Ember Flameheart's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Ember Flameheart raised his staff and demanded fire. The staff answered, as it always did. Orange flame poured from the dragonblood core and lit his green flame cloak brighter. But the fire died the moment he stopped pulling. Ordinary fire. Dead fire. Ember needed living dragonfire to forge his crown, the crown that would name him ruler of every troll clan in Xenoblight. His staff could not give it. He had known this for a week, and the knowing burned worse than any flame. He was short, even for a troll. His red hair stood up in wild spikes. His yellow eyes fixed on the crystal fortress that rose before him. Green walls climbed high, veined with fire and ice. Yellow-armored guards stood at the gate, spears crossed. Inside those walls, the old tales said, a beast still slept. A beast that breathed living dragonfire in its dreams. "You're really going in there," said a voice behind him. Ember turned. Spindle Fuzzwick crouched at the edge of a bright patch of mushrooms, long spider-arms folded tight. Their pink and blue fur bristled. Ember and Spindle had picked those mushrooms together since they were small. Spindle had followed him across three valleys, complaining the whole way. "I have to," Ember said. "The staff isn't enough. It never was." Spindle uncurled one thin arm and pointed at the guards. "Those spears say no crown is worth it." Ember walked toward the gate anyway. The guards lowered their spears. He lifted his staff and forced every scrap of dead fire into it. The flame roared wide, not to burn but to blind. The guards flinched. Ember slipped between them and shoved through the crystal doors. Inside, heat and cold fought in the air. He ran down a long green hall until the floor sloped into a pit. There it lay. A dragon, vast and old, curled in sleep. With each breath, blue-white fire drifted from its jaws and hung in the air, alive and moving on its own. Living dragonfire. Ember lowered his staff toward the drifting flame. The dragonblood core drank it up. The staff turned cold, then blazed a color he had never seen. The living fire coiled inside the wood and stayed. It did not die. He almost laughed. Then the dragon opened one eye. Ember ran. He tore back up the hall as the beast rose behind him. Its roar cracked the crystal walls. He burst through the doors, grabbed Spindle by a furry arm, and pulled. They fled past the meadow as the fortress shuddered. Ember gripped his staff. The living dragonfire pulsed inside it, warm and awake. He had what the crown demanded at last. But the dragon was awake now too, and it had seen his face.