man she loved.

"Please, Seraphina," Juno whispered, gently taking the child. "His flame will be smothered if he stays. I swear by the old embers, he will live. Even if the world forgets, I will remember."

She nodded, tears finally falling.

"Name him... Rayden. Let his enemies forget the name Drakar. But let his soul remember. Let fire remember."

Juno bowed, clutching the child tightly as the altar shimmered again, swallowing them in a burst of light. The cocoon vanished. The sanctum was silent.

Outside, Seraphina drew her sword.

And charged into the flames.

Fifteen Years Later — The Village of Noorvale

The boy known as Rey Soren moved like fire and shadow. Quick on his feet, reckless in his smile. Dark hair always a mess, eyes glowing faintly when the sun struck them just right.

No one questioned the glow. No one dared.

Rey was an orphan, or so the village believed. Raised by Master Juno, the quiet old man who mended scrolls and whispered stories to the wind.

But Rey knew there was more. He felt it in the heat that built under his skin during thunderstorms. In the way fire crackled louder when he passed. In the nightmares of red skies and screaming voices he couldn’t remember.

"Rey! You’re burning the damn bread again!"

Rey snapped out of his daze, yanking the loaf from the fire pit. It was blackened.

"I told you," said Kaelin, the smith’s daughter, arms crossed and smudged with soot. "You daydream too much."

"Maybe I like my bread crispy," Rey grinned, tossing it into his mouth and pretending to enjoy the char.

Kaelin rolled her eyes, but she smiled. She always did.

Later that night, as the village lights dimmed and the moon took its watch, Juno called Rey into the study.

"Close the door, boy."

Rey obeyed. Juno stood by the hearth, an old scroll in his hand. His face was heavy with something more than age.

"You've felt it, haven't you? The call in your blood. The fire."

Rey nodded slowly.

"I don’t know what it is. I try to control it, but... it’s getting stronger."

Juno sighed. "I wanted more time. But the world’s waking up, Rey. Whispers have reached even Noorvale. The Scorching Winds are returning."

Rey’s eyes narrowed. "Scorching Winds?"

Juno unfurled the scroll. On it was the sigil of a phoenix wrapped in chains.

"This was your mother’s mark. Lady Seraphina Drakar."

The name hit Rey like a thunderclap.

"You’re not... just a boy, Rey. You are the last ember of a dynasty wiped out by treachery. A legacy buried in ash. The world doesn’t remember the Drakars. But they will remember you."

Rey stumbled back. "You’re lying. I’m just—"

"You are Rayden Drakar, born in fire, sealed by prophecy. Your enemies hunt you still. And you must rise. Not as Rey the bread-burner. But as the flame reborn."

Rey’s hands trembled. The hearth behind him flared high.

Juno smiled grimly. "Yes. The fire knows."

That night, Rey couldn't sleep. He stood outside, watching the stars tremble in the dark sky.

He thought of Kaelin. Of the village. Of Juno, who had been more than a guardian—he’d been a shield against a truth too heavy.

He clenched his fists. The warmth surged again.

"If I’m a flame," he whispered, "then let me burn them all. For my mother. For the forgotten."

Far away, in the Eastern Empire, a hooded figure knelt before a throne of obsidian.

"My lord," the assassin said. "The last Drakar... has awakened."

The man on the throne opened glowing golden eyes. Eyes that hadn’t blinked in decades.

"Good," he rasped. "Then the hunt begins anew."

"What if everything you are was built on ash and lies?" Rey muttered, gripping the scroll tighter. "Then I’ll make the truth burn bright enough to blind them all."