Zekar didn't wake to the sound of the horn. He woke to the smell.
It wasn't the clean, sharp scent of cedar logs in the hearth or the spiced aroma of Mama's cooking. This was thick and oily, heavy with the smell of burning thatch and something metallic that made his throat itch.
He sat up suddenly, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. The room was dark, but a flickering, sickly orange light seeped through the cracks in the window shutters. Beside him, Ryker was already moving, his outline a frantic shadow as he reached for his bow.
"Zekar," Ryker whispered in drk, his voice quivering. "Look outside."
Zekar opened the shutters. He didn't look at the village first. He looked west, toward the valley where the white stone of Velanthri usually caught the moonlight. The valley wasn't white anymore. It was lit by a hellish, pulsating glow. The Jewel of Varnathian was on fire.
"The promise," Zekar whispered, the English word tasting like ash in his mouth. They were supposed to meet in two days. They were supposed to leave.
He threw on his leather tunic, his fingers fumbling with the buckles. Below, the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed on the packed earth of the Druvkaur thoroughfare. It wasn't the soft boots of the Skalds. It was the clank of iron and the heavy tread of disciplined soldiers.
"They're here," Ryker said, peering over Zekar's shoulder. "The Vordhûr."
Zekar looked down. A line of warriors clad in blackened steel armor marched through the village. These were the fire-keepers of Eldharûn—men who didn't just carry flames, but mastered them with machines and tempered metal. They brandished long, hooked spears and heavy shields that glinted in the firelight.
"Get your things!" Baba's voice boomed from the bottom of the stairs. It wasn't the voice of a father giving a lesson; it was the roar of a man who had seen the end of the world before.
The twins scrambled down the ladder. The lower floor of their home was a scene of controlled chaos. Mama stuffed small pouches of dried meat and medicinal herbs into a satchel, her red eyes wide and glowing with a fierce, protective light. She looked at Zekar and, for the first time, didn't tell him to stay close.
"The back hills," she said in Drk, her voice steady despite the chaos outside. "The cave by the obsidian ridge. Go there."
"I am not running," Ryker snapped, his jaw set. He notched an arrow, his hands shaking slightly. "This is our home. We have the fire. We can fight them."
"You have sparks, Ryker!" Baba roared, grabbing his son by the shoulder. He was holding his heavy wood-cutting axe, the blade polished until it shone like a mirror. "They have legions. This isn't a skirmish. This is an erasure."
A sudden explosion shook the house, sending dust and plaster raining from the ceiling. A ball of green alchemical fire had struck the neighbor's roof, igniting the dry thatch in seconds. The screams began then—high, piercing sounds that tore through the night.
Zekar moved toward the door, his eyes fixed on the westward horizon. He didn't care about the ridge. He didn't care about the obsidian cave.
"I have to go to the stream," Zekar said.
"Zekar, no!" Mama lunged for him, gripping his arm. "The valley is crawling with Thalyrin. You won't make it a mile before they cut you down."
"I made a promise!" Zekar shouted, pulling away. He spoke in Drk, desperation thickening his voice, making Baba pause. "I told her I would keep her! If the manor is burning, she is alone. They will kill her because she is a songbird, Mama. They want the voices silent!"
"The girl is already gone, Zekar," Baba said, his voice turning somber and hollow. "Look at the sky."
Zekar looked. Above the burning trees, dozens of silver specks were diving and rising. The Caelorth hawks weren't circling; they were hunting. They dropped like stones onto rooftops, shifting back into their human forms mid-air to drop fire-pots before leaping back into the sky.
"She is not gone," Zekar whispered. He felt the dragon-glass shard beneath his tunic pulse with heat that matched his own rage. "She is waiting."
The front door of the house shuddered under a massive blow. The wood groaned, the iron hinges screaming as something heavy slammed against it from outside.
"Back door! Now!" Baba commanded. He shoved Mama toward the kitchen exit and pointed his axe at the twins. "Go with her. I will hold the threshold."
"Baba—" Ryker began.
"Go!"
They burst out the back, stumbling into the narrow alley between the houses. The village was a nightmare of orange and black. The Druvkaur fought back—Zekar saw an elder sending a pillar of flame into the air, illuminating a group of Vordhûr soldiers—but for every soldier that fell, three more emerged from the shadows. The metal weapons of Eldharûn sliced through the Druvkaur fire like it was smoke.
Zekar felt a sharp pain in his shoulder blades. It wasn't the dull itch he had felt for weeks. It was a searing, white-hot agony, as if someone were driving iron spikes into his bones. He slumped against a stone wall, gasping for air.
"Zekar? What's wrong?" Ryker grabbed his tunic, trying to pull him upright.
"I... I can't..." Zekar groaned. The heat in his chest was growing, turning his blood into molten lead.
Above them, a piercing shriek echoed. One of the silver hawks had spotted them. It tucked its wings and began a vertical dive, its talons extended, aiming straight for the roof of their duplex where Baba was still standing guard.
"Watch out!" Ryker yelled, releasing an arrow. The shaft whistled through the air, but the Caelorth shifted mid-dive, the arrow passing through thin air where the bird had been just before.
The scout landed on their roof, his dark skin covered in silver ash, a jagged shortsword in his hand. He looked down with a cold, predatory smile.
"The twins," the scout said in a voice that felt like wind on stone. "The Emperor wants the Songbirds alive. The rest can burn."
Zekar looked up, his vision blurring with tears of pain and anger. He saw the scout raise a hand, signaling to a group of archers on the ridge above the village. The archers drew their bows, the tips of their arrows glowing with the same green alchemical fire that consumed the rest of Druvkaur.
"Run, Zekar!" Mama screamed, trying to pull both of them toward the treeline.
But Zekar couldn't run. He looked west one last time. In his mind, he saw the fallen tree. He saw Emery sitting there, her white hair glowing in the moonlight, her blue eyes full of trust he was now failing. He saw her cornered in that house of glass, her "Songbird" voice silenced by a blade she never believed would come.
The first wave of arrows left the bows, trailing green streaks across the black sky like falling stars. They weren't aimed at the warriors. They were aimed at the houses, at the families, at the very heart of his life.
Baba stepped out from the doorway, his axe raised, his silhouette framed by the flames of their burning home. He looked at Zekar, a final, silent command in his eyes: Be the dragon.
As the arrows began to rain down, the pain in Zekar's back reached a breaking point. He felt his skin tear, the heat finally escaping his body in a physical surge that knocked Ryker and Mama to the ground.
He didn't feel like a boy anymore. He didn't feel like a hunter. He felt like a storm that had been brewing for three hundred years, finally hitting the shore.
He looked toward the valley, toward the manor, toward the girl he had promised to keep. The green fire reflected in his eyes, turning the gold to blood-red, he screamed;
"EMERY!"