The shouts woke him before dawn.

  Leeonir stood at his window, fingers arrested on the clasp of his training tunic. Voices rose from the lower city, not as a steady hum but in jagged spikes of panic. He could not distinguish every word, but the meaning cut through the morning mist. The people screamed for the Council and cried that their children were burning.

  He closed his eyes and forced a breath. Three days ago, reports from the southern villages had shifted from pleas to screams. Ogre raids had scorched farms to black earth. Families were scattered or dead. The Council had promised reinforcements that never arrived.

  From his vantage, Eldoria looked like a glittering dream carved in stone. Towers caught the first light like jewels, and the great gates stood proud. But beneath the shine, the foundation trembled. Reports arrived daily, each worse than the last. Fear grew on the streets, while in taverns and markets, doubt ate at trust.

  Leeonir fastened his tunic and turned to the stand. Pale morning light hit Ecos's armor. Black meteorite fused with magic formed a masterpiece of war. The black mesh balanced grace with endurance, and the plates fit like poured skin. He had never worn them into real battle.

  Beside the armor rested the sword. Ecos's sword was black as midnight long and wickedly sharp. It settled into his palm like an extension of his arm, a weight he had not yet earned.

  Ecos had forged peace with fire and blade. He killed dragons to protect his people, then opened the gates to humans and ogres, believing unity stronger than fear. But peace tears easily. Some ogre tribes rebelled. Humans clung to suspicion, elves to pride. Now his grandson stood in a room smelling of old leather and polished steel, listening to the dream crack in the streets below.

  Leeonir touched the hilt. The metal was cold, but a faint hum vibrated against his fingertips. His mother used to say the sword remembered its wielders. If true, the memory was heavy.

  At seventeen, as son of Leelinor and heir to Ecos's bloodline, he was prophecy made flesh to the people. To himself, he was a boy wearing doubt. Today, that would change.

  He left the armor on its stand. That weight would have to wait. He took only the sword, letting the leather grip settle into his palm with a familiar, questioning weight.

  Eden's hooves rang against cobblestones. The stallion's coat was deep black, drinking the light, and his eyes were calm with old awareness. Leeonir ran a hand down the neck, feeling muscle warmth against the cool air.

  Eldoria opened before him. The city spread across the valley in elegant tiers climbing toward the Sacred Mountain. White marble veined with silver caught the sun. Towers leaned together in graceful clusters. Banners stirred above the deep green of the Council, the pale gold of ancient bloodlines, and the scattered crimson of mercenary orders.

  Houses of dark noble wood lined the avenues. Balconies spilled flowering vines over courtyards where fountains sang. Elven elegance woven with human craft created a harmony skeptics doubted until they walked these streets.

  Above it all, the Sacred Mountain commanded the horizon. The Council Hall was carved directly into its face, seven colossal pillars guarding an entrance tall enough for giants. Gardens spilled through every district. The scent of jasmine drifted to mix with fresh bread, ripe fruit, and the copper tang of the forges. Trees older than any living elf arched over the main roads, scattering dappled light while crystal channels wove through the lower districts.

  Elves walked the avenues in flowing robes. Humans moved among them and merchants shouted wares. Here and there, ogres passed through broader squares. They were neighbors now, even if unity remained unfinished work.

  Leeonir breathed in jasmine, stone, and river water. This was home and the legacy his grandfather had defended. He guided Eden toward the eastern gate.

  Beyond the walls, street noise faded into birdsong and the distant clash of steel. The Mercenary Order of Eldoria trained here. Elite fighters were chosen for talent rather than bloodline. Years of discipline forged them into weapons. Mostly elves trained there, though more humans had begun to earn their cloaks. A human might stand against two ogres if fate was kind, but a trained elven mercenary could take ten.

  Dozens of young elves hurled themselves into drills. They dreamed of cloaks, renown, and marble plaques bearing their names.

  Leeonir dismounted. Trainees nodded or watched with sharp curiosity. Everyone knew who he was and wondered if he would fail quietly or succeed loudly.

  At the center of the yard stood Edduuhf. Tall and broad-shouldered, he possessed an iron spine. He had short white hair and green eyes steady with a predator's patience. Scars cut across his forearms and jaw, each a lesson learned the brutal way. He had trained Leelinor and fought beside Ecos. He watched Leeonir approach with an unreadable expression. No approval existed there, only expectation.

  "You are late," Edduuhf said.

  "The streets were crowded with protesters," Leeonir replied.

  "A warrior finds a way." Edduuhf drew his blade, simple and perfectly balanced. "Draw."

  Leeonir unsheathed Ecos's sword. Black steel gleamed in the shade. The yard quieted and trainees paused.

  Edduuhf struck first. A blur of motion followed. Elven blood sharpened Leeonir's senses; he caught the strike and turned it aside, the collision humming through his bones.

  "Better," Edduuhf said, already swinging again. "But you are still thinking. Stop thinking. Your sword carries your will."

  Leeonir ducked a horizontal slash and thrust toward Edduuhf's ribs. The master slipped aside, tapping his blade against Leeonir's wrist. It was light enough to sting the ego, but heavy enough to remind him of the cost of a mistake.

  "I am trying," Leeonir panted. "But it feels like I am just copying you."

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  Edduuhf lowered his sword and stepped close. "Then surpass me. Be more. You carry Ecos's blood. Honor it."

  The words felt like armor laid across shoulders still too narrow.

  They trained until the sun climbed high and muscles burned. Every blocked blow taught him something. Every mistake left a bruise. Elven blood healed fast, turning pain into fuel rather than punishment.

  When Edduuhf finally called a halt, Leeonir sank into the grass, breath rasping. He stared at the distant mountains where shadows stretched.

  "Edduuhf," he said. "Why do you think the dragons stir now after so long?"

  The old elf eased down, joints cracking. "They are creatures of balance. They do not burn without cause. Something pushes them. It is something ancient or perhaps someone."

  "I wish I knew more about them and the stones," Leeonir said. "I wish I knew the things the sages say we do not need to know."

  Edduuhf placed a scarred hand on his shoulder. "Wisdom grows slowly, Leeonir. First you survive, then you understand. Be patient."

  But time did not belong to him. With dragons waking and fear spreading, the world pushed faster than he could learn to stand.

  That evening, the family gathered in the great hall. Torches burned low, shadows crawling up stone walls. The smell of roasted meat hung heavy and untouched.

  Leelinor sat at the head, fingers steepled before his mouth. Since his wife's death, he remained close enough to watch but far enough not to fracture.

  Abhoof sat at his right, composed and calculating grain routes behind his calm expression. Beside him was Deehia. She carried her intellect like a blade, sharp and unexpected. Her emerald eyes held a tireless hunger for answers.

  Across from her sat Luucner. His dark green eyes were lit by a soldier's discipline. He was serious and relentless, his posture rigid even at rest.

  Leeonir sat closer to the far end. The distance between him and his father felt wider than the hall itself.

  "The attacks increase," Leelinor said. "Fear spreads faster than fire."

  Abhoof responded first. "Hunger is the first spark. I have reinforced the plantations. If they are fed, they will hold."

  "Security means nothing if the people think we have abandoned them," Deehia countered. "In the markets, they whisper the Council has gone blind. Swords alone will not keep Eldoria standing."

  The hall tightened. Leeonir waited for his father's temper, but Leelinor's expression remained stone.

  Luucner's voice broke the quiet. "Words do not stop raiders. Villages need warriors, not speeches."

  Leeonir gripped his fork until his knuckles turned white. Luucner's certainty had always been a mountain he struggled to climb.

  Leelinor's gaze shifted, landing on him. "Tomorrow," his father said, his voice calm but sharp, "you leave for the first time. You will travel with Luucner to Dragon God Village. They are under attack."

  Leeonir's heart slammed once. Cold spread under his skin, but pride would rather kill him than let him falter. "I am ready," he said. His voice held steady.

  Luucner nodded with subtle approval.

  Leelinor leaned forward. For a moment brief as a blade flash, something softer broke through the storm behind his eyes. "Carry our name well, Leeonir," he said with thin, unmistakable pride.

  At sunrise, Leeonir donned his armor. The black metal fit as though poured onto his body. At his side hung Ecos's sword, catching what little light the morning offered.

  In the stables, Eden whinnied. Leeonir brushed a hand along the stallion's neck. "Today is our day, old friend."

  Luucner was already mounted on Frida. Her white coat was speckled with black, eyes bright with restrained fire. "Let us show them what we are made of."

  The forest path unfolded in ribbons of light and shadow. The air carried the scent of dew, moss, and cold soil.

  "Try to keep up, Luucner!" Leeonir urged Eden forward with a laugh.

  "Speed without purpose leads to death," Luucner replied, amusement hidden in his tone. "I prefer arriving alive."

  They rode until Luucner pointed skyward. "Look."

  A cluster of silver-winged falcons wheeled above.

  "Aerins," Luucner said. "They only fly like that when storms gather."

  "And that rustling?"

  "Forest hounds. Go easy on that perfume Deehia insisted you try."

  Leeonir rolled his eyes, though the warning settled. Luucner read the land as though it whispered to him alone. Eldoria was a living map etched into his bones.

  The forest thinned. Luucner pointed toward the horizon and Leeonir's breath caught. Far beyond the peaks, enormous islands of stone floated in the sky. They drifted slowly, crowned with ancient forests and crystalline spires. Rivers of luminous material pulsed along their undersides, glowing as if the world bled light. These were the Sky Realms.

  "They are beautiful," Leeonir whispered.

  "They are dangerous," Luucner corrected. "Dragons live there. Once they guarded the balance. Now their fire falls without warning. No one knows why."

  Leeonir watched the Sky Realms until the treeline hid them. "Do you think we could ever reach them?"

  "Reach them? No. But Father and Grandfather killed some. Legends are built on blood. Never forget that."

  They rode for hours. Light shifted from gold to amber, then to the faint burn of evening. The air thickened with smoke and ash.

  Through thinning trees, a shape emerged. Dragon God Village sat there, smoke curling from chimneys in thin lines. Wooden walls bore scars. The air tasted like a warning. Villagers moved with stiff urgency, eyes tracking the brothers.

  "We arrived sooner than expected," Luucner said, scanning the hills.

  Leeonir's pulse climbed. This was it. His first step beyond drills.

  Eden's hooves clattered as the gates creaked open. The world of books faded behind Eldoria's walls. Ahead lay something real and dangerous.

  Leeonir straightened, fingers brushing the hilt of his grandfather's blade. He was seventeen, untested, and afraid. But he did not turn away.

  High in the Sacred Mountain, the Council chamber held the weight of centuries. Seven thrones formed a half-circle around a stone table where maps sprawled. Lanterns cast steady light across faces lined by sleepless nights. The air smelled of parchment and old stone.

  At the head sat Leelinor. Scars of dragonfire traced pale lines along his jaw. He was the High Counselor and a father he rarely saw.

  Beside him sat six figures whose names were already legend.

  "Report," Leelinor said.

  Caroline spoke first. She was human and beautiful in the dangerous way of sharpened steel. Long black hair framed a face that revealed only what she chose. "The southern villages sent twenty-three petitions this week," she said. "Farms burned. Five settlements abandoned. They demand to know why the capital stays silent. If trust breaks, it does not come back."

  Abhoof shifted. Broad-shouldered, his eyes were calculating. "The granaries strain. I have ordered emergency shipments, but they take time. Hunger invites rebellion."

  "Hunger can be managed," Leelinor replied. "Dead villages cannot. Security?"

  Groon answered. He was iron-willed and built for war. His armor bore scars like a biography of violence. "Mercenary trials begin in seventeen days. I have increased patrols. These raids follow a pattern. Someone is coordinating them."

  Silence settled. Guhile cleared his throat. He was brilliant and unpredictable, his hands stained with ink and ARK residue. "There is more. Three nights ago, the western relay tower was destroyed. The core cracked from the inside. The energy pattern matches intention. Sabotage."

  Leelinor stiffened. "Certain?"

  "Certain enough."

  Suspicion crept along the walls. Zeeshoof tapped his staff. He was old, his memory sharp. "We must tread carefully. But we cannot ignore the signs. There are too many attacks, too precisely timed."

  At the end of the table, Karg shifted. The heavy stone chair groaned under his weight. An ogre among elves, he was broad as a fortress door. "I bring word from beyond our borders," he rumbled. "The First Peoples request passage. The centaurs confirm the peace treaty holds. For now."

  "Small mercies," Leelinor murmured.

  He rose. The room stilled. The realm's weight hung from his shoulders. "We face enemies outside and within. The raids will be met. The sabotage uncovered. Whoever betrays Eldoria will be found and judged."

  The meeting dissolved, but on the table, red ink marked wounds that refused to close.