Twilight bled into night.
The stars of Sarthal were faint behind a haze of mist and canopy. Kaleon sat curled by the fire, legs pulled to his chest, a thin cloak around his shoulders. His staff lay across his lap like a wounded limb.
The fresh cuts along his forearm, cheek and leg still oozed red. Maelor had stitched it himself with the magical potion made specially by Maester Valtharion.
"Let the wounds rest, you'll be the same you were yesterday." said Maelor in a concerned way.
Silence sat between them.
Finally Maelor spoke:
"I killed my first man when I was ten. Not in battle. In the dark, poisoned blade."
He glanced at Kaleon.
"Do you know what I felt?"
Kaleon shook his head.
Maelor looked away. "Nothing. That's what scared me the most."
Kaleon asked, "Why do you bring me here."
Maelor didn't answer at first, then:
"Because you are a Skarn. And Skarns are forged. Not pampered. Not protected. Forged."
He sighed, a rare softness breaking through. "Kaleon, you've yet to see the lies your family hides behind smiles. But I can't hold it against them. Power does that. The throne—gods damn it—it changes everything."
Kaleon stood tall beneath the silver glow of the half-moon, his stance no longer that of a boy, but of a man bearing purpose. "Uncle," he declared, "I will become the strongest. I'll protect our blood, our house—and I'll make you proud."Maelor smirked—not quite a smile, but enough to show he was sure of Kaleon's determination. He knew Kaleon would get it done. "I just don't want to be weak," whispered Kaleon."You won't be—" sigh "unless you turn back." Promised Maelor.
As Kaleon lay beneath the stars, the fire at his back warming his skin, he heard a distant rumble—not thunder.
Wings.
Far above, hidden by the darkness, the shadow of a true Skarn dragon passed—its growl like the tearing of mountains, its breath a fading ember across the stars.
Kaleon rose, eyes wide.
It was real. It had seen him.
Maelor, still seated at the fire, gave a single nod.
"Sleep," he said. "Tomorrow, you walk home."
The fire had died, but Kaleon's eyes burned wide in the half-light of dawn. His muscles ached, his palms throbbed—but sleep had evaded him. Something about his uncle's silence… the way his gaze lingered too long on the flames.
A dream had haunted him, too—of a great black dragon, wings torn, weeping fire in a cave of ice. Its roar had sounded like his own voice, crying out.
Maelor stood at the edge of the clearing now, arms folded, silent as stone.
"You'll go alone," he said, without turning. "Twelve miles. No escort. No maps."
Kaleon blinked. "Alone?"
"You've seen the path enough. Skarnhold's smoke stacks rise above the Emberline. Stay west of the river, cross the basalt gorge before sundown. If you're not home by nightfall—"
He paused. "You're not Skarn enough to wear the name."
Kaleon swallowed. "What if drakes—"
Maelor looked at him, sharp. "Then you fight. Or you run. But you don't scream."
He tossed Kaleon a leather waterskin and a small dagger.
"Your dragon will never bow to a boy who can't reach his own house."
And with that, Maelor turned his back, vanishing into fog-soaked trees.
The Forest of Sarthal was not a place for children. Even the roots had fangs.
Kaleon moved quick but careful, eyes sharp, feet quiet. He remembered the training. Listen before you look. Smell before you step.
Kaleon looked at the dagger. It was barely longer than his hand. "Maybe I'll tickle a drake to death," he muttered, strapping it to his belt.
Two hours later…
A squirrel hurled an acorn at his head.
"Bloody forest," Kaleon grumbled, rubbing his temple. "One hour in and nature already wants me dead."
He pressed on. Roots snared his boots, thorns tore at his cloak, and once—just once—he stumbled face-first into a spiderweb and danced backward like a dying rooster.
That's when he tripped over the Journal of Elder Serith, half-buried beneath a fallen stone. The leather was scorched, the spine frayed, but the silver sigil of House Ardwyn still glinted faintly.
Kaleon flipped it open. The first page read:
"Do not trust a man whose smile does not reach his eyes. Or a drake who doesn't blink."
"Right," Kaleon muttered. "Solid advice. Shame no one warned me about squirrels."
He tucked the journal into his satchel and pressed on.
By midday, the basalt gorge loomed before him—wide, jagged, and ominously quiet. Crows circled above it like they were waiting for lunch to climb up and die.
A crumbling sign at the edge read:
"Skarnhold — 6 miles. Good luck. Don't fall. We ran out of rope."
"Wonderful," Kaleon said. "Maybe the drakes will give me a ride across."
He took a breath, tightened his grip on the dagger (still ridiculously small), and started down the rocky path into the gorge.
Unknown to him, two golden eyes watched from the shadows above—a lesser drake, maybe adolescent, maybe curious… or maybe just hungry.
But Kaleon, for now, was humming. Loudly. A song Maester Valtharion used to sing while grinding frostroot:
"If the poison's blue, it'll do.
If it's red, then you're dead.
Mix them both? You fool, you oath—
Now you're coughing out your bread!"
It was a terrible song. But oddly comforting.
He crossed the river at the narrow stones, slipped once—gained a bruise on his hip, and a lesson. The sunlight above was strange and filtered, never falling in a straight line. It twisted like the forest itself.
By midday, he'd reached the basalt gorge—a jagged scar in the earth filled with black stone columns and sulfur mist. He edged along the rim, using the dagger to steady himself.
That's when the ground gave way.
Kaleon fell—tumbling down a moss-slick slide of stone, crashing through vines and mud. He slammed into wet rock at the base of a cracked ridge, gasping.
Pain flared in his ribs. Not broken. Just bruised.
He stood, wiping blood from his brow—and froze.
Before him stretched a hidden glade, untouched by the usual rot of Sarthal. Vines glowed faintly blue. A small spring bubbled from beneath a tree with bark like silver scales. And there, in the center—
—a stone archway, half-sunken, carved with ancient draconic script.
The stone wasn't just stone. It pulsed faintly, like it was breathing.
Kaleon stepped forward, cautiously. He'd faced down thornwolves before, dodged drake spit, and once even drank Maester Valtharion's anti-fever tonic without gagging. But this… this glade whispered. Not with sound, but with something older—presence.
A breeze stirred, carrying not scent, but memory: fire, cold, sorrow. His fingertips brushed one of the symbols.
The arch trembled. Something ancient stirred below his feet.
A whisper curled in his ear—not in Common Tongue, but something older. A name. Not his.
Something else.
"Vey'naarak."
He stumbled back, heart pounding like war drums.
The stone shimmered, and for a breath—he saw a vision.
A great dragon, cloaked in black flame. A warrior in Skarn armor, kneeling before it. A circle of noble houses—Ardwyn, Thorne, Drakmire, Sylphor—all in chains. And at the center of them all… a boy.
His face. But older. Hardened. Crowned.
Then the vision shattered.
Kaleon gasped, blinking as the jungle rushed back into focus. The archway dimmed. The breath of magic stilled.
He had no idea what he'd just seen—but he felt it.
Something ancient had seen him.
And it had remembered.
Bruised and shaken, Kaleon climbed out of the vale, using roots like rungs on a ladder. The sun was low now, bleeding orange through the trees. His fingers were scratched, boots caked in mud, and a beetle had been crawling on his shoulder for the last mile and a half.
"Could've been a vision," he muttered to himself, flicking the beetle off. "Could've also been a bad mushroom."
He still wasn't sure if that glowing blue vine had tried to hug him or strangle him. Hard to tell with plants in Sarthal. Everything wanted to kill you, in increasingly creative ways.
But his steps were faster now. Sharper.
There was a pull in his chest—more than fear or duty. It wasn't about proving anything to Maelor anymore. It wasn't about being "Skarn enough." It was about that vision. About the crown. The dragon. Vey'naarak.
And about the boy he saw—himself, maybe. Or someone he'd become. Or maybe someone he'd have to fight. He wasn't sure. Visions were never kind enough to come with footnotes.
Halfway up the Emberline ridge, he slipped in dragon dung.
Flat on his back, he stared at the darkening sky and groaned. "Of course. Prophetic vision, ancient name, mystical archway—and I still end the day with my face in poop. Truly the Chosen One."
He laughed. Genuinely. Loud and echoing. Birds flew off in alarm.
And yet, it helped.
By the time he reached the ridge, dusk had cast long shadows through the trees. From the cliffs above, the great towers of Skarnhold finally came into view—iron and obsidian, lit with dragonfire from within.
The sight should've filled him with pride. It always had before. But now, it filled him with questions.
Someone—maybe Maelor, maybe not—had hidden that arch. Hidden Vey'naarak. Why?
The vision had shown the noble houses in chains. That couldn't be real. Could it? House Thorne had more soldiers than Skarn. House Ardwyn had that creepy mind-seer in their council. House Sylphar floated cities on the wind, for gods' sake.
"Chains," he muttered. "Must've been metaphorical. Please let it be metaphorical."
A silhouette flew overhead.
A dragon. Not one of the great wyrms of legend, but still majestic—sleek, silver-scaled, its wings slicing the twilight.
It let out a low rumble. A warning? A greeting? A growl?
Kaleon waved, awkwardly. "Hi. Don't eat me. I'm emotionally unstable right now."
The dragon banked left and vanished behind a tower.
If you'd told him this morning that he'd be talking to ancient stones and arguing with beetles, he would've laughed. Now? He wasn't laughing.
He was ready.
Kind of.
"Okay," he whispered to himself. "Next step: find out what the hell a Vey'naarak is."
Then he paused.
"…And maybe find a bath."
THUD—Kaleon fell, he did walk and hurt himself in a single day... Maelor again stepped out of shadows, he didn't show it but he was happy.