The sun had barely risen over the walls of House Talas when Count Elon stood alone in his private study, staring at the flame of a single candle. He had not slept.
Not truly.
His thoughts kept circling one truth—his son was not normal.
He was something else. Something more.
The memory of the lightning, of that wild boar crashing through the woods only to fall before a child's outstretched hand, still haunted him. Not with fear... but with gravity. The kind of weight a father carries when he realizes he is raising more than an heir—he is raising a force.
And he had no idea how.
🪵 The Father's Dilemma
Elon closed his hands behind his back, pacing slowly between old bookshelves and family banners. His own upbringing had been disciplined, traditional—years of sword training, statecraft, diplomacy.
But Eldarion was not meant for the path of dukes and decrees.
The boy spoke like a scholar, moved like a seasoned knight, and dreamed like someone who had already lived twice.
What could Elon teach such a child?
What teacher could?
📜 The Letter
Elon sat down and began to write, slowly and deliberately.
Letters to old allies, rival houses, and even foreign guilds. Not to request alliances, nor armies.
"I seek wisdom, not warriors. Masters, not mercenaries."
He wrote to:
The Tower of Caelivar, keepers of arcane knowledge.
The Order of Thorns, known for swordmasters and spellblades.
The Healers of Ilyren, whose menders could speak with trees and tend the soul.
And even a single sealed scroll to a hermit—one whose name was erased from most records, but whose teachings were whispered by wandering monks and madmen.
Each letter ended with the same line:
"Come to Draconia. To House Talas.There is a boy here whom the world is not yet ready to understand.But if we wait, we may be too late."
🤝 The Conversation with Elira
Later that night, Elon sat beside Elira, watching Eldarion sleep. The boy's chest rose slowly, his breath steady, his fingers curled gently beneath a threadbare plush dragon he refused to part with.
"You think this is the right path?" Elira asked softly.
"No," Elon replied. "I think it's the only path."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "You're afraid."
"I'm terrified," he admitted. "Not of what he is... but of what he'll become without guidance."
Elira was silent a moment, then whispered, "Or worse—what he might become with the wrong guidance."
✉️ The Answers Begin
Within a week, replies began to arrive.
Some were curt rejections.
Others were curious inquiries.
But a few were affirmative.
"We will come," one letter said. "Not for the gold you offer. But to see the boy who breathes lightning."
"If what you claim is true," another read, "then he does not need training—he needs shaping."
"Do not let the others break him," said a third. "He is not clay to be molded. He is fire. They must learn to guide the flame without extinguishing it."
Elon folded that one carefully, and placed it apart from the rest.
He wasn't sure who had written it. The signature was missing.
But the paper smelled faintly of ash... and old trees.
🐉 Eldarion's Inner Echoes
As the world moved above, deep in sleep, Eldarion stirred.
He dreamed again—of a stone circle in the sky.
Of eight dragons forming constellations above him.
He felt no fear. Only longing.
"They are coming," a voice whispered inside him."But not all who come do so with open hands.""Listen not only to their words, child of fire... but to what they fear in you."