The Last Dragonrider of Vael
The sky belongs to whoever dares to claim it.
Kaelen traced the faded dragon tattoo on his forearm, the raised scales a ghost of memory against his weathered skin. Below him, the capital of Vael sprawled like a dying emerald, its once-majestic spires now blackened by dragonfire. Twenty years since the last dragon fell, twenty years since the riders were exterminated, and still Kaelen remembered the weight of wings against his back, the fire in his veins. He was the last. The only one who knew the truth: they hadn't all perished in the Great Purge. One remained. One that could turn the tide against the Shadow Empire that now choked his homeland. The embers of rebellion flickered in his chest, but they were dying without the dragon's breath to fan them. His fingers tightened around the stolen Imperial seal in his pocket—a desperate gamble for an audience with the Dragon King himself, the tyrant who had ordered his family's execution. The streets below were a maze of checkpoints and patrols, but Kaelen had walked these alleys since he was a boy, his knowledge of the city's shadows as familiar as the scar across his palm. Tonight, he would risk everything on a single, impossible flight.
The moon hung low and silver, casting long fingers of light across the rooftops as Kaelen moved with the silence of a ghost. His leather armor, worn thin at the shoulders, was the only relic of his former life, bearing the crest of the fallen Dragonriders—now a death sentence if discovered. The Imperial citadel rose ahead of him, a jagged black tooth against the starless sky, its gates guarded by automatons with glowing red eyes that scanned for intruders with merciless efficiency. Kaelen's plan was madness: infiltrate the most heavily guarded fortress in the known world, not to assassinate the Dragon King, but to free the one creature that could make his reign of terror crumble. He knew the layout by heart—every secret passage, every blind spot, every patrol route—thanks to the maps his father had hidden in the family's forbidden texts. But knowledge was one thing; execution was another. His heart hammered against his ribs as he scaled the outer wall, his fingers finding purchase in the ancient stone, each movement a prayer against discovery. The air grew colder as he climbed, the scent of ozone and magic clinging to the citadel's stones like a warning.
At the highest parapet, overlooking the throne room where the Dragon King held court, Kaelen paused. Below, through a narrow slit in the wall, he could see the glint of the royal dragon chain, heavy and unbreakable, hanging on display beside the throne—a trophy of victory, a symbol of his people's enslavement. That chain had once belonged to his father's dragon, Veythris, a magnificent beast of emerald scales and lightning eyes. Kaelen had been ten years old when they took her away, her roars echoing in his nightmares ever since. Tonight, he would avenge her. Or die trying. The Imperial seal felt hot in his pocket, burning against his skin, a promise of death if he failed, or salvation if he succeeded. He took a deep breath, the cold night air filling his lungs, and prepared to make his move. The first step into the throne room would seal his fate—either as the liberator of Vael or another nameless corpse in the Dragon King's collection. His hand tightened on the hilt of the dagger at his belt, its blade etched with the same fading runes as his tattoo. The time for hesitation was over. He slipped through the slit, landing silently on the polished marble floor of the throne room, the silence so absolute he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears. The Dragon King sat upon his obsidian throne, his back to Kaelen, completely unaware of the intruder in his sanctum. Kaelen's fingers brushed the seal in his pocket, ready to reveal himself and make his plea—or his demand. But as he stepped forward, the floor beneath him groaned, and a shadow detached itself from the darkness beside the throne. The guard turned, his eyes widening in recognition, his hand flying to the sword at his hip. Before Kaelen could react, the man's mouth opened, and a sound tore through the throne room—not a shout, but a piercing shriek that echoed through the citadel, alerting every soldier within a mile. The trap had sprung.