The room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't comfort—it suffocated.
A single monitor beeped rhythmically next to the hospital bed, marking the passage of each second like a ticking clock counting down a life. Pale white light spilled through the blinds, slicing the room into lines of light and shadow. Machines hummed softly, tubes ran from plastic bags into a man's withered arm, and the sterile smell of disinfectant clung to everything.
Thomas Everlight, age sixty-five, was dying.
Not the dramatic kind of dying—the kind they show in movies with screaming, urgency, panic. No, his dying was slow. Resigned. Inevitable. The doctors had said the words a year ago: Stage Four. Inoperable. Terminal.
He had accepted it like he accepted most things: with silence, with a slow nod, and a quiet "thank you" to the oncologist who couldn't save him.
Now, on what he knew must be one of his final days, Tom sat alone in the hospital bed, a thin blanket draped over his legs, an open book in his lap. The IV drip hissed faintly beside him, feeding medicine into his body that no longer had the strength to fight.
His bones ached. His breath rattled in his chest like something loose and broken. But still—he read.
His hands trembled as he turned the page, the yellowed paper soft from use. The book was old, dog-eared, and mysterious. He had picked it up from a donation bin outside the hospital three days ago. No title on the cover. No author listed. Just a dragon embossed in red, its wings stretched wide across a scorched battlefield.
The story inside had gripped him harder than any novel in years.
It spoke of a world torn by elemental war—dragons, Faye, humans, and vampires uniting to fight back an army of demon spawn from beyond the Great Desert. Of love between enemies, of sacrifice, and legacy. Of kingdoms built on ancient ruins. Of fire and blood and magic.
He had reached the end now. The final chapter.
The dragon king and his Faye queen—lovers from rival clans—died in the final battle, holding back the demon army so their children could escape. A young girl with wings like glass and her infant brother, carried to safety by a wounded knight and hidden within the protective embrace of the Faye court.
As he read the last words, something in Tom's chest twisted—not pain, not yet—but a deep sadness. Not for himself, but for them.
For the children who would never know their parents.
For the queen who would never hold her daughter again.
For the old soldier who had carried them through fire.
He closed the book and stared at the ceiling, the tears welling without permission.
"That was a hell of a story," he whispered.
A soft knock broke the silence. A nurse peeked in, young and gentle-eyed.
"Mr. Everlight? It's time for your medication."
He nodded faintly. "Leave it on the table, if you don't mind."
She hesitated. "You sure you don't want me to stay a bit?"
"No," he said with a wan smile. "You've got others to take care of."
She nodded, placed the pills and water on the table, and left quietly, closing the door behind her.
Tom reached for the water glass, his fingers shaking. It took him two tries to grip it properly. After swallowing the pills, he set it down and leaned back again, closing his eyes.
But instead of fading into sleep, a voice—soft, childlike—drifted into the room.
"Please… save them. Please, sir."
Tom's eyes shot open.
He looked around. The room was empty.
"You're the only one left who can."
The voice again. This time clearer.
He turned—and froze.
Standing at the foot of his bed was a boy. Maybe seventeen. Tall and thin, with windswept hair and a strange luminescence in his skin, like moonlight reflected through water. His eyes shimmered like stars. He looked too perfect, too still, like a photograph coming to life.
And worse—he was transparent.
"Am I dead?" Tom asked, more annoyed than afraid.
"Not yet," the boy said with a gentle smile. "But your time is close."
"Well," Tom said, "then I'm either hallucinating or death's gotten younger."
The boy chuckled. "Neither. I'm a soul bound to a world that desperately needs you."
Tom blinked. "Say that again?"
The boy stepped closer. "The book you just read—it wasn't fiction. It was memory. My memory."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "You're telling me… that you were the prince in the story?"
The boy nodded slowly. "My name was Kaelen. Firstborn of the Flame-Bound King. I died… too early. I failed my people. Failed my sister. But I reached out across the veil, and you answered."
"I just picked up a book."
"No. You were chosen. The God of Balance heard my plea. You were the only one with the will to listen. You've spent your life building, protecting, learning. You have the heart of a guardian—and the fire of a maker. That's what my world needs."
Tom took a long breath, his chest crackling faintly. "Even if I believed you… what can I do? I can barely stand. I'm a broken man."
The boy's eyes sparkled. "What if I gave you a new body? Stronger than you've ever known. One forged from fire and magic. A dragon's soul wrapped in strength—and your memories intact."
Tom stared. "You want me to be a dragon?"
"More than that. A protector. A teacher. A warrior. And a builder of peace."
The boy's form flickered. "I don't have long. If you say yes, you'll be reborn with your skills—your crafting, your science, your tactics—all enhanced by ancient magic. But you'll have to leave this world behind. Forever."
Tom looked at the boy—at the fading light in his eyes—and felt something shift.
He had done many things in his life. Served in the military. Traveled. Helped strangers. Learned a thousand trades.
But he had never saved a world.
He nodded once.
"I'm in."
Kaelen smiled.
"One more thing," the boy said, his form dissolving into motes of light. "When you find my sister… tell her I love her. And tell my parents… I didn't forget them."
Then he was gone.
And with him, the world around Tom faded.
The monitor flatlined.
But Tom didn't feel pain.
He felt warmth.
And then—
Flame.
It was the sensation of waking after a deep, dreamless sleep. His body was light, warm, humming with energy. He opened his eyes to a forest canopy glittering with dew, and birdsong filled the air.
He blinked. Sat up.
His body was enormous.
Gold-scaled hands. Massive, clawed feet. A tail that dragged behind him. Wings, folded like curtains at his sides.
He stood slowly, his muscles pulsing with strength. No pain. No weakness. Only power.
He roared—not in fear, but in awe.
A voice piped up behind him.
"Are you a monster or are you nice?"
He turned—and saw her.
A girl, no older than six, with wings of translucent silk and hair the color of leaves in spring. She hovered cautiously in the air, her eyes huge and curious.
"I'm… not a monster," Tom said—or tried to. His voice came out in a low growl, but she seemed to understand.
"My name's Lira," she said, flying up to his nose. "You're huge. Like, really huge. Did you fall from the sky?"
Tom blinked. "You're not afraid of me?"
"Nah," she said. "A nice boy told me you'd be here. He said you'd help me find my Nana."
Her words hit him like a thunderclap.
Kaelen. Already guiding him.
"I'm Talon," he said—choosing a new name for this new life. "Talon Everlight."
She grinned. "Cool name! Wanna fly me home?"
He nodded. "Point the way."
As she climbed onto his back, the dragon who had once been Thomas Everlight stretched his wings wide.
And with one mighty leap—
He soared.