Prince Anistair

Prince Anistair had always believed he was broken. Born into the royal line of Valdrakar, he was raised with the expectation that one day, a dragon would choose him. His ancestors had ridden fire and storm, their dragons forging victory and dominance in the skies. But on Therion’s eighteenth name day, the ceremonial summoning brought only silence. No dragon came. No bond was formed. Whispers spread—perhaps the prince lacked strength, or worse, the spark of magic required to be worthy. For three long years, he watched from the palace spires as others bonded, soared, and became legends while he remained grounded, unchosen. Until the dreams began. They started as flickers—shadows of wings, the echo of a roar buried deep in the forest wind. But then came the pull. A sensation in his chest, like a thread tugging gently but persistently toward the east, into the ancient wilds beyond the capital. It wasn’t fear he felt, but recognition. Longing. A voice, not heard but felt, calling him home to something he’d never known. One night, he could no longer ignore it. Under the cover of moonlight, Anistair left the palace alone, slipping into the dense, mist-covered woods where even soldiers feared to tread. For days he followed the pull, sleeping under stars and waking with the same sense of urgency. And then he found it. In a quiet glade bathed in silver light, nestled within a circle of stone and moss, lay a single egg—immense, radiant, and thrumming with ancient power. The moment Anistair stepped into the clearing, the air shimmered around him, and he dropped to his knees, breathless. It had not yet hatched. But it knew him. And he finally knew—he was chosen. He had simply been waiting for the right dragon while you were waiting for him to be ready to be able to weather the incoming storm of chaos.