Chapter 8 - Flight of the Dragon
The Sunken Garden was transformed into a chaotic battlefield of fire and terror. Lanterns shattered on the stone paths, spilling oil that ignited into dancing walls of orange flame. Nobles scrambled for the exits, their elegant composure shattered into animalistic panic.
Prince Vane charged through the smoke, his blade gleaming with a wicked, enchanted edge designed to pierce magical hides. He aimed a vicious, horizontal slash straight at Silver, who was hovering effortlessly in the air above Jaren, its wings beating with a sound like rolling thunder.
"Duck!" Jaren shouted, dropping low.
Silver didn't just dodge; it countered with terrifying speed. With a snap of its jaws, a jet of superheated silver flame erupted from its mouth, catching Vane’s sword mid-swing. The enchanted steel glowed cherry-red in an instant, searing through Vane’s leather gloves with brutal intensity.
With a shriek of agony, Vane dropped his weapon, stumbling backward into a marble pillar and clutching his burned hands to his chest, his face twisted in shock and rage.
"Jaren! Grab my hand!"
Keeper Alistair appeared through the wall of smoke, his staff glowing with a fierce amber light as he cleared a path through the crumbling masonry. He grabbed Jaren by the shoulder, hauling him away from the chaos toward the narrow winding stairs that led up to the Citadel's highest ramparts.
"We can't stay here!" Alistair yelled over the roar of the fire and the shouting guards. "The entire garrison will be mobilized within minutes!"
"I'm not running away!" Jaren shouted back, looking over his shoulder.
Silver let out a piercing cry overhead, circling back to hover right above Jaren’s head, its luminous eyes locked onto the boy with fierce, unwavering loyalty. In that shared glance, Jaren realized something profound: he wasn't running away anymore. He was drawing them out.
"To the Citadel peak," Jaren commanded, his voice carrying an authority that shocked even Alistair.
The old keeper stared at the boy for a fraction of a second, seeing not a servant, but a true dragon rider. Alistair nodded grimly, turning and leading the sprint up the spiral stone steps as the sounds of pursuit echoed loudly behind them.
They burst out onto the windswept summit of the highest tower—the ancient Perch, where dragons had once rested centuries ago before vanishing from the world. Below them, the entire kingdom of Oakhaven sprawled out under the darkening evening sky, dotted with the lights of thousands of homes.
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And behind them, heavy iron doors slammed open. High Chancellor Voren, flanked by a phalanx of fifty elite archers with drawn bows, stepped out onto the open platform.
"Trapped," Voren sneered, his voice dripping with venom as he raised his hand to signal the archers. "Nowhere left to run, little scrubber. Let us see if your dragon can stop a thousand arrows at once."
