CHAPTER VIII
The Dragon's Mark
The roar that rolled through the Frost Tunnels was not the voice of any creature that walked the surface of the world.
It was older than mountains, deeper than oceans, and carried within it the weight of an age when the sky itself had been ruled by fire and scale. The sound reverberated through the ice and stone, setting the crystals in the cavern walls singing with a shrill, brittle resonance. Snow sifted down from unseen heights, and somewhere far above, a glacier groaned as though something vast had shifted in its sleep.
Alaric knelt beside his father, the echoes of that roar still vibrating in his bones. The warmth of the sigil upon his chest had grown stronger, no longer a faint ember but a steady, pulsing heat, like a coal buried deep within his flesh.
"Father…" he began, but Edrin Thorne raised a hand weakly.
"Listen first," the ranger said, his voice hoarse but steady. "There are things you must understand, and little time in which to understand them."
Lysa crouched on Edrin's other side, her palms glowing with a soft, blue-white light as she wove what healing she could. Frost still rimed his armor, and thin lines of blackened ice crept along the veins beneath his skin—signs of a wound touched by dragon-cold.
"The creature you heard," Edrin continued, "is not Cryomor himself. Not yet. It is one of his heralds, a frost-drake bound to the will of the Elder. Where it goes, the presence of its master is not far behind."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "Then the Elder Dragons truly are waking."
"Yes," Edrin said. "And with them, the old war stirs from its grave."
He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his strength. When he opened them again, his gaze was fixed upon his son with an intensity that cut through the cold and fear alike.
"Your mother did not die of illness, as you were told," he said quietly. "She was hunted. Hunted because of what she was, and because of what you might one day become."
Alaric felt the words like a blade in his chest. "Hunted… by the cult?"
"By them, and by others who feared the return of the old powers," Edrin replied. "The Emberline were never many, but they carried within their blood a pact older than the Five Crowns, older even than the High Circle of Mages. A pact forged when dragons and mortals still spoke as allies rather than enemies."
Lysa's eyes widened. "The Covenant of Flame and Stone."
Edrin nodded. "Your tutors in the Tower taught you well, even in fragments. That covenant bound certain human bloodlines to the laws that governed dragonkind. Not to rule them, but to remind them of the balance they once swore to uphold."
He looked at Alaric's chest, where the faint glow of the sigil showed through the fabric of his tunic.
"The Mark you bear is the sign of that covenant. It is not merely a symbol. It is a key, and a burden. It means the Elder Dragons will sense you, as they would sense one of their own… and as they would sense a judge."
Alaric swallowed. "A judge? Of dragons?"
"In a manner of speaking," Edrin said. "One who stands at the crossing of paths, as the prophecy names you. One who may call upon ancient oaths when all other bonds fail."
Another tremor shook the cavern, closer now. The ice beneath them cracked with a sharp report, and a breath of air swept through the tunnel, so cold it burned.
Lysa rose, her hand going to the crystal rod Elyndor had given her. "It's coming. The frost-drake. I can feel its shadow in the ley-lines. We must move, or it will find us before my wards can hide us again."
Edrin's grip tightened on Alaric's wrist. "You must go," he said. "Both of you. The Fire-Road does not allow those who walk it to linger in one place for long."
"No," Alaric said fiercely. "I'm not leaving you here."
A faint smile touched Edrin's lips. "Stubborn, like your mother. But listen. I am a ranger of Vareth. I swore an oath to guard the realm and its people. If my life can buy you the time you need to reach the Heart of Winter, then that oath is not yet spent."
The words were calm, but their meaning struck Alaric like a blow.
Before he could protest, the air in the tunnel darkened. Frost raced along the walls, and the crystals dimmed as though the light were being drained from them. From the depths of the passage came the sound of wings, vast and slow, stirring a wind that carried with it the scent of ancient ice.
It emerged from the shadows like a nightmare given form.
The frost-drake was smaller than the dragons of legend, yet still immense by mortal measure. Its body was long and sinuous, covered in overlapping plates of pale blue and white, each scale etched with patterns like frozen lightning. Its wings were vast, their membranes translucent as ice, and its eyes glowed with a cold, pitiless intelligence.
Upon its brow burned a sigil of dark flame—the mark of the Broken Flame cult, binding it to their will and, through them, to Cryomor.
It reared back and roared, a blast of freezing air that crystallized the moisture in the cavern, coating everything in a fresh sheath of ice.
Lysa raised her rod, tracing a swift sigil in the air. A barrier of shimmering light flared into being, intercepting the first wave of frost. The impact sent her staggering, but she held the ward.
Alaric rose to his feet, star-forged dagger in hand. The runes along its blade glowed once more, answering the heat that surged through his veins.
The frost-drake's gaze fixed upon him.
In that moment, something ancient and profound passed between them—not words, but recognition. The beast saw not merely a human youth, but the echo of a covenant, the imprint of flame that had once bound its kind.
It hesitated.
Then the sigil of the cult upon its brow flared, and the hesitation vanished, drowned beneath enforced obedience. With a shriek of ice and rage, it lunged.
The barrier shattered under the force of its breath, shards of light and frost exploding outward. Lysa was thrown back against the cavern wall, stunned. Edrin collapsed, the last of his strength spent.
Alaric stood alone before the onrushing drake.
Fear threatened to overwhelm him—but beneath it, deeper and stronger, something else stirred. The First Flame, not as destruction, but as memory. As will.
He raised the dagger, and the mark upon his chest blazed.
Fire answered.
Not the wild, devouring flame of battlefields and burning cities, but a focused, brilliant radiance, like the heart of a star held in a single point. It poured from him into the blade, and from the blade into the air, forming a sigil of light that mirrored the mark upon his flesh.
The frost-drake recoiled, its wings beating frantically as it felt the ancient law awaken.
"I am Alaric Thorne," he said, though the voice that echoed through the cavern was deeper than his own, layered with something vast and resonant. "By the Covenant of Flame and Stone, I name you. By the blood of Ember and Thorn, I bind you. Remember the oath you swore before ice and fire were enemies."
The sigil flared.
The drake screamed—not in pain, but in shock and fury, as the binding of the cult faltered. For a heartbeat, the dark mark upon its brow dimmed, and beneath it, another symbol flickered into view: the ancient rune of fealty to the Dragon King… and to the laws that even he could not wholly deny.
The cavern shook as the drake reared back, torn between commands.
Then, with a thunderous beat of its wings, it turned and fled, vanishing into the depths of the tunnels, its roar echoing in retreat.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of melting ice.
Alaric staggered, the sudden loss of power leaving him weak and trembling. Lysa rushed to his side, catching him before he could fall.
"You did it," she whispered, awe in her voice. "You spoke the Words of Binding. Not as a mage… but as a bearer of the Covenant."
Alaric looked down at his hands. The fire was gone, leaving only the faint warmth of the mark upon his chest. "I didn't know what I was saying. It was as if… the words were already there, waiting."
"They were," Lysa said. "In your blood. In the pact your ancestors helped forge."
They turned to Edrin. He lay still, his face pale, but his breathing had steadied. The frost that had crept through his veins was receding, driven back by the lingering warmth of Alaric's power.
"He lives," Lysa said softly. "For now. The drake's withdrawal has lessened the hold of the cold upon him."
Alaric knelt beside his father, tears stinging his eyes. "I won't leave you," he said. "Not now. Not after this."
Edrin's eyes opened, and he looked at his son with a mixture of pride and sorrow. "You have already stepped beyond the path I can walk with you," he said. "What you did just now… few living souls could have done."
He reached up and touched Alaric's chest, where the mark lay hidden. "The Dragon's Mark has awakened fully. From this day on, you will never again be merely a boy of Kharondel. You are a living echo of the First Age."
Alaric bowed his head. "I never wanted such a fate."
"Few who bear it do," Edrin replied. "But the world does not choose its champions for their desire. It chooses them for their need."
Far away, beyond the ice and stone, the shadow of vast wings passed across the moon, and the cold wind carried a distant, answering roar.
The Elder Dragons had felt the stirring of the Covenant.
And they had begun to take notice of the one who bore its mark.