The sky above the Fire Dominion trembled with heat.
Volcanic plumes rolled upward in pillars, red and gold, like the breath of sleeping gods. Rivers of molten rock cut through the black mountains, weaving glowing lines across the land. Even the air tasted of ash—rich, warm, familiar.
For most dragons, this was paradise.
For Veyrith, it was a cage.
He lay coiled around the mouth of a dormant volcano, wings tucked close, eyes narrowed against the shimmering light. Every breath he drew felt too hot, too heavy. Beneath his scales, fidgeting warmth built up and wouldn't release.
Why can't I feel at ease like the others?
He stared at the sky, waiting.
He didn't know what he was waiting for—only that it wasn't here.
A booming wingbeat echoed across the fire plains. Veyrith turned as a massive dragon descended, the ground trembling beneath the newcomer's weight.
Taarox, scarred veteran of a hundred battles, his scales obsidian and char-lined, snorted a plume of smoke.
"You skipped morning flight drills again," Taarox growled. "Explain yourself."
Veyrith lifted his head but remained silent.
"No excuse?" the elder taunted. "Or is the young wyrm too delicate for heat?"
"I…" Veyrith hesitated before finding his voice. "I had another vision."
Taarox sneered. "A dream, you mean."
"No." Veyrith's claws dug into the stone. "A vision."
He wasn't sure why he insisted on the word. It simply felt truer.
Taarox circled him, examining him the way a smith inspects a flawed blade. "Speak, then. What nonsense filled your skull this time?"
Veyrith inhaled—and with it came the memory.
A sky the color of mourning. Silent air. Falling white ash that wasn't ash at all—soft, cold, dissolving on his scales. A hush so deep it swallowed the world.
And the feeling…
Peace.
"I saw white air," Veyrith said softly. "Cold. Gentle. Falling from the sky."
Taarox froze.
"Snow," he whispered, as though the word itself were poison.
Veyrith nodded.
The veteran dragon slammed a wing against the stone, sending shards flying. "Never speak that word again!"
Veyrith flinched. "But it felt—"
"It does not matter how it felt." Taarox's voice boomed like cracking stone. "Winter is a curse. A story told to frighten hatchlings. No dragon speaks of it, let alone dreams of it."
Veyrith looked away. "I didn't choose the dream."
Taarox's eyes sharpened. "Dreams reveal weakness. And weakness gets dragons killed."
The veteran leaned in, smoke drifting from his fangs.
"If you keep chasing these delusions, the brood will turn against you. You understand this."
Veyrith had no answer.
Taarox unfurled his wings. "Join the drills. Or be left behind to choke on your own foolishness."
He launched into the sky, trailing fire.
Veyrith remained motionless long after he was gone.
The day passed in heat and noise—the crackling of burning fields, the thunder of dragons in flight drills, the roar of lava rivers spilling down the slopes. Veyrith went through the motions, never quite present.
He flew.
He sparred.
He obeyed.
But his mind—
His mind returned to the dream.
That falling white softness. Silent. Gentle. Everything the Fire Dominion was not.
Why am I the only one who sees it?
When night finally draped itself over the volcanic peaks, Veyrith escaped. He soared upward, higher than the brood allowed, chasing the coolness of altitude.
Wind whipped at him. The higher he climbed, the colder it became.
He shivered in delight.
But dragons were not made for cold; it bit sharply at his wings, stiffening the membranes. Still he pushed upward, hungry for even one breath free of heat.
Then—
A glimmer.
A tiny, drifting sparkle crossed his field of vision.
Veyrith halted mid-flight, wings trembling against the wind.
Another sparkle floated down.
And another.
And then one landed on his snout.
Soft. Crystal. Melting into a single bead of water.
His heart nearly stopped.
A snowflake.
The dream's starry softness. Real.
Impossible.
He looked up.
No storm. No clouds. Not even a hint of cold sky.
Yet snow fell.
Just a handful of flakes, drifting like lost spirits.
Veyrith stared, breath stolen from him.
The world seemed to hold still.
Then a voice—gentle as wind over ice—echoed through the air:
"Fire-born… why do you chase my winter?"
Veyrith whipped his head around, searching. "Who's there?"
Silence.
Only the drifting flakes answered.
The voice spoke again, faint, distant, as though muffled by centuries of isolation.
"If you seek winter, come north. To the Frosthold. I wait."
The last snowflake dissolved on his scales.
The sky returned to normal.
Heat surged back in, oppressive and overwhelming.
But Veyrith felt nothing but cold.
Real.
Calling to him.
He folded his wings tight, heart hammering.
The dragons of the Fire Dominion would call him mad. A traitor. Worse. And yet…
His dream had spoken.
And the dream had answered.
Veyrith turned north—toward forbidden lands, toward myths no dragon believed in.
Toward winter.
He launched into the night, wings slicing the air.
The Fire Dominion shrank behind him.The world ahead grew dark and wide.
And somewhere in that darkness, winter waited.
The journey had begun.