The First Settlement
Morning crept over the village of Thornhaven, or what was left of it.
Lioran was at the border of the deserted settlement, Renn by his shoulder, looking out over the devastation. Thornhaven had once been rich—you could tell that from the scale of the gutted buildings, from the remains of stone foundations that indicated more than just temporary shelters. But the war had swept through here like a scythe, and only charred wood and fractured stone were left.
"This is where we begin?" Renn asked. His tone held skepticism, although he'd agreed to go. Weeks of coldness and silence had finally ended with him accepting that Lioran was doing something new. Forgiveness hadn't been accepted, but this was something.
"This is where we make it happen," Lioran said. He shifted to address the group following them—maybe fifty refugees, their possessions packed into bundles on their backs or into wagons pulled by starved horses. Mothers with children holding onto their skirts, elderly men who'd lived through wars they never wanted to have, young couples seeking a new beginning.
In the wake of the refugees followed Church wagons, loaded with seeds, equipment, and supplies. Sister Elara oversaw distribution, her humble robes flecked with dust from the road but her face unwavering. She nodded to Lioran once—she was ready.
Kaelen came riding on horseback, his armor gleaming but unadorned. "My engineers have scouted the land. The wells are still operational, and the soil was not salted. With effort, this can be fertile land again in two seasons."
"Two seasons is too long to starve for food," one of the refugees replied—a woman with a child perched on her hip and desperation in her eyes. "How will we manage to make it through that long?"
"Rations from the Church stores," Sister Elara replied, walking over. "Enough to keep you going till the first harvest. And the Flamebound will keep you safe—no raids, no bandits. You'll be safe."
"Protected by him?" Another refugee gestured at Lioran, terror stark on his face. "By the boy who incinerated half the north?"
The crowd spoke in worried undertones. This was the root issue—Lioran's reputation went ahead of him, and reputation based on fire and killing wasn't something that was readily converted to trust.
Lioran moved forward. The ember throbbed in his chest, and for an instant he was tempted to just demonstrate power, to make them obey through fear. But he suppressed it.
"Yes," he said flatly. "Guarded by me. By the Flamebound. By Ser Kaelen's men. By the blessing of the Church. We've all consented to this—three powers that ought to be warring, instead deciding to create something together."
"Why?" the woman with the child asked. "Why should we trust you?"
Lioran met her gaze, and in her eyes he saw Mira. Saw every mother who'd seen her world reduced to ashes. Saw the price of his decisions staring him in the face in the form of worn, frightened faces.
"Because I'm sick of burning things," he said softly. "Because I want to know if I can build. Because—" his voice broke a little, "—I want to be something more than what fear and power require."
The crowd was still. Then, hesitantly, the woman with the child stepped forward.
"My name is Clara," she said. "My husband was killed during the Ceasefire. My village was destroyed. I don't have anything left but this child and the hope that somewhere, somehow, there's still room for us in this world." She gazed Lioran straight into the eyes. "If you're deceiving me, if this is a trap, then I don't have anywhere to go anyway. So I'll believe you. Not because I trust you, but because I don't have an alternative."
The others started to move towards the entrance, attracted by her bravery or their desperation. They came one by one and entered Thornhaven's ruins, willing to start the process of rebuilding.
Renn stood and watched them leave, turned then to Lioran. "You realize this won't be sufficient, of course? One village. Fifty individuals. A drop in the ocean next to what must be accomplished."
"Every ocean begins with an individual drop," said Lioran. "Let us hope this one spreads."
….
The Work Begins
In mere hours, Thornhaven hummed with activity.
Kaelen's engineers oversaw the removal of debris, marking where new buildings would be placed. Monks from the Church instructed refugees on how to sow the seeds they had brought, showing them methods that would ensure maximum harvest from the ruined ground. The Flamebound formed a barrier, sentries stationed at regular points to keep guard against danger.
Lioran was being made to do the most routine thing possible—assisting with digging an irrigation channel.
His hands, which had hurled fire that incinerated stone and murdered hundreds, now held a plain shovel. The labor was tougher than it should have been. His body, augmented by the ember, was capable, but he'd never learned the method of consistent physical toil. His back hurt. His palms blistered even though he was powerful.
An elderly man worked alongside him, his calloused hands guiding the shovel with effortless ease. He looked at Lioran's uncoordinated style and laughed.
"You're holding it wrong," the old man said. "Let the tool guide you. Don't struggle against it."
Lioran changed the way he held the shovel, and at once the digging was less strenuous. "How do you know this?"
"Been farming for sixty years," the man declared. "Before the wars, before the lords began fighting among themselves, when a man could simply farm his land in peace." He fell silent, regarding Lioran with interest instead of fear. "You're him, aren't you? The Dragon Lord?"
"Yes," Lioran replied. There was no use in prevaricating.
"My grandson died in the fight at Blackspire," the old man said dryly. "Battling for the duke. He was just seventeen."
Lioran's shovel hovered in mid-air. The ember burst forth in a mixture of guilt and anger. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?" The tone wasn't accusatory, merely inquiring. "Or are you simply telling me what you think I'd want to hear?"
Lioran considered that. "Both," he confessed. "I'm sorry he died. But I'm not sorry I battled. I'm not sorry I lived. I'm just. sorry that it had to be one or the other."
The old man nodded slowly. "That's honest, at least." He resumed digging. "My grandson made his choice. You made yours. Neither of you could see what would come of it. That's war." He paused. "But this? This building? This is different. This is the choice we make after war. And maybe that matters more."
They toiled in quiet for some time, two men from different worlds united by the common effort of digging earth.
….
Mira's Concern
That night, as refugees settled into makeshift shelters and cooking fires started to punctuate the settlement, Mira sat beside Lioran at the edge of the village, looking out toward the darkening horizon.
"You did well today," she said, sitting down beside him.
"I dug a ditch," Lioran answered. "Not quite the heroic acts of a Dragon Lord."
"No," Mira concurred. "But perhaps that is the test. Perhaps the true test isn't if you can burn kingdoms, but if you can dig ditches next to old men who lost grandsons because of you."
Lioran was silent for a moment. "The ember resents this. It wants me to overpower, to rule with force. Every moment I spend being. ordinary things, it yells at me that I'm squandering potential."
"And yet you're still here," Mira noted.
"Yes," Lioran replied. "I'm still here."
In the distance, they saw Renn instructing a cluster of refugees in how to keep weapons—useful skills that could save their lives if bandits attacked. In front of him, Sister Elara conducted night prayers, her voice ringing out across the camp in a soft chant promising hope and rebirth.
"Do you think it will work?" Lioran asked. "All of this? Can we really make it better?"
Mira did not say anything for a long time. "I don't know," she said. "But I do know that it is better to try than not to try at all. And I do know that the boy I raised, the one I thought I'd lost in all that fire, I saw today. Digging ditches. Listening to an old man. Humble enough to learn from someone who should despise him."
She extended her hand and grabbed his. It was blistered and filthy, more like a man's than it had been for weeks.
"That boy," Mira said quietly, "is the one I want to live. Not the Dragon Lord. Not the Emperor of Ash. Just Lioran, my son, who's trying to be a better man than fate requires."
…..
The Night Watch
Midnight caught Lioran on sentry duty, standing at the edge of Thornhaven with a plain spear—no flame, no magic, pure watchfulness.
Kaelen approached him, moving with stealthy efficiency as a seasoned soldier.
"You know," Kaelen continued, "a few weeks ago, I would have killed you in a heartbeat if I had the opportunity."
"And now?" Lioran queried.
"Now I think maybe you're more dangerous this way," Kaelen said, though there was a bit of humor in his tone. "A tyrant with limitless power is predictable. You can plan for that, resist it. But someone attempting to be better? Someone who might actually succeed at creating something worth fighting for? That changes everything."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation," Kaelen answered. "The nobles who are against our alliance—they don't fear your fire. They fear that you'll demonstrate there's a better way of ruling than the one they've had to do for centuries. That's far more dangerous to their power than any military force."
They stood in comfortable silence, two warriors who'd discovered shared purpose.
"Tomorrow," Kaelen stated, "I'm going out to the next settlement location. We've found three more villages to rebuild. Sister Elara is coordinating additional supplies. We'll require Flamebound defense for those locations as well."
"You will have it," Lioran vowed.
And as the darkness fell deeper, Thornhaven rested—the first undisturbed sleep that many of its newest inhabitants had seen in months. And standing watch over them all, a Dragon Lord guarded with no sword but a spear and the will to demonstrate that power could be wielded for more than devastation.
The seed had been sown.
Now was the task: to get it to grow.