The Last Dragon Rider

Chapter 3 : A Cry for Hope

"Hope is a fragile thing. It binds the weak together, gives them strength, makes them think they can challenge what cannot be defeated. We will break that hope, crush it under our heel, and burn their belief in the light. Let them fear the dark, let them fear us."
- Morvaen

•A month had passed since the dragon's egg first fell from the heavens, binding itself to Salomon in that field. In that time, his life had changed in subtle, inexplicable ways. The mark on his chest often warmed with a faint glow, especially when he wandered too close to the barn where the egg was hidden. He could almost feel the egg's presence calling to him. His sleep was restless, filled with fleeting dreams of fire, flight, and shadowy beasts prowling the edges of his mind.

To keep up appearances and avoid drawing suspicion, his father, Garron, sent Salomon to the nearby town of Brackenridge every few days for supplies. It was on one of these trips, during the bustle of a busy evening, that Salomon first heard whispers of things best left unsaid.

The Rusty Keg Tavern was a rowdy, dimly lit place, full of the rough, hewn folk who spent their days laboring in the town's mines and fields. It was here, among the smell of sweat and spilled ale, that Salomon found himself drawn to a commotion at one of the back tables. His eyes darted over the crowd until he saw the source. A bearded man wrapped in a tattered cloak, his hair wild and streaked with grey. He stood on an overturned stool, sloshing his drink as he gestured animatedly to the gathered patrons.

"Dragons!" the man cried, his voice thick with drink.
"Dragons and Riders will return to the world! I've seen the signs, felt the magic stirring in the air! The age of darkness will not last forever!"

A ripple of mocking laughter swept through the tavern. Several patrons exchanged amused glances, and a burly blacksmith with arms like tree trunks sneered.
"You're full of it, old man," the blacksmith growled, standing up to his full height. He stepped forward and, with a single heave, shoved the man off the stool. The drunk stumbled, crashing into a nearby table, his mug spilling ale across the floor.

"Take your mad ramblings elsewhere, before I throw you out myself," the blacksmith warned, his broad shoulders blocking the man's view.

The old man scrambled to his feet, wiping his mouth.
"But I tell you, it's true! A new Rider has risen! The darkness won't consume everything!"

"Enough!" The blacksmith's fist connected with the man's shoulder, sending him sprawling. With a contemptuous snort, the blacksmith grabbed the man by the collar and shoved him toward the door, the patrons parting to let them through.

"Out with you, before you cause more trouble."

The man stumbled outside, falling into the muddy street. He groaned, muttering under his breath as he tried to push himself up.

Salomon watched the scene unfold, a strange sense of urgency tightening in his chest. Heart pounding, he ducked out of the tavern and slipped into the alleyway beside it, his gaze fixed on the man now limping through the dark streets. He didn't know why, but something about the man's words, about Riders, about hope, resonated deep within him.

Summoning his courage, he followed.

The man hadn't gone far when he stopped abruptly, turning with surprising speed despite his apparent inebriation. His eyes, a piercing shade of green, narrowed suspiciously as he spotted Salomon skulking behind a stack of barrels.

"What do you want, boy?" he barked, voice rough.

Salomon stepped forward, his hands clenched at his sides.
"I.. I heard what you said. About Riders. About dragons. Do you... really believe they can return?"