The Dragon King’s Rebirth

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the small, desolate village of Frostwood. The chill of early evening crept into the air, but the village was already quiet, save for the distant sound of the wind howling through the dense forest that surrounded it. The people of Frostwood had long grown accustomed to the bitter cold and the hard life that came with living so far from the warmth of the more prosperous southern lands. Among them was Draven, a young man who had known nothing but hardship in his seventeen years.

Draven stood on the outskirts of the village, gazing out into the twilight. His dark hair fell into his eyes, which were the color of stormy skies, and his tall, lean frame was wrapped in a worn woolen cloak that did little to shield him from the biting cold. He had always felt out of place here, an outsider in a community that had barely tolerated him. The villagers whispered that he was cursed, that his presence brought misfortune. Perhaps they were right. After all, he had no family, no past—just vague memories of being found as a child, alone and half-frozen, at the edge of the forest.

But Draven harbored a secret that set him apart from the rest. A dream. It was a dream that had haunted him since he was old enough to remember, a vision of a mighty dragon soaring through the skies, its scales gleaming like molten gold, and a voice, ancient and powerful, calling his name.

"Draven…"

He closed his eyes, letting the sound of the name roll through his mind. It was a name that felt as though it belonged to someone else, someone important, someone destined for greatness. But every morning, when he awoke from the dream, the reality of his life crashed down on him like a cruel joke. He was no one—just a nameless orphan scraping by in a village that barely acknowledged his existence.

Yet, deep inside, Draven knew that there was more to him than met the eye. He could feel it, a restless energy that surged beneath his skin, a power that he couldn't explain. It was the reason why, despite the villagers' cold stares and harsh words, he stayed in Frostwood. The forest called to him, and he felt that if he could just find the courage to answer that call, he would discover the truth of who he was.

As the last rays of sunlight faded, Draven turned away from the forest and began to walk back to the village. He didn't notice the shadow that flickered at the edge of the woods, the pair of golden eyes watching him intently.

The village square was nearly empty by the time Draven arrived. The few people still out and about hurried past him, giving him a wide berth. He ignored them, his thoughts elsewhere. His feet carried him automatically to the tavern, a small, ramshackle building that served as the village's only gathering place. The warmth from the hearth washed over him as he stepped inside, and he sighed in relief.

"Draven! Over here!"

A gruff voice called out from a corner of the room, and Draven spotted Old Garrick, the tavern keeper, waving him over. The old man was one of the few people in the village who treated Draven with anything resembling kindness, though even Garrick kept his distance most of the time.

Draven made his way to the bar, where Garrick was polishing a tankard. "Cold night, ain't it?" the old man remarked, sliding the tankard over to him.

"Like every other night," Draven replied with a half-smile. He took the drink gratefully, though he knew it was mostly watered-down ale. Garrick had a soft spot for him, but he wasn't about to give away good drink for free.

"You've got that look again," Garrick said, narrowing his eyes at Draven. "Been staring out at the forest, haven't you?"

Draven shrugged. "Maybe. Just thinking."

"Thinking won't put food on your table, lad," Garrick said with a sigh. "You know the forest is dangerous. Ain't nothing out there but trouble."

"Maybe," Draven said again, but his mind was already wandering back to the forest, to the dream that haunted him every night.

Garrick watched him for a moment before leaning in closer. "Look, Draven," he said in a lower voice, "I know you feel like you don't belong here. Hell, maybe you don't. But whatever it is you're searching for, I hope you find it. Just… be careful. The world is full of things you can't imagine."

Draven met Garrick's gaze, seeing the genuine concern in the old man's eyes. He nodded. "Thanks, Garrick. I'll be careful."

The conversation lulled after that, and Draven finished his drink in silence. As he set the empty tankard down, a group of men entered the tavern, laughing boisterously. They were hunters, returning from the forest with their day's haul. One of them, a burly man with a thick beard, noticed Draven and sneered.

"Well, if it isn't the village stray," the man jeered, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of the others.

Draven tensed but didn't rise to the bait. He had long learned that fighting back only made things worse.

"Leave him be, Harlan," Garrick said gruffly, but Harlan wasn't in the mood to listen.

"Nah, I think the boy needs to be reminded of his place," Harlan said, stepping closer. "You're not one of us, boy. You think you're better than us, with your head always in the clouds? You're nothing. Just a cursed orphan who should've died in that forest years ago."

The words stung, but Draven refused to let them see how much. He pushed away from the bar, intending to leave, but Harlan's hand shot out, grabbing his arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" Harlan growled.

"Let me go," Draven said quietly, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Or what?" Harlan mocked. "You gonna run off into the forest and find those imaginary dragons of yours? Face it, boy. You're a nobody. You'll never be anything more."

Something snapped inside Draven. Without thinking, he wrenched his arm free and shoved Harlan back. The burly man staggered, eyes wide with surprise, before they narrowed in anger.

"You little—" Harlan swung a fist at Draven, but before it could connect, Draven's hand shot up to block it. For a moment, everything seemed to slow down. Draven felt a surge of heat in his veins, a power that wasn't his own. His eyes locked with Harlan's, and something in them made the larger man freeze.

The tavern went silent. The other hunters, who had been ready to jump in, stopped dead in their tracks. Even Garrick looked taken aback.

Draven slowly lowered Harlan's fist, the strange energy fading as quickly as it had come. Harlan stared at him, confusion and fear warring on his face, before he stumbled back.

"Stay away from me," Harlan muttered, backing away further, his bravado evaporating. He and his companions left the tavern in a hurry, leaving Draven standing there, bewildered by what had just happened.

"What was that?" Draven whispered to himself, his heart pounding.

Garrick was the first to speak. "Draven… what just happened?"

"I… I don't know," Draven admitted. He could still feel the remnants of that power, but it was slipping away, leaving him cold and exhausted.

Garrick eyed him warily but didn't press further. "You should go home, lad. Get some rest. We can talk about this later."

Draven nodded numbly and left the tavern, his mind spinning. The walk back to his small hut at the edge of the village was a blur. The moment he stepped inside, he collapsed onto the narrow cot that served as his bed, trying to make sense of what had just happened. 

As he lay there, staring up at the wooden ceiling, the dream came back to him—the dragon, the voice calling his name. Tonight, though, it didn't feel like just a dream. It felt like a warning, or perhaps a call to action. The power he had felt in the tavern… it had been real. For the first time, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

The following morning, Draven awoke with a sense of unease. The events of the previous night played over in his mind as he went about his usual routine, but nothing felt normal anymore. The villagers avoided him even more than usual, their whispers louder, their stares more pronounced. Word had spread about what happened at the tavern, and it only reinforced their belief that he was cursed, dangerous.

By midday, Draven could take it no longer. He grabbed his cloak and headed out of the village, toward the forest. If he stayed any longer, he feared the tension would explode into something worse.

The forest loomed ahead, dark and foreboding, but it didn't frighten him. It never had. In fact, it felt more like home than the village ever did. As he crossed the threshold from the open plains into the dense woods, a sense of calm washed over him.

The deeper he went, the quieter the world became, until all he could hear was the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional rustle of wind in the branches. Draven walked for what felt like hours, letting the familiar sights and sounds ease his troubeld mind.