SHACKLES OF IVORY AND ASH

The blinding radiance emanating from the Heart-Cinder enveloped Zephyr in a cocoon of swirling, liquid gold. Lyra had to shield her eyes, the scales on her chest glowing in sympathetic resonance, filling her veins with a sensation like drinking liquid lightning.

The hatchling’s high-pitched cry began to drop in pitch, deepening into a guttural, terrifying roar that made the bedrock of the valley shudder. Within the vortex of light, his tiny silhouette expanded at an impossible rate. Wings that were once mere scraps of leather broadened into vast, sail-like appendages of shimmering ivory; his talons lengthened into curved scythes of black diamond; and horns spiraled outward from his crown like ancient, sacred boughs.

When the light finally collapsed back into the earth, the creature that stood atop the shattered obsidian basin was no longer a fragile whelp.

Zephyr stood twenty feet tall at the shoulder, a magnificent young adult dragon of radiant, pristine ivory, his scales edged with molten gold. His eyes burned with ancestral intelligence, and his tail ended in a sweeping spear-blade that cracked like thunder against the stone.

Behind him, the mother dragon struggled to her feet, letting out a low, mournful call of pure pride. She bowed her massive head to her son, acknowledging the return of the Sovereign Brood.

The surviving royal soldiers dropped their weapons in terror, their knees buckling against the ash.

“My Queen,” Bran breathed, kneeling beside Lyra with tears cutting through his battle-worn grime. “The throne of Ronald has just turned to ash.”

Lyra approached Zephyr. The young dragon lowered his massive, regal head, allowing the seven-year-old girl to climb smoothly onto the wide ridge of his neck, his scales perfectly shifting to form a secure saddle.