Tears Of The Last Dragon

The Ember Pulse

The birthing hut stood silent under the four-day darkness, its walls scorched from the dragon’s fire and stained with Elite’s blood. Outside, the VOID’s roars faded into a low rumble, its rifts sealing as the last dragon’s golden form vanished into the night sky. Inside, Liora cradled Ten, his lightning eyes dimming to a soft glow. Her arms ached from holding him, her body weak from the birth, but her gaze never wavered. The child’s tortoise-shell marks pulsed faintly, a rhythm that echoed the dragon’s labored breaths overhead.

Mara knelt beside her, hands tracing runes in the air to seal the hut’s broken wall. Her spellblade light cast jagged shadows, illuminating the mystics who slumped against the walls, exhaustion etched into their faces. The air carried the tang of burnt wood and herbs, a bitter reminder of the battle. Mara’s voice broke the stillness. “The dragon saved us, but its strength wanes. We need to move Ten before the Vocans return.”

Liora nodded, her fingers brushing Ten’s cheek. “Where? The village lies in ashes. Aethervale-South offers no safety.”

A rustle sounded at the door, and a girl stepped inside—Sari, a wiry figure with braided brown hair and a bow slung across her back. Her green eyes, sharp from years tracking game, scanned the room. She carried a quiver of dragonwood arrows, their tips glinting with resin. “The archers held the east ridge,” she said, voice steady. “But Elite’s gone. The others sent me to fetch you. A council gathers at dawn.”

Mara rose, her robe brushing the floor. “A council? With the VOID still out there?”

Sari’s jaw tightened. “They say the dragon spoke to Elite before he died. Something about a child and a garden. The mystics from Dracolys-East demand answers.”

Liora’s breath caught. The Forbidden Garden, guarded by Therha and opened every 500 years with a three-cow sacrifice, lingered in her mind—a place of legend tied to Devol’s creation. She glanced at Ten, his eyes flickering as if sensing her thoughts. “Then we go,” she said. “But not without the dragon’s blessing.”

The night stretched on, the darkness pressing against the hut’s walls. Sari offered Liora a waterskin, and the two women worked together to bind Liora’s wounds with strips of cloth. Ten slept, his tiny chest rising and falling, a fragile anchor in the chaos. Mara prepared a sling from her robe, securing Ten against Liora’s chest. The mystics gathered their belongings, their chants low and urgent, a prayer to hold the Vocans at bay.

As they stepped outside, the village of Eldwood lay in ruin. Homes smoldered, their roofs collapsed under the weight of Vocan claws. Bodies littered the streets, archers and villagers alike, their faces frozen in terror. The ridge loomed ahead, a jagged line against the dark sky, where the surviving archers waited. Sari led the way, her bow drawn, arrows nocked with practiced ease. Mara flanked Liora, her spellblade ready, its light a faint guide.

Halfway to the ridge, a shadow moved. A Vocan, smaller than the ones from the hut, darted from a rift that pulsed open in the ground. Its claws scraped the earth, and its eyes locked on Ten. Sari loosed an arrow, the dragonfire resin igniting mid-flight. The Vocan twisted, the arrow grazing its shoulder, and it lunged. Mara’s spellblade clashed with its claws, sparks flying as she drove it back. The creature snarled, its speed a blur, but the dragon’s earlier fire had weakened it. Sari’s second arrow struck its throat, and it collapsed, its body dissolving into ash.

Liora’s heart pounded, her arms tightening around Ten. The child stirred, his lightning eyes flaring, and a crackle of energy sparked from his hands. The rift sealed with a hiss, the ground trembling. Mara stared, her mouth open. “He did that,” she whispered. “The dragon’s power lives in him.”

The revelation hung heavy as they reached the ridge. The archers, a dozen weary figures, stood around a fire pit. Their bows rested against rocks, their faces smudged with soot. A man with a scarred face, Kael from Starhollow-North, stepped forward. His white hair gleamed in the firelight, and his staff tapped the ground. “The dragon spoke to Elite,” he said, voice rough. “It named the child Ten and tied him to the Eternal Cave. We must send word to the Four Kingdoms.”

Liora clutched Ten closer, her mind racing. The Eternal Cave, straddling Aethervale-South and Dracolys-East, held secrets of ancient power—rumors of a weapon against the VOID. But Kael’s words carried a weight she couldn’t ignore. “Why the cave?” she asked.

Kael’s one eye narrowed. “Because the dragon’s death nears. Its Tears will fall, and Ten must claim them.”

The council began at dawn, the sky still cloaked in darkness. Representatives from Dracolys-East, Ironcrag-West, and Starhollow-North joined via runners, their messages carved into dragonwood tablets. The archers built a barricade, their arrows trained on the horizon where rifts flickered. Liora sat with Ten, Sari beside her, while Mara and Kael debated with the newcomers. A woman from Ironcrag, Torin, arrived with a warhammer in hand, her shield bearing the kingdom’s crest. Her broad shoulders filled the space, and her voice boomed. “We send Ten to the cave, but Ironcrag demands protection. The VOID grows bolder.”

A man from Dracolys, Lira, stood tall, her spellblade sheathed at her hip. Her silver hair caught the firelight, and her green eyes glowed faintly. “The Forbidden Garden opens soon,” she said. “Therha guards it, but the dragon’s Tears may unlock its power. Ten could be the key.”

The discussion turned heated, voices clashing over strategy. Kael raised his staff, silencing them. “The prophecy speaks of a child born in darkness, marked by lightning. Ten fits. But the dragon’s death will weaken us all. We prepare now.”

As the council broke, a runner stumbled into the ridge, his face pale. “The dragon,” he gasped. “It’s landed in Dracolys-East. Wounded.”

The group froze. Liora’s stomach twisted. She handed Ten to Sari and followed Mara toward the edge of the ridge. Below, a golden shape lay sprawled across the plains, its wings torn, its scales dulled. The last dragon’s breaths came in shallow heaves, and a crowd from Dracolys gathered, their spellblades drawn. A rift opened nearby, and Vocans emerged, their claws slashing at the dragon’s flanks.

Liora’s cry caught in her throat. She turned to run, but Kael gripped her arm. “Wait,” he said. “This is the inciting moment. The dragon’s fall begins our fight.”

Before she could protest, a figure stepped from the rift—a woman with black skin that swallowed light, her red eyes glowing. Veyra, the Void’s Voice, raised a hand, and the Vocans halted. Her voice slithered through the air. “The dragon dies tonight. Your child cannot stop it.”

The plot twist struck like a blade. Veyra’s presence hinted at a deeper plan, her control over the Vocans a threat beyond the VOID itself. Liora snatched Ten from Sari, her heart racing. The dragon’s fire flared one last time, driving the Vocans back, but its strength faded. Veyra laughed, a sound that chilled the ridge, and vanished into the rift.