High above the cloud-wreathed mountains where the air turned thin and the sun burned white, the jagged ridges of Dracorith's Crown pierced the sky like black spears dipped in molten fire.
Here, where the wind carried the scent of old magic and the echo of roars long past, the dragons came to gather.
This was sacred ground.
It was said the first dragon gods broke the crust of the world here, carving the throne-peaks from sleeping volcanoes with flame-born wings and shaping the bones of the realm itself. Even now, the stone still hummed beneath claw and foot, a quiet throb of ancestral power that every dragon could feel in their chest.
And today, for the first time in a thousand years, the sacred fires of Sanctum Flameblood were lit for a naming heir.
---
The ceremony began at dawn.
The sky above was clear, painted in shades of copper and wine as the twin moons retreated, and the Eye of the Sun crowned the mountains in golden fire. Along the great sky-bridge that led to the sanctum—a winding stone pathway carved into the cliffside and reinforced with ancient rune-plates—processions of noble dragons approached in long, winding lines. Their wings were folded, their robes billowing in the mountain wind.
Most were in humanoid form, as tradition dictated during sacred rites—tall, majestic figures with reptilian eyes, clawed hands, and scales that shimmered in the rising light. Only a few elders remained in their full dragon forms, their massive bodies resting atop wide terraces carved just for them.
The Sanctum of Flameblood itself sat like a crown upon the highest plateau of the mountain. A wide, circular arena hewn from volcanic obsidian, its floor veined with threads of glowing amber and fire-runes so old they pulsed without casting shadows. Thirteen pyres ringed the outer circle, one for each noble house, burning with colored flames unique to their bloodlines.
In the center, a raised dais of blackstone held the Cradle of Inheritance—an altar carved in the image of a coiled dragon, its eyes glowing faintly with soulflame. Upon it rested a cradle forged from obsidian and crystalsteel, cradling the realm's youngest heir:
Aurenyx, son of Vauren and Ysera. The Crimsonflame Child.
He lay curled, still in his whelp form—small yet elegant, with scales like molten ruby streaked with golden firelight. His horns were forming into graceful arcs, and his breath, even in sleep, carried faint embers that danced in spirals above him.
But what made every eye watch him—what made every breath catch—was his presence.
Even sleeping, he radiated something impossible, something ancient, something divine.
---
The Council of Clawlords stood in a circle behind the altar. Thirteen dragons, each robed in ceremonial armor made from the scales and bones of their ancestors. Their eyes gleamed with pride, suspicion, reverence—depending on their loyalties.
At their head stood King Vauren, in full humanoid regalia—towering, broad-shouldered, his armor forged of starmetal and volcanic glass. Two dark-red wings folded behind him, and his horns curled like royal crowns, adorned with rings marking centuries of rule.
He stood silent, but the wind around him whispered power.
Beside him stood Queen Ysera, now recovered, clad in a flowing gown of flameweave, her eyes fixed on her child. Her crimson hair, braided with gold, fluttered in the mountain breeze.
And before them all, Elder Thrazir, oldest of the Council and keeper of the Old Flame, stepped forward.
His silver scales were faded with age, his wings folded like ancient scrolls behind him. In his hands, he held the Tome of Flameblood, and at his side hovered the Prophecy Stone—a jagged crystal monolith taller than a full-grown man, pulsing faintly with threads of silver fire.
He spoke, his voice carrying through the mountain wind.
"Let the sky bear witness. Let the earth remember. Let flame record what shall not be lost."
He turned to the cradle.
"Today, we name the child of fire and crown, of blood and prophecy. Aurenyx, son of Vauren and Ysera—do you come to claim your place?"
The winds stirred and the fires shifted.
And then child opened his eyes.
Gold, bright and steady. Like the sun through amber.
He did not cry nor squirm. He simply stared—directly at the flame, directly at Thrazir as if he understood.
A ripple passed through the crowd, a low murmur. No whelp had ever answered the call of legacy in such a way that the fire acknowledged him.
---
King Vauren stepped forward, his voice deep and ceremonial.
"By my name, and by the line of kings forged in fire,
I name this child Aurenyx Flameborn, Heir to Draconhold, Warden of the Sky Marches, Flame-Keeper of the Redline, Scion of the Peak and blood of Dravonox."
Each title shimmered in the air, written in fire and flame.
As the final words echoed, each Clawlord stepped forward in turn, pressing their palm to their heart and bowing low.
"Aurenyx Flameborn," they said as one.
And then, Elder Thrazir approached the Prophecy Stone.
He drew a dagger of obsidian wreathed in ceremonial fire and gently pricked the whelp's tiny claw. One drop of molten-gold blood fell onto the surface of the stone.
The world held its breath.
---
Normally, the Prophecy Stone shimmered or flashed briefly.
But this time—It screamed.
A blast of flame erupted from its core, rising thirty feet into the sky, forming shapes—visions—so clear they seemed carved from the air itself.
Dragons clashing in the heavens.
Elves with burning spears.
Gods falling from the sky.
And a world cracked in half.
And at the heart of it—a massive winged dragon, cloaked in golden light, horned like a god, surrounded by fire that shaped itself into thrones, graves, and war banners.
The flames spoke.
A voice echoed through the sanctum—deep, godlike, neither male nor female.
"He shall rise. He shall burn. The Veil shall shatter beneath his roar and the gods will kneel…or perish."
Then the vision collapsed.
The Prophecy Stone cracked down the middle and silence fell like stone.
---
One of the Clawlords staggered back.
"This is no mere heir," whispered Lord Zurnok, his black eyes wide. "This is the return of a god."
Others looked to King Vauren, uncertain.
But the king stood firm. His jaw clenched, his eyes unreadable.
"He is my son," he said simply. "And he is our future."
"Or our ruin," whispered one of the lesser lords, but none dared challenge the king aloud.
---
Far above, beyond the main platform, the younger nobles watched from the Skyhold Balconies, stone terraces jutting from the cliffs with clear views of the sanctum below.
Among them stood a girl with icy-blue scales and eyes like frozen moonlight.
Velmira, daughter of House Glacien.
She said nothing as the flames roared. She didn't flinch as the Prophecy Stone shattered. She just stared.
When the vision ended, she whispered to no one:
"He will change everything and I will stand at his side…or fall beneath his fire."
---
After the ceremony, the sanctum emptied slowly. The cracked Prophecy Stone was wrapped in silken flamecloth and taken to the Vault of Forgotten Flame, deep beneath the mountain.
The Clawlords returned to their citadels, whispering of omens.
But across the dragon realm, the news spread like wildfire. Temples long silent re-lit their eternal flames.
Clans in the frozen south sang songs of the Flame King reborn. Even the stars shifted. And beneath it all, in the royal sanctum, Aurenyx slept.
He did not dream of milk or warmth like other hatchlings.
He dreamed of the sky torn open of gods screaming, Of fire without end.
To be continued…