Marek Draganov was born in a quiet country called Calberne.
It sat far east, past the stone rivers and mountain valleys, where no great armies marched and no kings paid attention.
Life was simple there. Hard, but simple.
His village was called Berwald, a small cluster of stone houses and red roofs surrounded by wheat fields and pine trees.
No banners flew. Just old men with axes, and tired women who baked bread with calloused hands.
His father, Otmar Draganov, was a blacksmith.
His mother, Lucia, ran the stall near the well. She sold soap, salt, and boiled roots from their garden. She could do math faster than anyone Marek knew.
They were neither rich nor poor. They had meat once a week, candles for winter, and boots that lasted at least two seasons.
Marek helped where he could. He carried coal, swept ash, and ran errands for the old women when they were too tired to walk.
Magic didn't exist in Berwald. Or if it did, it stayed hidden. People here feared it.
They said it brought wolves, sickness, and worse things.
Long ago, a man lit fire from his hands, and three nights later, half the town vanished.
No one ever found the bodies.
But Marek always asked questions. Why did the hills glow at night? Why did birds avoid the forest line? Why did no map show what lay beyond the Murtal Range?
People told him not to wonder. Wondering got you killed.
Still, he watched the mountains. He felt something waiting.
And it would not wait much longer.
---
"Marek, wake up!" His mother's voice was urgent and sharp. She shook his shoulders hard, forcing him to open his eyes.
"What is happening?" Marek asked, his voice thick with sleep. The room felt strange, like something was wrong beyond just waking early.
"Get dressed quickly," she said, her eyes wide with fear. "The village is under attack. We have to leave now."
Before Marek could say anything else, a terrible roar shattered the morning silence. It was not thunder. It was something alive.
He ran to the window and looked outside. The village square was chaos. Buildings shook and crumbled. Smoke rose in dark columns. People screamed and fled in all directions.
Marek's heart hammered. What is that thing? he thought, staring at the monstrous shape that tore through Berwald's center.
It was a gigantic worm, its body armored with thick plates and jaws wide enough to swallow a cart whole.
His father appeared behind him, gripping his axe tightly. "Marek, we must run. Head for the hills and do not stop. Stay away from the village."
"But Father, what about Mother? What about you?"
"No time for questions! The worm will destroy everything. Keep running!"
The ground shook beneath their feet. The worm's roar grew louder as it swallowed the village whole.
Marek grabbed his worn boots and ran outside with trembling hands.
The path to the hills was blocked by fallen trees and broken carts. Flames flickered between the houses.
Marek's breath came in short gasps, but he pushed himself forward.
I can't look back.
Behind him, the earth cracked and splintered as the worm advanced. The cries of his neighbors echoed in his ears.
When the edge of the forest came into view, Marek's legs felt like they would give out.
He stumbled, but caught himself. Then he saw it—a dark cave hidden beneath thick roots and moss.
His father had warned him never to go near that cave.
But now, it was the only refuge.
Marek slipped inside. The cold stone walls swallowed him. Silence wrapped around his shaking body.
Outside, the world burned and roared.
Inside the cave, something waited.
He ran and ran, his breath ragged and his legs trembling with exhaustion.
His heart pounded so fiercely he thought it might burst from his chest.
Suddenly, his foot caught on a hidden root, and he stumbled forward.
He fell hard onto the cold, rocky ground.
For a moment, he lay there, winded, his palms scraping against the rough stone.
When he finally opened his eyes, the cave looked different. It was no longer dark and empty.
Small gems of every color sparkled faintly in the walls and ceiling, casting a dim, eerie light. The stones flickered like stars trapped inside the rock.
Marek's curiosity mixed with unease. Where did these come from?
"Child..."
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the cavern. It was low and distant but unmistakably real.
Then, an invisible force gripped him. It was like gravity had shifted, pulling him forward with relentless strength.
He stumbled into the walls again and again, scratching his arms and face as he fought against the pull.
The rough stone scraped his skin, and pain flared, but the force would not relent.
His fingers dug into the rock as if to hold on, but the pull dragged him deeper and deeper into the cave.
Then, without warning, the force stopped.
Marek collapsed onto the ground.
Silence surrounded him once more. His heart slowed, but a new feeling bloomed inside him.
He stood up slowly, his knees shaking. His palms were raw from the scrapes, and dust clung to his clothes.
The cave had grown colder, but the gems glowed brighter now.
Then the voice came again, deeper than before. It was not loud, but it filled the space completely.
"You've come, at last."
Marek froze. "Who said that?"
The voice did not answer immediately.
Instead, a low hum began to rise from the stones.
"The blood of fire walks again. The pact stirs. The soul calls."
Marek's throat dried. "What pact? What soul?" he shouted. "What are you talking about?"
He took a step back, but the cave offered no comfort.
Father always said to stay away from this place, Marek thought. He never explained why. Just that no good man should ever step inside.
Marek remembered the last time he asked about the cave. His father had dropped the hammer he was holding.
He didn't yell, but his voice had gone quiet, almost shaken.
"No matter what you hear, no matter what you think is inside there," Otmar had said, "you stay away. You hear me, Marek? Promise me."
He had promised. And now he had broken it.
Did Father know something?Did he come here once, too? Marek's mind raced. The voice—whatever it was—sounded like it had been waiting.
The light in the cave shifted again.
Now, it was centered ahead. One gem, larger than the others, pulsed in a slow rhythm.
Something inside it moved, like smoke trapped in glass.
Marek stepped forward despite himself.
The voice returned. "Touch it."
He hesitated.
"Your kind ran from fire. You, Marek Draganov... you are the first to return."
Marek's hands trembled. Why me? Why now? What is this place?
He reached forward. Not because he trusted the voice, but because part of him had already accepted something the rest of him feared to say out loud.
I'm curious...
Then, he touched it.
The moment his fingers brushed the surface of the crimson gem, a sharp heat surged up his arm—not the kind that burned skin, but the kind that burned deep, like a fever that reached bone.
Marek gasped and tried to pull back, but his hand would not move.
It was as if the gem had fused with him, as if something inside had taken hold.
A sound exploded in his mind. Not just one voice—but hundreds. Some whispered. Some screamed in languages he did not understand.
He staggered back, but the cavern spun around him. His knees gave out, and he dropped to the floor.
"Rise," a voice said clearly above the others. It was not like the one from earlier.
"I don't understand," Marek said aloud, gripping his head. "What is happening to me?"
Images flashed in his mind—ruined cities burning in the dark, wings that blotted out the sun, rivers of molten fire spilling over mountaintops.
He saw figures cloaked in black robes standing in circles, chanting names older than time.
He saw a single eye, slit like a serpent's, staring through the void straight into him.
"You carry it now," the voice said again. "The last ember. The soul that slept beneath your land. Buried, not dead."
"My land? This… was under Berwald?"
The voice did not answer.
Instead, it showed him a memory that was not his own. A battlefield.
A dragon the size of a fortress, bleeding silver fire as it collapsed.
Chains of lightning bound its wings. Soldiers screamed beneath it like ants beneath a falling tree.
Then, silence.
The gem cracked.
A thin line of red light shot into Marek's chest.
He didn't scream, but his body arched as if struck by lightning.
The pain was unlike anything he had felt, but it was not only pain. It was weight.
The voice now sounded like it was within him.
"Your name is Marek Draganov. Son of blacksmith. You did not choose this—but you are chosen. The fire remembers. And now, so must you."
Marek collapsed again, his vision dark around the edges. The voices faded, replaced by the slow hum of the stone.
He lay there.
What have I done?
But deep inside, something had already answered.
Marek's muscles ached, and his chest still burned where the gem had touched him.
He sat up slowly, trying to catch his breath, but the air felt heavier, as if something was waking beneath the stone.
Suddenly, the ground shook beneath him.
A thick smoke spilled from a crack in the cave wall.
It twisted around Marek like a living thing. His heart thumped loudly.
From inside the smoke, a deep voice rolled through the cavern.
"You have awakened me."
The smoke swirled and took shape.
A large figure stepped forward, massive and imposing. Marek's eyes widened.
The creature had glowing eyes and black scales that caught the gemlight. It breathed slowly, filling the cave with quiet power.
"I am Velkaroth," the voice rumbled. "The flamebound soul that once ruled the skies. You carry my fire now."
Marek's voice trembled. "I didn't ask for this. I just wanted to survive."
Velkaroth's gaze was steady. "Survival is the beginning and power is the path. You will walk it whether you want to or not."
The smoke began to clear, and Marek blinked.
The enormous dragon was gone.
Instead, a small creature sat on the stone floor. It was barely the size of a goat. Its wings were too small to fly, and its head looked almost too big for its body.
The dragon let out a sharp sigh and rolled its eyes. "Yeah, I know. I look like a snack, right? Don't judge the size, kid. I'm low-key terrifying."
What the hell? Marek stared, unable to hide his surprise.
The little dragon tapped its tiny claws impatiently. "Look, I get it. You were expecting a giant, world-destroying beast or something. But turns out, the big guys are busy napping, so you get me. Quality over quantity."
Marek cracked a nervous smile. "So… you're basically a dragon toddler?"
The dragon huffed. "A toddler with an attitude and fire in my belly. Now, quit gawking and pay attention. You've got a destiny to meet."
Marek blinked again, then nodded slowly. "Alright... I guess?"
The dragon's eyes softened just a little.
"Good. Because there is no turning back now."