The Kingdom of Valedorn had once belonged to dragons.

            Long before kings raised frozen fortresses along the northern cliffs, before silver banners flew above stone keeps and armies marched across snow-covered valleys, the skies had belonged to creatures of fire and storm.

            Ancient songs claimed dragons first came from the Frost Beyond, the endless glacial wilderness north of the known world where winter never ended and the stars burned brighter than anywhere else on earth.

            The oldest legends spoke of the First Flame War. Before kingdoms existed and humans had learned how to survive the brutal northern winters, creatures of living frost had risen from beneath the frozen seas. Entire villages vanished beneath ice overnight, rivers froze solid in moments, and the dead walked inside blizzards.

            Humanity had nearly disappeared. Then the dragons came, not as conquerors, as saviours. They descended from the northern skies, blackening mountains with dragonflame as they drove the frost creatures back into the dark beneath the ice.

            Ancient forests burned for weeks beneath their wrath. Glaciers melted into rivers. The first kings were crowned beneath dragon wings, and when the war finally ended, the bond between dragon and rider was forged; not claimed… chosen.

            That truth mattered more than any law in Valedorn. A dragon could not be commanded, and history had proven it countless times. Men who tried to force the bond had gone mad, burned alive, or destroyed entire bloodlines in their arrogance.

            Only the dragons chose, which was why the Choosing Ceremony mattered more than coronations. A single bonded rider could shift the balance of kingdoms, and after nearly twenty years without a new bond, all Valedorn waited in desperate anticipation.

Snow drifted heavily over the capital city as thousands filled the great mountainside arena beside the royal palace. The structure had been carved directly into black stone centuries earlier, its towering terraces overlooking cliffs of ice and dark pine forests far below.

            Blue fire burned from enormous iron braziers placed around the arena floor, the enchanted flames twisting against the wind without flickering, casting strange sapphire light across the snow.

            Nobles crowded the upper terraces beneath white fur cloaks and silver jewellery. Lords of the great houses sat beside generals, ambassadors, and priests draped in ceremonial robes lined with dragon scales. Soldiers in polished armour lined the lower walls with spears raised upright against the storm.

            At the centre of the arena stood the Gate of Ash. The archway towered nearly three stories high, carved from black volcanic stone older than the kingdom itself. Ancient runes glowed faintly across its surface like embers buried beneath ash, and beyond it waited the dragons.

            The snowstorm worsened as the ceremony preparations continued, thick white flakes swirling across the terraces hard enough to blur the distant mountain peaks beyond the arena. Servants hurried through the growing cold carrying crates of wine, ceremonial banners, and bundles of enchanted firewood for the braziers.

            Arielle descended one of the narrow servant staircases carefully, keeping one hand against the icy wall as nobles swept past above her.

            “Move faster,” barked the palace steward from farther down the corridor. “The western guests still need warming stones delivered before the Choosing begins.”

            “Yes, sir,” several servants answered at once and Arielle adjusted the heavy basket in her arms and continued down the crowded passage.

            The palace beneath the grand terraces felt entirely different from the glittering spectacle above. The walls were rougher here, the air smelled of smoke, wet wool, and cooking broth drifting from the lower kitchens. People only noticed servants when something went wrong, that had always been the rule.

            She passed through a narrow archway into the lower preparation hall where dozens of workers rushed between tables stacked with silver goblets and platters of food. Cooks shouted over each other while young servants scrubbed melted snow from the floors before nobles arrived.

            Tomas appeared beside her carrying folded linens. “You heard the rumours?” he asked quietly.

            Arielle set the basket down. “Which rumours? There are twenty tonight.”

            “Everyone thinks the dragons may refuse the ceremony entirely.”

            “That’s happened before.”

            “Not like this.” Tomas lowered his voice further. “One of the stable guards swears the dragons have been restless for days. He said they keep staring north.”

            Arielle frowned slightly.

            North. Toward the Frost Beyond...even hearing the name made people uneasy.