Ashford Hollow lay at the empire's frayed hem, where the black hills rolled like the spine of some long-dead wyrm and the wind carried the faint sulfur tang of old gates. The village had no walls worth mentioning, only a low stone fence half-crumbled by time and frost, and a wooden sign at the crossroads that read ASHFRD HLW in peeling gold leaf—someone had stolen the vowels years ago for kindling. House Vyranthor's banners still flew from the tax collector's post, crimson dragon on black, but the fabric had faded to a bruised purple, and the pole leaned as if tired of standing tall.
Morning mist clung to the thatched roofs like a shroud. Smoke rose thin and gray from chimneys, carrying the smell of peat and boiled roots. In the square, a handful of children chased a scrawny chicken between the market stalls—three planks nailed together under a tarp that sagged with last night's rain. The adults moved slower, shoulders hunched against the chill that never quite left the bones here. They spoke in low voices about the harvest (poor again), the tithe (due in three weeks), and the rumors from Wyrmford: another gate had flickered open near the old quarry two nights past, spitting out shadow-hounds before the local garrison sealed it. No one died this time. Small mercies.
Old Mara Thorn sat on her porch step, shucking blight-apples with a knife worn to a sliver. Her scales—faint, silver-gray along her forearms—caught the weak sun like tarnished coin. Most folk in Ashford Hollow carried some echo of the draconic blood that House Vyranthor prized so highly: slit pupils here, a ridge of bone along a jaw there, the occasional curl of horn stubbed short to avoid notice. Mara's were prominent once, proud sweeps like a minor wyrm's. She'd filed them down herself after her son vanished in a gate-clearing levy twenty winters back. "Keeps the recruiters from looking twice," she'd say, though everyone knew the empire took what it wanted regardless.
Across the square, the tax collector's door creaked open. Sergeant Elias Crowe stepped out, adjusting the brass buttons on his redcoat. He was human enough—broad shoulders, clipped mustache, the faint golden sheen to his eyes that marked Vyranthor lineage diluted by generations—but he carried himself like a man who'd once ridden a true drake into battle. His boots left clean prints in the mud. Behind him trailed two draconic auxiliaries: scaled shoulders, tails tucked under greatcoats, horns polished to regulation gleam. They carried ledgers and a small iron-bound chest for the monthly levy.
Crowe cleared his throat. "By order of Her Imperial Majesty Queen Seraphine Vyranthor, all citizens of age eighteen within the month are to present themselves for transport to Wyrmford Awakened Center. No exceptions. The wagons leave at noon."
A murmur rippled through the square. Not surprise—everyone knew the date—but the quiet dread of inevitability. Children stopped chasing the chicken. Mara's knife paused mid-cut.
In the narrow alley beside the baker's, a tall figure leaned against the wall, half-hidden by shadow. Long black hair fell past his shoulders in uneven strands, matted from nights sleeping rough. His frame was lanky, too tall for the rations that barely fed growing boys here—six feet two if he stood straight, which he rarely did. Malnourishment had carved hollows under his cheekbones, made his wrists look fragile as kindling. Yet there was a coiled stillness to him, like a bowstring drawn and held.
His eyes—molten gold, vertical slits contracting against the light—tracked Crowe without blinking. The horns were what set him apart most: not the sleek, swept-back curves favored by the nobility, but wilder, branching backward like blackened tree limbs or ancient antlers twisted by storm. They swept from his temples in rough forks, dark as charred oak, catching no polish. He'd never filed them. Never bothered hiding them either. Let them stare.
Alexander Light did not step forward when the sergeant called names. He waited until the list reached the L's, until a village elder shuffled over to mutter something about "the orphan boy behind the mill." Only then did he push off the wall, hands in the pockets of a threadbare coat two sizes too large. He crossed the square without hurry, boots silent in the mud. The auxiliaries' tails twitched as he passed; one hissed low, a draconic reflex at the scent of mismatched blood.
Crowe looked him over, eyes narrowing at the horns. "Alexander Light. Born under the red moon, eighteenth year approaching. No family sponsor?"
"None living," Alexander said. Voice quiet, flat. No deference, no challenge—just fact.
The sergeant made a note in the ledger. "Orb will tell the rest. Board the wagon. You'll be fed en route."
Alexander's gaze flicked to the iron-bound chest, then to the auxiliaries' sword hilts. He said nothing more. Turned. Walked toward the waiting carts—two of them, canvas-covered, pulled by heavy draft drakes whose scales steamed in the cold. Other youths already waited: a broad-shouldered beast folk boy with tufted ears, shifting nervously; a night elf girl with moon-pale skin and eyes like chipped obsidian; a fish folk adolescent whose gills fluttered under a wool scarf. They avoided looking at one another. Strangers bound by the same lottery.
As Alexander climbed in, the wagon creaked. He took the rearmost bench, back to the canvas, knees drawn up. From there he could watch the road behind them, the village shrinking. Ashford Hollow looked smaller from distance—roofs like scabs on the hillside, smoke trails thin as thread. He felt no pull to stay. No ache for goodbyes. The place had kept him alive; that was debt enough.
The drakes snorted, harness chains clinking. The wagons lurched forward. Sergeant Crowe rode ahead on a sleek drake-mount, redcoat flapping. The auxiliaries flanked the convoy, eyes scanning the treeline. Gates could open anywhere. Peace was only the space between rifts.
Inside the wagon, the beast folk boy—named Torv, voice thick with mountain accent—tried small talk. "First time out of the Hollow?"
Alexander stared at the passing hills. "Doesn't matter."
Torv tried again. "Heard the Orb shows everything. Affinity, class, the lot. My da says if you get Life, you end up in the Wilds groves. Good work if the trees don't eat you."
A few nervous laughs from the others. The night elf girl—Lirael—hugged her knees tighter. "Shadow's worse. They send you to the Enclaves. Or worse, the academies keep you for 'study.'"
Alexander's fingers brushed the locket under his shirt—cold metal, etched with a faint rune he couldn't read. His mother's, or so the miller's wife had claimed when she handed it over after the gate incident. He didn't believe in keepsakes. But he kept it anyway.
The road climbed. Wyrmford appeared on the horizon by mid-afternoon: gray stone walls, factory smokestacks belching arcane vapor, the distant gleam of the Awakened Center's tower rising like a needle against the clouds. Dragon banners snapped from every spire. The empire's heart beat here—bureaucracy and power fused in marble and mana.
The wagons rolled through the gates without ceremony. Guards in polished scale-mail waved them on. The youths were herded into a courtyard ringed by statues of Vyranthor ancestors—humanoid dragons in regal poses, wings half-spread. A Seer in flowing robes waited at the tower doors, staff topped with a smaller crystal orb that pulsed faintly.
"Form a line," the Seer called. Voice calm, practiced. "One at a time. Touch the Orb. It will show what the cosmos has chosen. No fear. The empire values all gifts."
Alexander fell to the back. Watched the others go first.
Torv stepped up. The Orb bloomed green-gold—Nature affinity, strong. Druid potential. The boy's shoulders sagged in relief.
Lirael next. Purple-black swirl. Shadow. Her face went still.
One by one they passed. Holy light for a quiet human girl. Arcane blue for a merchant's son. Even a flicker of Death—frost-white—for a pale boy who looked ready to faint.
Then Alexander.
He approached without flourish. The Seer's eyes lingered on the branching horns, the golden slits. "Name?"
"Alexander Light."
The Seer nodded once. "Touch."
Alexander's hand rose. Fingers hesitated—old habit, checking for traps—then pressed flat against the crystal.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then fire.
Not a gentle glow. A roar of crimson erupted upward, heat washing the courtyard. The Orb shuddered. Colors chased one another across its surface—arcane sapphire bleeding into holy gold, shadow violet twisting with necrotic ice, verdant Life flaring and dying, fel green licking at the edges like poison. But through it all burned the fire: primal, hungry, dragon-hot. It coiled around Alexander's arm like a living thing, smoke curling from his skin without burning it.
The Seer stepped back. "Elemental Mage. Versatile affinity—access to every school. Primary bond: Fire."
Murmurs from the waiting line. The auxiliaries exchanged glances.
Alexander pulled his hand away. The flames guttered out. His eyes—still molten, slits narrowed—met the Seer's without flinching.
"Strong draconic resonance," the Seer added, almost to himself. "Unusual manifestation. The Academy will be… interested."
Alexander said nothing. Inside, something uncoiled—not hope, not yet. Just recognition. The fire felt familiar. Like the anger he'd swallowed for years. Like the hunger that never quite left his stomach.
They led him toward the transport skiffs waiting to lift the fresh Awakened to the Imperial Draconic Academy of Arcane Ascendance. The floating citadel waited above the clouds—spires and storm-chains, a promise of power and a threat of chains.
Alexander boarded last. Found a spot by the rail. Looked down at Wyrmford shrinking below, then up at the sky where the first stars pricked through the dusk.
He flexed his fingers. A tiny spark danced between them—unbidden, uncontrolled.
For the first time in years, the future didn't feel like a grave.