(Many years from now)

  They claimed peace had returned. They claimed the dragons slept and the ancient shadows had vanished.

  I learned the truth in fire and blood. I learned it in the silence that follows the screams.

  I watched the skies burn. I saw cities reduced to ruin by dragonfire and held loved ones as they turned to ash in my arms. The Council, chosen by the gods to lead, stood watching. They remained silent, believing that ignoring the truth would keep it buried.

  I was young then, and foolish. I waited for a hero, a king, or the ghost of my grandfather, Ecos the Great, to rise and stop the darkness. No one came. No one could.

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  My name is Leeonir. I am not the chosen one found in prophecies or sung about in taverns. I am simply the one who remained standing when the light failed. I am left with nothing but scars, rage, and a vow carved into my bones: I will never kneel again.

  Eldoria is no longer a kingdom. It is a wound. The North fights for stone. The South fights for freedom. The Center fights for worthless crowns. Even the long-lived Elves cling to a fragile peace, pretending stability exists where there is none.

  But I know the true terror. I heard the chains snap in the dark. Dragons do not burn without masters. They do not kill without a will guiding the flame. Someone remembers captivity. Someone remembers the blood of Ecos.

  The old magic is returning.

  When the fire falls again and it will. I will not run. I will not beg or forgive. I will be waiting.

  Understand this. This is not a story about how I became a hero. This is the story of how I survived what heroes could not. It is the story of how a boy with a heavy name became the man who would burn the world to save it.

  I have chosen you to fight beside me.

  Now, let me show you how it began.