Rebirth of the Dragon Lord

Wind howled through the broken ramparts of Stormrune Keep. The ancient fortress, perched upon jagged cliffs high above a tumultuous sea, seemed to groan under the weight of cannon blasts and the roars of dragons overhead. Smoke from burning towers rose into the sky, merging with rolling black clouds that spat torrents of rain. The night was illuminated only by lightning strikes—and the fiery breath of warring dragons.

Tariq Stormrune stood atop the outer wall, bracing against the gale. His polished armor bore deep scratches, testament to a grueling day of battle. Even so, his eyes burned with unbroken resolve. Every nerve in his body thrummed from the power of his Name—the storied Stormrune lineage that had safeguarded these lands for centuries. He could feel generations of ancestors at his back, as if their spirits sheltered him from the onslaught.

A battered sentinel limped up the stone steps, shouting over the din of rain and distant catapults, "My lord, the north gate's collapsed! Enemy troops are pouring in."

Tariq laid a hand on the man's shoulder. Despite the soot and grime, the sentinel still wore the Stormrune crest proudly. "Fall back to the inner courtyard," Tariq ordered. "Help rally anyone who can still fight. I'll handle the dragons at the harbor."

A thunderous roar tore through the night sky. Tariq looked up to see a Cragback—one of the hardy, land-based dragons favored by Stormrune knights—swooping low in alarm. Slick with blood, it spat a dying jet of flame at the enemy siege lines. Catapults loosed a volley of boulder-sized stones that crashed into the keep's towers. Rubble rained down onto the fortress courtyard below.

Drawing a ragged breath, Tariq pressed his right hand to the hilt of his sword. The sword's pommel glowed faintly with inlaid runes—physical proof of his family's long, unbroken Name. With each heartbeat, he felt a pulse of ancestral power. Stormrune. It was more than an identity: it was a birthright, forged across generations of dragon-riding explorers and guardians.

He peered across the darkened waters of the harbor. Fiery pinpoints dotted the sea—enemy warships with monstrous figureheads bearing down on the keep. Behind them, he could just make out the outline of a massive shape: a Leviathan Drake, as large as a whale, skimming the rough surf. If it reached the harbor walls unchallenged, Stormrune Keep would be surrounded entirely—doomed from sea and land both.

With a resolve born of desperation, Tariq turned to his own mount—a Cragback named Rimefang—huddled in the shelter of a partially collapsed tower. The dragon's bronze scales caught flashes of lightning, and its wide yellow eyes regarded Tariq with fierce loyalty. He hurried over the debris, crouching to stroke its snout. "Easy, friend," he murmured, voice nearly lost in the wind. "We're not finished yet."

Rimefang lowered itself, allowing him to climb into the riding saddle. Despite the torrential downpour, Tariq's hands were steady as he gripped the reins. His ancestors' legacy hummed in his veins, a stabilizing force in the chaos. Once aloft, he could direct Rimefang to strike at the Leviathan Drake before it ripped through the harbor defenses.

Yet even as he steeled himself for flight, part of his mind reeled at the scale of devastation behind him. Stormrune Keep—the proud bastion that had shielded these coasts for generations—was collapsing under the unrelenting fire of siege weapons and enemy dragons. Soldiers he'd trained with, men and women whose faces he knew as well as his own, were risking everything to hold off the invasion. And still, more catapults thundered, bringing sections of the rampart crashing down.

"Lord Stormrune!" Another voice rang out, echoing across the ruined courtyard. Elys Caravel, a seasoned knight and friend, ran toward him. Her armor was dented and spattered with mud, her hair whipped across her face. "We can't hold the courtyard much longer. The front gates are overrun. If there's a final stand, it must be here."

Her words hammered home what he already feared: this was the turning point. Rain pelted his face, and a flash of lightning illuminated the unwavering determination in Elys's eyes. Tariq nodded grimly, then spurred Rimefang forward.

"We'll hold as long as we can," he called back. "But protect the survivors—get as many out as possible through the secret tunnels."

Elys bowed stiffly. "I'll see it done. By your Name, my lord."

The mention of his Name brought him courage. Stormrune. So many centuries of honor rested on that single word. "Fight well, Elys," he said. "For the keep, for our people."

He turned Rimefang toward the harbor, already planning his aerial strike. If he could buy even a few minutes, the non-combatants might escape into the labyrinthine caves beneath the fortress. At that moment, a blazing comet of dragon fire arced overhead, illuminating the black sky with a furious red glow.

And Tariq Stormrune, heart pounding with ancestral might, dove into the tempest.

Tariq guided Rimefang in a sweeping arc over the broken ramparts, each wingbeat forcing rain and ash to swirl in violent gusts. Below him, the courtyard was a chaos of shrieking men and clashing steel. Broken siege engines littered the battlements, their twisted frames lit by the glow of fires raging through the keep. Where once Stormrune banners had flown, only tattered scraps remained, shredded by enemy missiles.

He urged Rimefang higher, determined to reach the harbor wall. Through sheets of rain, the Leviathan Drake became clearer—a colossal, sinuous beast skimming the wave tops. Its sea-green scales flashed whenever lightning lanced the horizon. Even at a distance, its roar resonated in Tariq's bones, an ancient sound that predated kingdoms.

At the harbor's edge, Stormrune cannons spat defiant blasts. Stone bastions strained to hold strong, but the Leviathan Drake's coils slammed the defenses, cracking masonry like rotten driftwood. Enemy warships advanced behind it, their decks crawling with soldiers and lesser dragons ready to surge once the Leviathan breached the port.

Tariq leaned low over Rimefang's neck, the cold wind cutting at his face. "Now," he hissed.

With a heavy flap, Rimefang dove. Tariq raised his sword—its runes pulsing in time with his heartbeat—then loosed a bellow: "Stormrune stands!" The words ignited something in his blood, sending the inherited might of his forefathers coursing through him. He could feel the weight of his Name coalescing into a razor focus. Rimefang's chest expanded, embers flickering in its throat.

They struck like a thunderbolt. Rimefang's fire washed over the Leviathan's spined back, scales steaming beneath the intense flames. The monstrous creature hissed and reared, swinging a barbed tail that barely missed tearing Rimefang's wing. As Tariq guided the Cragback into a second strafing run, a barrage of enemy arrows whistled upward. Some glanced off Rimefang's thick hide, but a few found gaps in the dragon's armored belly.

Rimefang's roar of pain reverberated in the night. With a lurch, the dragon lost altitude. Tariq gritted his teeth, fighting to keep them steady. He couldn't retreat now. If the Leviathan wasn't halted, Stormrune's harbor—and all who still sought escape—would be lost.

Another volley, this time from ballistae on the enemy warships, tore through the darkness. One bolt punched through Rimefang's flank. The dragon shrieked and faltered. Tariq felt his mount convulse beneath him. He steadied his sword arm, channeling every scrap of Stormrune's ancestral essence into a final, furious blow. Rimefang crashed onto the Leviathan's scaled shoulder, claws raking. Sparks flew as Tariq's blade clashed with the behemoth's ridged spine.

An explosion of black water and roiling foam erupted beneath them. The Leviathan bellowed, thrashing so violently that it knocked Rimefang aside. Tariq was flung from the saddle, tumbling across the beast's hide before plunging into the churning sea below. Freezing saltwater slammed into him, yanking the air from his lungs.

For several seconds, Tariq sank beneath black waves, the roar of battle muffled into an underwater chaos. In the swirling darkness, shapes and memories flickered in his mind—images of his ancestors who had carried the Stormrune Name before him, the vow he had sworn to protect his people. If he died here, would his Name-essence pass on? Would his sacrifice buy enough time for those still fighting?

He forced himself to the surface, choking on seawater. Clinging to a piece of debris, he glimpsed the Leviathan rearing back, its maw open wide. Brilliant arcs of lightning reflected off jagged teeth the size of spear tips. Nearby, Rimefang sprawled against shattered rubble, wounded and unmoving.

One last chance.

Every muscle in Tariq's body screamed for air, for rest, but the unyielding power of his forefathers propelled him. He hurled himself onto a half-submerged battlement, raised his sword in both hands, and drove the runic blade toward the Leviathan's throat as it lunged forward. A roar of thunder and the beast's shriek mingled, deafening him. The blade connected—severing flesh and scale in an eruption of red.

But in the same instant, the Leviathan's tail crashed down. The blow rattled the stone beneath Tariq, and he felt a crushing impact through his armor. Darkness claimed the edges of his vision.

Gasping, half-buried under collapsed masonry, he stared at the sky. The storms raged on, and he could just make out the scattered forms of Stormrune defenders still battling on the harbor walls. A fleeting warmth spread through Tariq's chest as the Stormrune Name flared one last time. He had done all he could. With the Leviathan mortally wounded, the enemy's advance would stall, perhaps allowing survivors to flee.

His heartbeat slowed. In a moment of piercing clarity, he sensed his Name-essence rising from deep within, ready to pass on. He pictured the face of his younger sister, his designated heir, and prayed she would receive his full measure of power.

Yet in that moment, as death's cold fingers wrapped around him, a subtle distortion rippled through the night—the faint echo of a whispered incantation, or perhaps a curse. Tariq's final breath hung in the air. Something seized the departing essence of Stormrune and wrenched it violently off course.

Confusion flooded Tariq's fading mind. Had the enemy conjured some vile magic? Or was this some freak occurrence in the crucible of battle?

He tried to call out, to warn someone, anyone. But darkness descended fully, and all that remained was the crash of waves and the dying roar of dragons.

End of Prologue