The first thing Assan heard was the screaming.
Not the roar of dragons.
Not the thunder of collapsing stone.
Not the clash of swords or the horns of war.
Just screaming.
For a moment, he lay frozen beneath his blankets, staring into the darkness above him as his mind struggled to understand what had dragged him from sleep. His room shook again, harder this time. Dust drifted from the wooden beams above him, and somewhere outside, something massive struck the ground with enough force to rattle the walls.
Then came the fire.
A flash of orange light poured through his window, painting his small room in the color of a burning sunset.
Assan was moving before he even understood why.
He threw himself from his bed, reaching for the sword resting beside it. His fingers wrapped around the familiar leather grip, the one thing he owned that carried any real meaning. It was not a legendary blade. It was not forged for a lord or a prince.
It was simply a sword.
A knight's weapon.
A promise.
Outside, the city of Veyrholm was dying.
Assan stumbled into the street and immediately felt the heat against his skin. Smoke filled his lungs. People ran in every direction, some carrying children, some carrying nothing at all. Faces that he had known his entire life were twisted with fear.
The baker from the corner market.
The old woman who sold flowers near the western gate.
The young stable boy who always bragged about becoming a knight.
They were all running.
They were all afraid.
Above them, the sky belonged to dragons.
Assan stopped.
He had seen dragons before.
Everyone in the realm had.
They were the symbol of the Kravaryn dynasty. The creatures that had carried kings into battle and guarded the throne for generations.
But he had never seen twenty-four of them.
The creatures filled the sky like living storms.
Some were enormous, their wings stretching wider than buildings. Others were younger, faster, darting between the clouds. Their scales reflected the flames below, turning the night into a sea of gold, red, and black.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Impossible.
A dragon passed overhead, and the entire street went silent.
Then it opened its jaws.
Assan's stomach dropped.
"No..."
The flames came down like the wrath of the gods.
People screamed.
Buildings disappeared.
The street erupted into chaos.
Assan moved.
He didn't think.
He didn't hesitate.
He ran toward the flames.
A man grabbed his arm as he passed.
YOU ARE READING
CHOSEN
Fantasy[A king is not chosen by blood. He is chosen by the people he protects.] Assan Kravaryn (15 years old at the beginning) A hidden bastard son of Princess Llyana Kravaryn, raised as a commoner and unaware of his true lineage. Assan has spent his entir...
