Returning to the Dragon Isles
The wind screamed like it wanted to skin her alive.
Miri didn't flinch.
She angled her wings against the gusts, fighting the air like an enemy that wouldn't die. Each gust punched into her chest, dragging at her limbs, trying to pull her down. The storm above clawed at itself—gray teeth of cloud grinding, thunder cracking like a war drum. Lightning flashed to her right, close enough to set the fine hairs along her jaw buzzing.
It was a bad day to fly.
That was exactly why she'd chosen it.
She soared alone, carving her path through the clouds. Her scales caught what little light broke through, casting flashes of bronze and shadow across her flanks. She kept her wings tight and angled, built for sharp dives and fast exits, not leisurely gliding. Flying wasn't an escape. It was an assertion: I am here. I still exist.
Below her, the Dragon Isles stretched wide and violent. Jagged ridges lanced up from the earth like broken ribs. Choked ravines veined the terrain like ancient wounds that never healed. Rivers of hardened obsidian gleamed in the gloom, while great stone craters swallowed entire forests into silence.
She had flown this path once before.
Long ago. Before they told her she wasn't ready.
Before she began to believe it.
Back when her rage hadn't yet learned how to speak.
Now she was older, stronger, and lonelier.
The outpost came into view—or what was left of it.
A collapsed mesa loomed over the site, its sides clawed open by something massive and angry. The structure beneath was a skeleton: cracked walls, shattered towers, half-swallowed by creeping stone and dust. Blackened banners fluttered from broken posts, shredded by decades of storm and shame.
Miri banked hard.
Her wings folded in. The wind screamed louder as she dropped.
The landing wasn't graceful. Her boots hit the rock with brutal force, knees bent to absorb the shock. The ground cracked beneath her. Ash puffed up around her in a choking ring.
The air went still.
Thunder rumbled distantly.
She stood.
Dust clung to her armor, wet from mist and sweat. Her breath came in slow, controlled exhales. Twin hammers rested at her sides, heavy and patient.
No audience. No welcome.
Just ruin.
Good.
The ruins sprawled before her like a battlefield whose blood had long since dried.
Miri moved forward, her steps steady, every stride echoing against stone and silence. The remains of the outpost told a story in pieces: here a shattered rampart; there, a melted brazier. Crushed helms littered the cracked path, some still bearing the sigils of her clutch.
The trial circle had once been revered. A proving ground where worthy Dracthyr were tested—and if found strong, named. If found lacking, forgotten.
She had never been given the chance.
Her twin hammers swayed with each step, striking against her thighs. One was nicked and worn from dozens of skirmishes; the other had dried blood crusted along its edge—the color of rust, nearly black. She'd stopped cleaning it.
Why hide the truth?
She passed a series of broken banners still clinging to rusted poles. Most were colorless, drained by time and rain, their symbols unreadable. One caught her eye: faded gold against violet, curling into the sigil of her old war-band.
Her breath caught.
She stepped closer, fingers brushing the frayed fabric.
A moment passed.
Then she tore it down.
The cloth fluttered once in protest, then went limp in her hand.
She dropped it.
No nostalgia.
No forgiveness.
This place had never wanted her. Not as she was.
Too angry. Too volatile. Too alive.
They had called it a flaw. A liability.
She knew now it had always been a weapon.
The stone under her feet began to change—smooth, blackened, and veined with faintly glowing lines. The air thickened, humming with dormant heat. Magic stirred beneath the surface, ancient and patient.
The forge slept beneath her.
Her fingers twitched with anticipation. Her breath quickened.
This was where they had told her to turn back.
She would not turn back again.
A rustle.
Barely audible beneath the wind, but enough.
Miri turned on instinct. One hammer raised, breath sharp, feet already shifting into a fighting stance.
The figure that emerged from behind a jagged wall was not a threat. Not physically.
A young Dracthyr—barely more than a hatchling, really. Gangly limbs, armor too new to have seen battle. Polished pauldrons caught the fading light, reflecting it with almost comic brightness. His horns curled just past his brow, baby spirals barely hardened into bone.
He froze mid-step.
"You're Miri," he blurted.
Her eyes narrowed. "That depends. Are you looking for her or looking for a fight?"
He swallowed visibly, then took another step forward—a brave move, or a foolish one. Probably both.
"I followed you from the sky pass. You're fast, but not invisible."
Miri lowered the hammer half an inch but didn't relax. "You stalk every stranger who flies through a storm, or just the ones you think you can impress?"
"I didn't mean to—"
"You did." She cut him off, sharp as a blade. "So why? What do you want?"
He straightened. Tried to look taller.
"I want to learn. From you. They say you're the only one who survived the Silverbone massacre. That you fought alone. That you killed a voidbeast with your bare hands."
She took a long step forward, closing the distance. Her shadow fell over him like a shroud. He flinched but didn't step back.
"They say a lot of things," she said softly. Dangerously. "They don't know me. Neither do you. And if you keep following people like me, you won't live long enough to learn anything."
His jaw clenched. There was fear in his eyes, yes, but something else too. Frustration. Determination. Maybe even admiration. It made her tired.
"You're not what I expected," he muttered.
She finally lowered the hammer. Let the weight of it fall against her thigh with a heavy thud.
"Good," she said, voice flat. "I'd hate to disappoint."
She turned away from him, facing the edge of the crater.
The forge pulsed faintly beneath the earth. She felt it through her boots, like the heartbeat of something buried alive.
She didn't look back.
The storm hadn't passed, only wandered further down the ridge.
Night bled slowly across the ruined outpost. Rain came in sheets now, slapping at stone and skin, tapering off just enough for fire to hold if you knew how to coax it.
Miri did.
She sat crouched under the remnants of a collapsed gatehouse, coaxing a stubborn flame to life with strips of lichen and a few drops of her own flamebreath. The result was dim and smoky, but it flickered and warmed her hands. That was enough.
The boy had followed her here, uninvited and unshaken. He curled against a slanted wall nearby, his too-clean armor now scuffed with ash and streaked with rain.
He said nothing. Neither did she.
She drew one of her hammers into her lap. The older one. The survivor. A relic shaped by war and regret. She drew a small whetstone from a hip pouch and began sharpening the edge. The motion was steady, rhythmic. She didn't need to think to do it. That was the point.
Strike. Drag. Breathe.
The wind outside howled like a beast looking for a name.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the flames.
She never slept easily in places like this. Too many echoes. Too many ghosts waiting just beyond the firelight.
Tonight, one came.
The fire shifted. The shadows stretched.
Chains clinked.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Serakir.
He wasn't alive. Not really. Not anymore.
But he stood across the fire as if he'd simply walked in from patrol—armor scorched, helm missing, his eyes hollow with quiet accusation.
His lips never moved. They never had.
But she heard him all the same.
"You were supposed to bring them home."
Miri stared back, her grip on the hammer tightening.
"They followed me because they believed in something."
The ghost didn't blink.
"And you made sure they never believed in anything again."
She didn't flinch.
"I made sure they died fighting, not begging. You told me that mattered."
A long silence. Then Serakir stepped forward. The fire didn't warm his boots. The rain didn't touch him.
"Do you still believe in anything, Miri? Or are you just pretending you have a shape so you don't disappear?"
Her jaw clenched.
The boy stirred beside the wall, murmuring in his sleep.
She looked back. And the ghost was gone.
Only the fire remained. Low. Struggling. Still burning.
She added another stick. Then another.
Sharpened her hammer in silence until dawn.
Dawn crept in slow, gray, and cold.
The sky had given up on rain, but not on gloom. Fog clung low over the ruins, curling through the cracked walls and collapsed archways like the breath of something slumbering deep.
Miri rose from her crouch. Her back ached. Her knees popped. But she didn't complain. Pain was proof she still had a body.
The boy—still nameless in her mind—slept against the broken wall. Or pretended to.
She ignored him.
She walked to the edge of the crater.
Below, the obsidian shell that encased the forge flickered faintly with veins of heat. The patterns shifted subtly, as if aware she had returned.
She unslung her hammers. Fastened the buckles across her chest. Tightened her gloves. Her breath steamed in the cold air.
The wind spoke, high and keening.
She heard the voice again.
"Turn back."
She stepped closer to the edge.
"You don't belong here."
She spread her wings.
"You never did."
The boy stirred behind her. "Are you coming back?"
She didn't answer.
She jumped.
The fall was swift.
The wind tore past her ears as the crater wall blurred beside her. Ash kicked up around her as she flared her wings at the last moment, slowing just enough to land hard. Her boots hit the ground like thunder. Cracks split across the stone where she stood.
The forge pulsed beneath her feet. Closer now.
She strode to the obsidian gate—a seam in the earth sealed by ancient magic and ritual. Runes shimmered faintly across its surface. They recognized her.
Her breath deepened. Her heart pounded.
She drew one hammer. Then the other.
She raised the first.
Strike.
A jolt of heat raced up her arm. The rune glowed.
She raised the second.
Strike.
The glow spread. Cracks spidered across the obsidian.
She lifted both.
Strike.
The seal burst open.
Steam hissed from the breach like the exhale of a sleeping god.
The runes lit fully, the air trembled, and the ground beneath her feet vibrated with something ancient waking.
The forge had opened its eye.
And it saw her.