-Ryker-

  The snow is wrong again.Rigid, crusted; it holds for a breath, then breaks, and I sink. Always the same sound: the crunch, then the swallow.

  Not again.Why this one?Why can’t I ever wake before it starts?

  I’m walking beside the wagon. Horses pull slow, their breath clouds turning to silver fog. It always starts here. Every time. And every time something changes: the smell, the faces, how many shadows follow us.Sometimes the wagon is heavy, piled with game, blood still warm and dripping through the planks. Sometimes it’s empty.

  It’s been three years, I think. Or maybe it hasn’t.Trauma bends time and turns memory into lies.Still, this is the one that stays.

  I run my finger along the rim of the wheel, scraping snow until I feel the cold bite into my fingertips. Little things help me remember: the squeak of the axle, the soft jangle of the harness. Someone laughs. Someone else coughs. The sound comes from nowhere, from everyone.

  Then the dream shifts, as it always does. The bridge appears, a broad stone spine arched over black water. We cross. The air sharpens. The moon is higher now, full and pale, cutting the world into light and shadow.Aspens rise like white pillars, the grove I never knew until the dream gave it to me.

  And there—my father.

  Hunter’s colors under the dark armor. The spear strapped to his back.He’s laughing with the men again, the same faces, blurred but familiar in posture. Men of the guild, proud, weary, carrying that edge of camaraderie you only hear on long patrols.He was home again, though he’d never admit it.Integrity.The man who traded honor for safety because he thought it would save me.The man who loved me. The man I loved.

  He lifts his hand, signaling to stop, crouches, eyes scanning the ridge, and then he meets my gaze.

  That’s when the air changes.I feel it first, a pulse inside my chest.Then the heartbeat in the wind—slow, heavy.The men move, spreading out, weapons ready.Light cracks open the night, a scar of fire splitting along the hill, runes flaring.

  Chaos.

  The wagon tips. A flash, red and searing, folds the world.The horses scream; bolts snap; bodies hit snow.I tumble, roll, end up beneath what’s left of the cart. Smoke and flame twist around the wheels.Sometimes, in the dream, there are others hiding with me. Sometimes no one.Tonight, there are none, and I am alone. Again.

  Rune-carved arrows hiss upward, vanishing into the burning canopy.Fire climbs the trunks. The air tastes like iron and sap.

  Then the wings.Always the wings.

  The first beat is felt, not heard—a pressure wave through ribs and teeth.Then the roar, low and ancient, rolling through the air until it breaks everything still standing.

  I move around the cart as all of this is happening, realizing that somehow the dream has turned to third person. I already know what happens. I walk to the opening of the wagon and yell at myself not to watch. I tell myself it’s only memory, not prophecy.But the dream doesn’t listen.I don’t listen.My younger self looks right through me as if I’m not there.

  My father runs toward someone fallen, hand outstretched.Then the dragon hits the ground beside him. A few men attack, but the beast’s wing sweeps my father aside and he’s thrown, slow motion again, weightless, helpless.And then I’m moving, screaming, my own voice muffled by distance.I watch myself run, ignoring the giant creature close by.Then it switches back to first person as I reach him. I drag him to a tree, snow turning red beneath us. His breath rattles; his legs don’t move.

  He grabs my collar and pulls me close.The hug—I feel it every time. Too real.“Let the Rune Father guide you,” he whispers, and I want to believe him, but even here the words sound like goodbye.

  I look around for help, for anything, and see it: his spear, the metal catching firelight, half-buried in ash-snow.I run. Always run.The ground quakes beneath my feet; it knocks me off balance. The dragon lands again, closer now.

  I crouch behind a tree, the spear shaking in my hands.From here I can see both of them—my father slumped, the beast lowering its head.I whisper it like a prayer: run, stop, don’t look, please run.But I know how this ends.

  The dragon pushes between two trees. Its head fills the space, red scales and molten shadows, eyes like liquid iron.It sees me. Or maybe it sees through me.Sometimes I’m older in its reflection, scarred and hard.Sometimes small again, young and shivering.

  Everything stops.No sound. No wind. Only breath.

  Then the roar, the kind that shakes bone.The head jerks back, thrashing, as if something inside it broke. Fire spills wild.It looks in pain, confused, as if my gaze hurt it.

  My father’s voice cuts through the heat.“Here! Over here!”

  “No…” My throat is ash.

  The dragon turns.My legs won’t move.The spear is still in my hand, the metal frozen to my skin.

  I hear the inhale—that terrible gathering of heat.Then flame, a single, endless exhale.

  He screams for seconds that stretch forever.Then silence.

  The dream unravels quickly now. Color fades, snow turns gray, the air collapses in on itself.I reach for him, but my hand is smoke.Someone grabs me from behind—a man’s voice I can’t name—dragging me backward, out of the fire.

  Pain is the key, and the dream turns it every time.That’s where it breaks.

  I wake gasping, chest locked, the smell of burning still in my mouth.Snow still crunches in my ears long after it’s gone.

  Scene 2

  The dream rips me out of sleep like a fall.

  I sit up fast, hand clutching my bare black arm as if I can tear the memory out of it. The air feels thick, too close. I drag in deep breaths, counting anchors—corner of the bed, doorframe, brick wall, breath again. Anything solid. Anything real.

  “By the Rune Father, Ryker—” Joren’s voice cuts through the dark. “You act like someone was strangling you.”

  He’s half up now, hair a mess, anger and worry tangled across his face.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You can go back to bed.”I rub both hands across my face, across my eyes, trying to shake the weight of the dream. The shirt clings cold and damp to my back.

  “Yeah, well, that’s not happening now.” The mattress creaks as he sits fully up, studying me. He’s seen this before. “It’s because of yesterday, isn’t it? Drexen’s Pyraeth. The woman at the square. All of it.”

  I ignore him. Pull on my trousers. Reach for the belt. The motions keep my hands busy—keep me from thinking.

  “Ryker.” His voice sharpens. “You should talk about it. If not with me, then with someone.”

  “I’m fine.” The words snap sharper than I mean. “I’ve dealt with worse. For longer.”

  He doesn’t back down. “But if this happens every time you see a red dragon, or someone stares at your arm, then—”

  “It doesn’t happen every time,” I cut in, defensive. “Not normally. I don’t know why it happened this time.”The admission burns on my tongue. My chest tightens with feelings I don’t want—anger, shame, the kind that twists under the ribs and won’t leave.

  Joren starts to answer, but something in me snaps first. The sleeplessness, the heat, the noise in my head. I turn on him.

  “Do you really want to know what happened?” The anger isn’t at him, but it burns just the same. “Do you want to know what pain is—what it’s like to never move past it, no matter how hard you try to forget?”

  Silence. His eyes soften. Reverent. Careful.

  I stop in the middle of the room, spear in hand. He isn’t just my trainee anymore. Not a miner learning to hunt. He’s a friend—my brother in ways I don’t always want to admit.

  My voice cracks before I can stop it. “He’s dead because I looked into a dragon’s eye. My father died protecting me while I stood there and watched. A half-souled dragon should’ve killed me.”I swallow hard. “And when I finally start to feel whole again, I make another mistake and get branded with this—” I lift my arm, the black skin catching the faint light. “Another mark of what I ruin. Of what I’m… cursed with.”

  I face him. “So if you’re about to say everything will be okay, don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

  For a long moment, he says nothing. Then a sigh. He stands, calm again, and starts pulling on his clothes.

  “I’m sorry the Rune Father gave you something no one else can understand,” he says quietly. “But your father died protecting you—he did something most of us only dream we could do.”He stands, puts his clothes on, and slings his bow over his shoulder.

  I blink. “What are you doing?”

  He shrugs. “I know where you’re heading. Thought I’d come too.”

  “It’s our rest day,” I mutter.

  “Then maybe you can teach me the last steps for tracing runes before they choose people for the Ash Ceremony. And maybe give me a few pointers before I face the Council for my transfer.”

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  I exhale, almost laughing. “You never stop, do you?”

  He grins. “Someone has to make sure you don’t burn down the training hall again.”

  I shake my head, whispering more to myself than him. “Why is he such a good man?”

  Joren just jerks his chin toward the door. “Because someone has to be.”

  And for the first time since the dream, my chest doesn’t feel so heavy.

  Scene 3

  The hunters’ yard behind the guild hall isn’t much.

  A square of packed earth, walls scabbed with dents and missing chunks, straw dummies slumped like tired men. Char streaks climb the stone from old mistakes.

  Mine’s still there—a black fork burned deep into the far wall, the mark left from the first time I managed to embed.Most see scorch and failure.I see proof it worked. The lightning took, held, and lived.

  I let myself look for a heartbeat longer than I mean to before moving on.

  Rest days leave the yard empty. I like it that way. Quiet means focus.No eyes. No judgment.Just breath and motion until the noise in my head thins out.

  Joren’s at the rune table with a bowl of river stones. He slams one down as I cross the yard.

  “How do you do it, Ryker?” he says, impatient.

  “I’m not sure anyone does.” I drop onto the bench opposite. “But carving’s a skill. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  He’s carved a wind mark—clean enough. I take another stone, carve the same form my way, and set it beside his.

  He watches, mouth twisting. “I know you want me tracing with my fingers,” he says. “I’ll get there. But what’s the point, if carving works?”

  “Carving’s form,” I tell him. “It’s where you prove you understand the rune—every line, every weight. Tool to stone makes you think before you move.”I tap his, then mine. “But tracing—that’s motion. That’s when the rune starts to breathe. You’re not just shaping it anymore; you’re giving it rhythm. The world remembers rhythm better than shape.”

  He gives me the look of a student who’d rather be sparring.

  “So you’re saying my carving’s better than tracing?” He grins.

  “What—no.” I catch the joke, snort. “Shut up and keep practicing.”

  I toss him another stone.

  He starts tracing the Memory rune. The sun slips behind a cloud, and every curve he draws glints pale gold across his fingers. Sweat beads along his temple. He leans too close, shoulders rigid, lips moving soundlessly as he recites the meaning under his breath.

  He gets halfway through before the lower curve stumbles—just a hair off. The rune flickers, tries to spark, then dies.

  “Careful,” I say quietly. “Your edge closed too soon.”

  He mutters about stubborn stones and wipes his palm on his sleeve.

  “Again,” I tell him.

  As I sit back, the warmth of the table seeps through my forearms. Joren takes another smooth river rock and starts over, slower this time. The air hums faintly when he finishes, and the rune takes.

  It’s small, but it glows steady. He exhales, grinning through the strain.

  The kid doesn’t quit—that’s what I respect most. He’ll ruin ten stones before he admits defeat.

  Without thinking, I pick up one of the spares. Its surface feels slick, too light in my hand. I draw the first line, tracing slow—testing myself.

  The scar on my forearm tightens. By the second curve, my hand shakes. Not from pain—not exactly. From something older.

  “Does it still hurt?” Joren asks quietly.

  “Only when I forget what caused it.”

  The rune’s pulse crawls up my arm, bright and eager. I force my breathing steady, keep the line true. The tremor eases, but it leaves a hollow ache behind. When I close the shape, the stone doesn’t glow. It just sits there—quiet, lifeless.

  I pull my hand back too fast.

  When I look up, Joren’s watching me.

  He tilts his head. “Why don’t you just embed that? I know you can. I’ve seen you do it.”

  The question freezes me. He noticed.

  Most people know what embedding is. Few ever see it done right. Fewer still notice the cost.

  “It’s not something to copy,” I tell him—too sharp, too fast. My gaze drifts toward the old burn mark on the wall, then back. “Took me years to stop burning holes through everything.”

  He hesitates, reading my tone, then nods and looks away.

  Silence settles. The stone in my palm still feels warm, like it remembers what I tried to make it do.

  He studies me, curiosity bright but careful. “Still… it’s kind of incredible, isn’t it? How the rune listens to you.”

  “You don’t want it to listen the way it does for me.”

  His brows rise. “Then why keep doing it?”

  I pull my sleeve down. “Because sometimes there isn’t time for the safe way.”

  That quiet hangs between us—the kind that hums. Then Joren just nods, expression unreadable, and turns back to the stones.

  He starts tracing again. The steady scrape of his finger on stone fills the space between us, soft and rhythmic. It’s almost calming.

  Joren rolls another river stone between his palms, thumb tracing the faint groove of the rune he carved. The light’s gone soft and gold across the table.

  “You ever gonna tell me the real reason you want out of the mines?” I ask.

  The grin fades.

  “Because I’m tired of hearing the rock groan and wondering if my ma’s roof sounds the same,” he says. “Every time a wall cracks, I think about home. I can’t keep digging and pretending it’s fine.”

  He looks toward the far cliffs, where smoke from the lower forges drifts like thin storm clouds. “The Riders… they’re the ones who show up when everything else collapses. If I can be that for someone—even once—maybe it means the world doesn’t end where I was born.”

  He forces a smile. “I just want to protect what’s left of home, Ryker. Maybe that’s stupid.”

  “Not stupid,” I say.

  He shrugs, but the effort’s shaky. Sweat glints along his temple, and when he looks back at me, his pupils are wider than they should be in this light. His hands are still, but too still—the kind of control people use to hide a tremor.

  Rune fever. The early kind.Not dangerous yet, just enough to remind me how close it always sits beneath the surface.

  “Alright,” I say, standing and gathering the tools into the bowl. “That’s enough runes for one night.”

  He looks up. “What, you scared I’ll start glowing?”

  “Maybe.” I let a small grin slip. “Come on. Let’s see if you shoot straighter than you trace.”

  He laughs, too tired to argue, and slings his bow from the rack as we leave the table.

  The bowl of stones stays behind, still faintly warm.

  Scene 4

  -Ryker-

  The training yard stretches long, marked by white chalk lines for distance. It smells of straw and dust and the faint iron tang of old sweat. We cross to the racks for our arrows and spears.

  I’ve always liked this place. It’s the other half of me — the balance between what’s carved and what’s thrown.

  The physical and the magical.

  Here, I can forget which one hurts more.

  My spear rests against the post. Not a common weapon — the kind old soldiers once used but few still carry. Crafted from light-forged steel, rare and stubborn. A little taller than I am, straight as a staff, its tip ground to a long narrow point, sharp as patience. Somehow it’s never taken a dent, even after hitting stone. In the sun, the metal gleams silver-blue, like frozen lightning caught mid-strike.

  Joren stretches his shoulder, testing the weight of a wooden spear.

  “You sure you’re ready for that?” I ask, grinning.

  He glares, half a smile breaking through. “Come on. You saw me hit that rabbit last week.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That was luck.”

  He plants his feet, winds back, and lets it fly. The spear wobbles mid-air but still clips the edge of the dummy.

  I chuckle. “Well — at least you hit it.”

  He points at me, mock offense in his tone. “Oh yeah? Since you’re so confident, I bet you can’t hit dead center at—” he glances down the yard, “—twenty-five.”

  That gets my attention. I look to the line in the dirt. “What are the stakes?”

  His grin widens — that spark in his eyes says he’s been waiting for me to ask.

  “If you lose, I get the room tomorrow night. I’ve got… company.”

  I laugh. “You’re full of it.”

  “No, really. That sea girl liked my calluses. Don’t ruin this for me.”

  My brow arches. “And if I win?”

  He unclasps his bracer and tosses it over. “You can have this — to cover that nasty scar of yours.”

  I turn it in my hand. The leather’s well-oiled, reinforced at the wrist — crafted for archers. Something like this costs two, maybe three weeks’ pay for this detailed and well done craftsmanship.

  “Alright.” I toss it back. “Bet.”

  I take my father’s spear, walk back, and plant my toes at the line. The yard feels suddenly still — just wind and breath.

  Four steps back. One to the left. Balance. Center.

  “You know I said twenty-five, not thirty,” Joren calls, laughing.

  I balance the shaft across two fingers, find the midpoint, grip tight.

  One quick run. One release.

  The spear cuts the air like a silver line. Perfect arc.

  It hits dead center.

  For a moment, I just stare. I shouldn’t have landed that clean. Then the laugh comes — deep, sudden, real.

  Joren bursts out too. “You lucky bastard. Curse the Rune Father — that should’ve missed!”

  I try to hide my grin, fail miserably. “I’m just that good. Hand it over.”

  He groans but unbuckles the bracer again. I slide it on. It doesn’t cover the whole burn, but enough. The leather sits snug, firm, and for the first time in a while, I don’t mind looking at my hand.

  Joren starts gathering our gear, already planning his second attempt at charm. I feel a flicker of guilt.

  “Fine,” I say. “You can have the room. I’ll find somewhere else tonight. Can’t take your gear and your girl in the same day.”

  His face lights up. “And they say I’m the fool!” He slaps my shoulder, practically glowing with triumph.

  We head toward the guild hall, laughter still on our breath.

  Halfway down the alley, his tone shifts. “So… what really happened to your arm?”

  He hesitates before adding, “I’ve heard everything — bad rune, punishment, curse — but I’ve never asked you.”

  He’s earned the question. He’s never asked before, not once since we started hunting together.

  “It was a fire rune,” I say quietly. “Tracing practice. The line work must’ve been off — or my intent was. When I activated it, the mark flared. I pushed more energy in to steady it, and it backfired.” I pause, then add with a smirk, “Pun intended.”

  Joren blinks, then laughs loud enough for the quartermasters to peek out their doors.

  “When the healers took me in, they couldn’t undo it. Tried every rune and remedy they knew. Said the black runs too deep — into the bone. Not just a scar anymore. Something else.” I glance down at it, the light brushing across the dark skin. “Maybe a reminder. Of what I lost. Of what I still carry.”

  I don’t mention my father. In truth, it reminds me of the last thing I saw of him — fire swallowing his outline. Some wounds aren’t ready for words.

  We pass through the inner alleys where rosemary bread bakes in the ovens. The smell drifts thick and warm. Kids chase a ball stitched from leather scraps, one of them pushing it with a rune-stone flicker of wind. Honest. Playful. The way the world should’ve stayed.

  Flyers line the posts — bright parchment stamped with the crest of the Council. The Ash Ceremony Approaches — A Blessing for the Kingdom.

  Joren slows to read one. His face glows with wonder, the same look he gets when he talks about dragons. “Can you imagine being chosen?”

  I glance at the image — a rider silhouette, dragon arcing behind. “I can imagine the chains,” I mutter.

  He grins anyway. “Still. If I got picked, maybe I could do something good. Be there when things fall apart.” He glances at me. “What about you?”

  I don’t answer. Not right away.

  He laughs softly. “Right. Forgot — you’d rather pretend dragons don’t exist than admit the good they do for the kingdom.”

  I stay quiet, but he’s right.

  He presses on. “You know the leaders might choose you anyway. They’ve seen what you can do. You’d have to participate.”

  He’s right about that too. Word’s been spreading since the day I learned how to embed — and worse, the day I called lightning. Even the guild heads told me not to show it again. Dangerous, they said. Too close to the old ways.

  “I know,” I say.

  Before he can ask more, I add, “If I’m chosen, then I’m chosen. Not much choice after that.”

  I glance toward the sea, its edge gleaming pale in the dark. “I just pray to the Rune Father a dragon never looks my way — so I can keep doing what I’m meant to.”

  He studies me. “And what’s that?”

  I shrug. “What I’ve always done.”

  “And that is?”

  “Survive.”