In the land of Elarion, where mountains exhaled smoke and stars murmured secrets to the earth, two souls once kindled by the same celestial flame lost each other, only to be drawn back together in time.
Chris was a wanderer, the sort who spoke sparingly but carried meaning in every word. There was fire in his blood and a quiet restlessness in his bones. He roamed the Eastern Ranges with a silver-scaled drake named Flint. Something tugged him towards the Southern Wastes. It made no sense. That place grew nothing but sorrow and strange glass trees. Still, the pull remained, like the echo of a heartbeat or a memory he couldn't quite place.
Mirella lived in the capital, Lirael, a healer of both folk and creatures. She was known for her odd techniques and the way dragons listened to her. Whispers said she could calm even the most frenzied wyvern with a few soft words. She remembered Chris. Their brief encounter at a sky market coffee stall had lingered longer than expected. Sparks had leapt between them, then silence had followed. Weeks passed, then months. Eventually, on little more than a hunch, she sent him a flame-scroll. She had no idea whether he'd still care to read it.
He did.
Their third meeting turned into something that felt like the beginning of everything. They shared firefruit stew near the Singing Spire, watched the embers drift down at the dusk festival, and found themselves in the crowd at the Grand Darts of Destiny in Arkhad. Every perfect 180 sent the arena into uproar, and with each one they laughed, embraced, and kissed.
"We should only kiss when fate hits the mark," Chris had said, not quite joking.
"And fate keeps hitting," Mirella replied with a grin, leaning in as the lights flared around them.
Their connection was not an ordinary one. The dragons sensed it. Flint, ever watchful, had once wrapped his body around them during a sandstorm, murmuring in ancient Draconian,
"You are flame-bound. From the same ember."
Naturally, not all paths were without thorns. Mirella hailed from a family bound by deep-rooted customs and quiet strength, guardians of her heart who watched the world with wary eyes. To them, Chris, with his wandering spirit and storied past, was something of a mystery. Questions lingered in the air like mist on the moors. They did not scorn him, but rather held their doubts close, born not of judgment, but of love for their daughter and for the unknown road she might walk beside him. Yet, despite the unease, what blossomed between Mirella and Chris could not be stilled. Their bond endured not through ease, but through truth. They met each trial with open hearts, laughing freely, speaking plainly, disagreeing gently, and forgiving swiftly, as though their souls had known each other long before this life.
One evening, beneath a sky split in half by the twin moons, a drake cloaked in shadow descended and delivered a cryptic message: "The Starborn Vault is stirring."
Chris turned to Mirella. She raised an eyebrow. "Fancy an adventure?"
He extended a hand. "Only if there's darts."
She took it. "And kisses at 180."
And so, under ancient skies and above a world full of forgotten magic, the two flame-bound souls stepped forward. Towards danger. Towards destiny. And always, towards one another.