The wind howled through the towering peaks of the Gilded Ridge, where the sky kissed the land and the world felt untouched by time. Snowflakes drifted gently, settling over the jagged rocks and dense forests. It was here, far from the reach of men, that a young boy lived under the wings of a legend.
Ryle Astoria was not born in a cradle of nobility, nor was he raised by human hands. His first memories were of warmth—not from a mother's embrace, but from the searing breath of a dragon.
Ignilth, the Crimson Warden, was a being of immeasurable power. His scales shimmered like molten gold in the sunlight, his eyes burned with wisdom that had seen centuries pass. To the world, dragons were divine beings, untouchable by mortal hands. To Ryle, Ignilth was something far more precious—his father, his mentor, his entire world.
"Strength is not just in the body, Ryle. It is in the will to stand, even when the heavens fall."
Ignilth's voice rumbled through the cavern, ancient and unyielding. He watched as the young boy—small, fragile by human standards—lifted himself from the cold stone floor, blood trickling from his lip. The training was harsh, unrelenting. But Ryle never yielded.
From the moment he could walk, Ignilth had pushed him beyond human limitations. He hunted with claws he did not have, fought against shadows larger than himself, and learned to endure pain that would break grown men. But strength was never just about survival.
"You must understand the world, Ryle. The strong rule not with fists, but with knowledge. Words shape kingdoms more than swords."
And so, Ryle did not just train his body—he sharpened his mind. Ignilth taught him to read, to decipher truths hidden beneath layers of deception. The world of men was filled with lies, and if Ryle wished to change it, he needed more than just strength.
He needed to see through the illusions.
But even the mightiest flames can be extinguished.
The night was cold, unnaturally so. Ryle remembered the eerie silence that clung to the air, the way even the howling winds seemed to hold their breath. He had returned from the valley, his arms full of firewood, when he saw it.
Blood.
It painted the snow in thick pools, steaming against the icy ground. His heart pounded in his chest as his eyes followed the crimson trail, his legs moving before his mind could process the sight.
And then, he saw him.
Ignilth—the unbreakable, the eternal—lay motionless, his magnificent form broken beneath the weight of death. His golden scales, once radiant, were dulled by the deep gashes that marred his body.
A single figure stood before him, bathed in the dim glow of the moon. A man, draped in the robes of nobility, his blade slick with dragon's blood. His features were sharp, composed, untouched by the weight of what he had done.
Marquis Elden.
A hero, the kingdom would call him. The man who had accomplished the impossible—slaying a divine being. But Ryle knew the truth. Ignilth had not fallen to old age. He had not been felled by time.
He had been murdered.
Rage burned inside Ryle, hotter than any fire Ignilth had ever breathed. His fists clenched, his body trembled, but he did not move. He was young. He was small. He was powerless. And so, he watched as Elden turned away, his men whispering words of admiration and disbelief.
No one would believe the truth.
And so, Ryle did not speak.
From that night on, the mountains no longer felt like home. The wind that once carried Ignilth's voice now howled in emptiness. And so, Ryle left. He descended into the world of men, not as a warrior, but as something far more dangerous.
He traveled from city to city, his hands never once touching a sword, yet uncovering secrets that could topple kingdoms. He exposed corruption, unveiled lies, and shattered the illusions that men built their power upon. But hidden beneath his ink-stained hands was strength that no human could comprehend.
For he was raised by a dragon.
And one day, the world would tremble beneath his truth.