Chapter 2 Return to Skarnhold

Kaleon woke to the scent of ironroot oil and crushed herbs. The light above him was filtered through thin sheets of dragonbone glass, pale and flickering like a dying candle. His body ached, not with the sharpness of a wound, but the dull echo of something deeper—like his bones had fought a war his mind could only dream of.

The healing halls of Skarnhold were quiet, save for the soft clinking of glass vials and the faint humming of an old song. Kaleon turned his head with effort. White drapes hung between stone pillars, and an elderly servant mopped the marble floor with all the urgency of a sloth on vacation.

"You awake, finally?" came a voice.

Kaleon blinked. The speaker was a stout woman with ink-black hair braided into a crown, wearing robes dyed the color of midnight. Her face split into a grin. "You looked like a boiled beet when they dragged you in. Nearly scared poor Valtharion into a panic."

"Mother..." Kaleon rasped.

Lady Vireya Skarn stepped closer and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. Her fingers were warm, her voice softer than he remembered. "You scared me. You've never collapsed in the forest before. And the way they found you—twitching, whispering strange words..."

Kaleon sat up with a grunt. His skin prickled with memory. The arch. The name. Vey'naarak. "Where's Maelor?"

Her eyes softened. "Still here. He carried you all the way back. Refused to let the guards touch you."

Kaleon blinked. "But they said—"

She interrupted, gently. "The court says a lot. But your uncle hasn't left the lower halls since he brought you in. He thinks what happened to you is tied to something ancient. He's been reading those cursed old tomes like a madman."

Relief flooded Kaleon's chest. Maelor wasn't gone. Wasn't a traitor. He had stayed.

Outside the halls, Skarnhold breathed its usual smoke-and-iron breath. The high towers loomed over him as Kaleon walked the familiar corridors. Guards shifted uneasily when he passed. Their hands lingered too long on the hilts of their swords.

Whispers clung to the shadows.

"That's the boy." "Came back half-dead." "They say he called lightning down with a scream." "The old flame stirs..."

In the great chamber, Lord Darion Skarn stood like a blade unsheathed. His beard had grown longer since Kaleon last saw him, shot with more gray. His arms were folded, his voice colder than the northern peaks.

"What did you do, boy?"

Kaleon held his ground. "I found something. A monolith. Ancient. It spoke to me. Maelor was there—he helped me back."

Darion's eyes narrowed. "And the fire in the sky?"

Kaleon hesitated. "I... don't know. But it felt like something woke up. Something old."

The court buzzed behind him. Maesters and nobles exchanged uneasy glances. Valtharion, pale and tight-lipped, scribbled notes into a thick leather book.

"You will remain inside Skarnhold's walls until this is understood. No forest. No flights. No secrets."

Kaleon's chambers were the same, but they felt smaller. Colder. The tapestries of dragons no longer felt like guardians, but watchers. His armor had been polished. His books dusted. Even his stupid wooden sword—scratched from years of pretend battles—was hanging on the wall like a relic.

He sighed, and flopped onto the bed.

Then he heard it.

A whisper.

It wasn't in the room. Not really. It was inside him, just behind his heartbeat.

Vey'naarak.

He sat up fast enough to crack his spine. "Nope. Nope nope nope. I am not hearing mystical voices inside my skull today. That is a tomorrow problem."

He got up and threw open the shutters. The moonlight painted the stone courtyard silver. Something stirred near the garden below—something that looked like... his mother?

Lady Vireya sat cross-legged on the grass, stuffing a pipe with dried marshleaf. "Thought I'd find you brooding," she said as he padded over.

"I wasn't brooding. I was reflecting. That's different."

"Mmm," she puffed. "'Reflecting' like your father used to do when he got caught hiding bread in his boot."

Kaleon chuckled and dropped beside her. "You think I'm cursed?"

She looked at him, long and slow. "No. But I think the world's been waiting for something. Maybe it's you. Maybe it's what you found. But cursed? No. You're still my boy. Just a little more... glowy."

"I glowed?"

"Like a forge. Cooked the eyebrows off three guards."

Kaleon winced. "I liked those eyebrows."

"They didn't."

They laughed, and for a moment the coldness of Skarnhold melted. The wind whispered through the stone trees. Somewhere far above, wings flapped—soft and slow.

"Maelor believes you've been chosen," she added after a long pause. "He's been researching things I haven't heard spoken of since I was a child. The Drakentongue. The Veil. The Flameborn."

"And he never told me?"

"Maybe he was waiting for you to be ready. Maybe none of us are."

But dragons only sleep when they want to. Kaleon waited until the moon was high, then tiptoed through the eastern halls like a child avoiding chores. He knocked over a candlestick and caught it mid-fall. He stepped on a sleeping cat—Sir Meowlrick, the terror of the kitchens—and barely escaped with his ankles intact.

The old passage behind the library hadn't been used in years, sealed after one of the drakelets had gotten lost inside. But Kaleon pried the stones loose one by one. Dust and cobwebs greeted him like forgotten friends.

Torchlight flickered as he descended. The air grew colder, heavier. The stones here bore carvings older than Skarnhold itself—winged serpents, towers in flame, runes that pulsed faintly at his passing.

He followed the pull.

Down.

Deeper.

Until he stood before a door of obsidian and bone.

It opened when he whispered, "Vey'naarak."

Inside, the chamber was circular, walls etched with golden script. In the center floated a shard of crystal—dark as the void, pulsing.

He reached for it.

And the world fell away.

Visions flooded him—memories not his own. A battlefield scorched by dragonfire. A tower collapsing as a scream echoed through the skies. A man in Skarn armor, face hidden behind a helm of thorns.

A chained dragon, bleeding starlight.

Then—his own face. Older. Eyes glowing. Standing atop Skarnhold's highest spire, a crown of obsidian upon his brow.

Kaleon staggered back.

The shard dimmed.

But the whispers didn't stop.

They never would.

And above, in the chambers of court, Lord Darion stared into the fire and murmured, "It begins."