The Dragon’s Tine

Her King had gone long before, seeking a dragon whose blood might cure the wasting illness of their only son. Neither had returned. The sun lingered unnaturally in the sky; the earth trembled with the last whisper of doom.

It was the final portent.

But the old ways had been forgotten. The silver trees, sacred and strange, were burned, their people exiled. Without them, there were none to read the signs plainly written in the hour before calamity.

Then the dragons came down.
It was the final portent.

But the old ways had been forgotten. The silver trees, sacred and strange, were burned, their people exiled. Without them, there were none to read the signs plainly written in the hour before calamity.

Then the dragons came down.

No longer keepers of wisdom or allies of kings, they brought ruin to the realms of men. Cities were reduced to ash. Where once they soared as holy companions, now they clashed with each other over the crowns of humankind. And men—so bold in their stories—found themselves powerless. Their courage melted in the firelight.

But from beneath the Wandering Mountains came a knight, not in shining armor, but in weathered plate, bearing a child, a wife, and a terrible wound. His name was not known, but his tale began in the blessed realm of Eletheme—land of song, starlit rivers, and ancient drakes. Once, he had been a shepherd there, tending dragonkin. He forsook all to live among the Lady Ellowyn’s people, laboring seven years to earn their trust and the fruit of the silver tree.

That realm too burned.

A dragon, Mêmraahq, Glimmerwing of legend, had turned without warning. He laid low the House of Ėhraandis, scorched grove and beast alike. The knight—once a nobleman, now a servant—faced the impossible. And prevailed.

At the Old Stone Mantel, they met Uurnik, a dwarven wizard with hands of steel and a mind of fire. He listened, disbelieving, as Ellowyn and the knight told of Mêmraahq’s fall. She showed him the dragon’s tine—long, warm, and broken. Uurnik trembled.

“You slew a dragon,” he said, voice like a prayer.

“I did,” said the knight. “And I will again.”

The dwarf’s mind turned to cities already burned—Blackstone, Thimbledon, Eddenbur. If a dragon could die, perhaps doom could be challenged.

“You were cast out of Eletheme?” Uurnik asked.

“I took life, broke communion,” the knight said. “I shall not walk the ages. I will grow no tree.”

“But you live,” the dwarf replied. “And perhaps, you were made for this hour.”

He looked to Ellowyn. Her beauty held sorrow like a song holds silence. She unwrapped a dragon’s tooth and placed it in his hand.

“This is for the king,” she said, “that he might believe the truth of our tale.”

Uurnik nodded, eyes wet with wonder. Then, from his satchel, he pulled a contraption of iron. With a flick, it bloomed into a bow, strange and beautiful.

“For your son,” he said. “May his hand be steady and his hunger brief.”

The boy took it, bowing low.

“Go now,” said Uurnik. “The Queen remains, and her counselors grow desperate. She will listen. She must.”

Ellowyn kissed the dwarf’s brow. The knight clasped his hand.

“You honor us.”

“You bring the dawn,” Uurnik said. “Return to me when your work is done.”

And with that, they passed beneath the sky’s burning edge, walking toward the last great city unscathed.

Toward Ithilion.

Toward fire.

Her King had gone long before, seeking a dragon whose blood might cure the wasting illness of their only son. Neither had returned. The sun lingered unnaturally in the sky; the earth trembled with the last whisper of doom.

But the old ways had been forgotten. The silver trees, sacred and strange, were burned, their people exiled. Without them, there were none to read the signs plainly written in the hour before calamity.

Then the dragons came down.

No longer keepers of wisdom or allies of kings, they brought ruin to the realms of men. Cities were reduced to ash. Where once they soared as holy companions, now they clashed with each other over the crowns of humankind.