Embers of the Heartless

They said the dragons vanished a thousand years ago.

That their bones became mountains, their fire became the sun, and their hearts-those rare, living cores of magic-were sealed away by kings who feared their power.

But the night Samara was born, the sky burned red.

The midwives whispered of omens. Of storms gathering over the Iron Peaks, lightning that struck the royal spire, and a cry that split the heavens as an infant's first breath echoed across the valley. Her mother-an ordinary woman from an ordinary village-died before she could speak the child's name. The only witness was an old priest who swore he saw scales glimmer along the baby's skin before they vanished like ash on the wind.

He told no one.

For twenty years, the kingdoms of Vaelith and Erisen balanced on a knife's edge, their peace kept by politics, blood oaths, and a crumbling throne. The King of Vaelith ruled with charm and cruelty in equal measure, his court gilded and rotten beneath the gold. Dragons were myth, magic was forbidden, and mortals were meant to obey.

Until the girl with no last name laughed at death in the royal courtyard.

Until fire-silver and ancient-answered her blood.

And the world remembered what it had tried so hard to forget.