Dragon Rider: Part 1 — The Firebrand and the Whispering Sky

The sun fell slow and molten behind the jagged spires of the Maereth Peaks, its last golden light catching the dust of the western plains in a shimmer like fireflies dancing above dying coals. The air smelled of horse sweat, sagebrush, and the fading bloom of the violet cindervine, a stubborn little flower that clung to the arid soil as fiercely as a dream.

Atop a rise, silhouetted against the blaze of dusk, sat a man in a weathered long coat of dragonhide, a wide-brimmed hat shadowing a scarred face carved by wind, sun, and time. His name was Rhett Vireldon. Once a rancher of the South Wastes. Once a bounty man. Once a soldier. Now — something else entirely.

Behind him loomed the great form of his dragon companion, reclining with the air of a creature born of flame and ancient song. The dragon’s scales were a lustrous bronze, each one etched faintly with whorls of archaic script. His eyes glowed ember-red, full of thoughts older than human kingdoms.

“You brood again, Vireldon,” came the dragon’s voice, not aloud, but within the man’s mind — a deep, resonant whisper like wind through canyon hollows. “You carry guilt as if it were a brand.”

Rhett spat into the dust. “’Cause it is, Elarion. You ever tried forgettin’ the look in a man’s eyes when you’re the last thing he sees?”

“I’ve seen civilisations fall, cowboy,” replied Elarion, stretching his wings with a leathery sigh. “And watched the stars turn cold…