Whether you’re in the fjords of Norway, the plains of America, or anywhere else on Midgard.

Now, let’s begin this legendary tale.

The morning mist clung to the mountainside like the breath of sleeping giants when the warhorn shattered the dawn silence.

I was only seven winters old, small even for my age, when the Ironheart clan descended upon our village like wolves upon a wounded elk.

My name is Erikson, named for my father Eric the Bold, though I never felt bold that terrible morning.

I remember hiding behind the grain barrels in our long house, watching through a crack in the wood as flames licked the sky and the screams of my people pierced the mountain air.

The Ironheart warriors moved with practiced brutality.

Their leader, a giant of a man with scars covering half his face, bellowed orders as his men dragged villagers from their homes.

They wore dark male that clinkedked like death bells, and their shields bore the symbol of a black iron heart pierced by lightning.

“Search every building,” the scarred leader roared.

“Leave none of Eric’s bloodline alive.”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Through the gap, I saw my mother, Astred the Wise, fighting three warriors at once with nothing but a wood axe.

Her golden braids flew as she spun and struck, but there were too many.

A spear found its mark, and she fell into the blood soaked snow.

“Mother!”

The cry escaped my lips before I could stop it.

Heavy boots thundered toward my hiding place.

Rough hands seized me, dragging me into the smoke filled air.

The scarred leader stood before me, his one good eye studying me like a hawk considers a mouse.

“Eric’s welp,” he spat.

Small and weak, the gods have blessed us.

This pathetic creature is the end of Eric’s line.

His warriors laughed, their voices harsh as ravens.

One, a man with arms thick as tree trunks, hefted a Warhammer.

Shall I end it quickly, Gorm?

The leader, Gorm, shook his head.

No, let the mountains claim this one.

The cold and the wolves will make his death educational.

Perhaps Eric’s spirit will learn the price of defying the Ironheart clan.

They bound my hands with rough rope that cut into my wrists and threw me onto the back of a shaggy mountain pony.

The last thing I saw of my village was smoke rising from the burning longouses and the ravens already circling overhead.

For 2 days we climbed higher into the dragon tooth mountains.

The air grew thin and sharp, each breath like swallowing ice shards.

My captives barely spoke, only pausing to gnor on dried meat and sour ale.

They looked at me with the casual indifference of men disposing of refues.

On the second evening, as we camped beside a frozen stream, I heard them talking around their fire.

“The boy won’t last a day up here,” muttered the hammer wielder.

“Look at him, skin and bones.”

“That’s the point,” Gorm replied, staring into the flames.

His father killed my brother in single combat.

Thought himself clever, challenging us to honorable battle instead of paying tribute.

Now his son pays the price.

Why not just kill him and be done with it?

Gorm’s scarred face twisted into what might have been a smile.

Because Eric believed in honor.

Let his son die without it.

Alone, forgotten, food for the mountain beasts.

It’s a better death than the coward deserves.

I pulled my thin cloak tighter and tried not to let them see me shiver.

They were wrong about one thing.

My father had taught me about honor.

He’d also taught me about survival.

The next morning, they woke me before dawn.

We climbed even higher, following a narrow path that wound between towering peaks topped with snow.

By midday, we’d reached a shelf of rock overlooking an endless expanse of white mountains and dark valleys.

This is far enough, Gorm announced.

He cut my bonds with his seax, the small knife keen as winter wind.

Run, little Viking.

See how far you get before the mountain claims you.

They mounted their ponies and disappeared down the trail, their laughter echoing off the stone walls.

I stood alone on the mountain shelf, the wind cutting through my clothes like invisible blades.

The sun, pale as old bone, offered no warmth.

I had no food, no fire, no shelter.

Below me stretched valleys filled with forests of dark pine and hidden dangers.

Above the peaks clawed at the sky like the fingers of buried giants.

The smart thing would have been to follow the trail back down, but I could hear my captor’s voices still echoing from that direction.

Instead, I chose the path that led deeper into the mountains.

The afternoon brought a blizzard that turned the world white as a burial shroud.

I stumbled through drifts that reached my chest, my feet so numb I could barely feel them.

Ice formed in my hair and eyebrows, and each breath felt like swallowing needles.

As darkness fell, I found a shallow cave beneath an overhang of rock.

It offered little shelter, but it was better than the open mountain side.

I gathered what dry wood I could find, mostly twigs and bark, but had no way to make fire.

My father’s flint and steel had been taken with everything else.

I huddled in the cave, pulling my cloak around me, and tried to remember the survival stories my father had told me.

Warriors who’d lasted weeks in the wilderness.

Hunters who’d faced down bears and wolves, explorers who’d crossed the great ice sheets to the north.

The body can endure what the mind accepts.

He’d always said, “Pain is temporary.

Death is final.

Choose wisely.”

But as the night deepened and the cold sank its claws deeper into my bones, I wondered if my father had ever been 7 years old, alone in the mountains, listening to wolves howl in the distance.

The second day brought clearer skies, but no warmth.

I found a stream running beneath a skin of ice and managed to break through to drink.

The water was so cold it made my teeth ache, but it was clean and sweet.

I found no food.

A few withered berries still clinging to bushes, but they were bitter and made my stomach cramp.

I kept climbing, partly because movement generated warmth, partly because something pulled me upward.

Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps it was desperation, but the heights called to me like a voice.

I couldn’t quite hear.

On the third day, I found the bones.

They lay scattered across a flat area between two peaks, picked clean by scavengers and bleached white by sun and snow.

Some were clearly human.

I recognized the curved ribs, the hollow eye sockets of skulls, but others were massive, unlike anything I’d ever seen.

One skull alone was longer than I was tall, with saber teeth that could have pierced a warrior’s male, curved bones that might have been ribs arched overhead like the supports of a great long house.

And there, half buried in old snow, something that made my heart race with impossible hope.

Wing bones, massive hollow wing bones that could only belong to creatures of legend.

Dragons.

I’d found a dragon graveyard.

My father had told me stories of the great worms that once ruled the skies over Midgard, creatures of fire and storm, wisdom and fury, who disappeared from the world when the ice came.

Most people believed them mere legends now.

Stories to frighten children and inspire scolds.

But here was proof.

Here were their bones, their final resting place.

High in the mountains where the air was thin and the wind sang funeral song.

I picked up one of the smaller bones, a claw perhaps, curved and sharp as a sword blade.

It felt warm in my hands despite the cold, and for a moment I could have sworn I felt something stir within it.

Life, power, memory.

So you’ve found our boneyard, little one.

The voice came from behind me, deep and resonant as distant thunder.

I spun around.

The dragonclaw clutched in my hands like a weapon.

At the edge of the boneyard stood the largest wolf I’d ever seen.

Its fur was silver white, its eyes the pale blue of winter ice, but it was the intelligence in those eyes that stopped my breath.

This was no ordinary beast.

“Don’t fear me, child,” the wolf said, and I realized with shock that it was speaking in my mind, not with words.

“I am Fenris, guardian of this place.

I’ve been watching you since you entered our territory.

You’re You’re talking to me, I whispered.

Dragons are not the only creatures blessed with intelligence, Feneris replied, padding closer.

Tell me, small Viking, why do you carry that claw?

Do you know what it is?

I looked down at the bone in my hands.

A dragon’s claw from one of the old ones.

Indeed, but not just any dragon.

The wolf’s mental voice carried what sounded like sadness.

That belonged to Skyrath the Wise, mother of clouds, keeper of ancient secrets.

She died defending this place from the ice giants many years before you were born.

Ice giants.

But those are just stories.

Fenrris’s laugh was like wind through pine trees.

Child, you stand in a dragon graveyard speaking with a wolf who shares thoughts instead of howls, and you doubt the existence of ice giants.

He had a point.

Why are you helping me?

I asked.

Because, Fenrris said, settling onto his hunches, you carry more than just that claw.

You carry hope, and we have been waiting for hope for a very long time.

Before I could ask what he meant, a sound split the mountain air that turned my blood to ice water.

It was part roar, part shriek, part song, and it was coming from somewhere high above us.

Fenrris’s ears pricricked forward.

Ah, it seems you’re about to meet the reason I’ve been watching over you, little Ericson.

How do you know my name?

The same way I know you’re hungry, cold, and far braver than you believe,” the wolf replied.

“Look up.”

I raised my eyes to the peaks above us, and my heart nearly stopped.

Descending from the highest mountain like a living storm cloud, came a dragon.

Its scales were deep blue black, shot through with veins of silver that caught the sunlight like captured lightning.

Its wingspan blotted out the sun, casting the boneyard into twilight shadow.

But it was the eyes that held me frozen.

Ancient eyes, wise and terrible, that seemed to look not just at me, but through me into my very soul.

The dragon landed at the far edge of the boneyard with surprising grace.

Its massive claws finding purchase on the rocky ground without disturbing a single bone.

It folded its wings against its sides and studied me with the patience of mountains.

Welcome, young one, the dragon spoke, its mental voice like the rumble of distant avalanches.

I am Stormheart the Ancient, last of my kind in these mountains.

Fenrris tells me you have traveled far and suffered much.

I tried to speak and found my voice had fled.

Instead, I managed a small nod.

Good, Stormheart continued.

Words are often poor things compared to truth.

You carry my daughter’s claw.

Yes, I can sense her presence in the bone.

She would have liked you, I think.

She always favored the brave small ones over the boastful large ones.

Your daughter, Skyrath the Wise, she fell defending this place, as Fenrris told you.

But before she died, she laid three eggs.

Three chances for our kind to continue.

The dragon turned its great head toward a shadowed cliff in the rock face behind it.

Those eggs have waited many years for the right moment to hatch.

They need warmth, yes, but also something more.

They need purpose, hope, a reason to enter this world.

Understanding began to dawn on me like sunrise after a long night.

You want me to?

I want nothing, Stormheart said firmly.

Dragons do not want things as humans do.

But I offer you a choice.

The eggs are dying slowly but surely.

They have waited too long without the spark they need.

You can continue down this mountain.

Try to find your way back to civilization.

Probably die in the attempt.

Or or or you can stay.

Help bring my grandchildren into the world.

Learn our ways.

Become something more than just another Viking boy fleeing from his enemies.

I looked around the boneyard at the massive skeletons of creatures that had once ruled the skies.

Then I looked at Feneris, whose pale eyes held depths of wisdom I was only beginning to understand.

Finally, I looked at Stormheart and saw something I hadn’t expected in those ancient dragon features.

Loneliness.

If I stay, I said carefully, what happens to my people?

The Iron Hart clan destroyed my village.

The survivors are scattered or dead.

Your people’s fate was decided long before you were born,” Stormheart replied.

“But perhaps, perhaps the boy who was left to die on this mountain might grow into something capable of changing that fate.”

The dragon rose to its feet and padded toward the shadowed clif.

“Come, see what you would be choosing.”

I followed, Fenris trottting beside me like a loyal dog.

The cleft opened into a cave that went deeper into the mountain than I could see.

But I didn’t need to go far.

There, in a nest of precious stones and soft furs, lay three eggs.

Each was the size of a warrior’s shield with shells that seemed to shift and shimmer with inner light.

One was deep blue green like the sea in winter.

Another was silver white like fresh snow.

The third was golden red like sunset fire.

Beautiful, I whispered.

And dying,” Stormheart said sadly.

“Feel them.”

I reached out tentatively and touched the blue green egg.

The shell was warm, but there was something wrong.

The warmth felt fading, like embers that had been banked too long.

“They need the touch of a dragon parent to hatch properly,” the ancient worm explained.

“But I am old, and my fire burns low.

Skyrath was the last of the fertile females.

These eggs carry the genetic memory of our kind, but they also carry the sorrow of our ending.

Unless, unless they bond with someone young, someone whose life force burns bright enough to kindle their own, someone who can give them not just warmth, but purpose.

I knelt beside the nest, studying the eggs.

Up close, I could see them shiver slightly, as if the dragonlings inside were trying to break free, but lacked the strength.

What would I have to do?

Place your hands on each egg.

Open your heart to them.

Let them feel your life, your hopes, your pain.

Dragons are born understanding that existence means struggle, but struggle with meaning.

If they sense that meaning in you, they’ll hatch.

If the gods will it, Stormheart said, “But know this, young Ericson.

Once you make this choice, you cannot unmake it.

You will be bound to them as surely as they to you.

Their lives will be part of yours.

Their fate entwined with your own.

I thought of my village burning, my mother falling in the snow, the Ironheart warriors laughing as they left me to die, the cold hunger and fear of the last three days.

Then I thought of the warm presence I’d felt in Skyrath’s clawbone.

The patience in Stormheart’s ancient eyes, the way Fenrris had watched over me without my knowing.

These creatures could have left me to die on the mountain.

Instead, they’d offered me something unprecedented, a chance to be part of something larger than revenge or survival, a chance to help bring new life into the world.

I placed my hands on the blue green egg first.

The moment my palms touched the warm shell, I felt it.

A flutter of consciousness, weak but unmistakably present.

The dragon ling inside was aware of me, curious about the warmth and life force I represented.

I opened my mind the way Fenrris had taught me to listen to his mental voice and suddenly I was flooded with sensation flying.

The egg’s surface memory held the dreams of flight passed down through generations of dragons.

Wind beneath wings.

The world spread out below like a map.

The freedom of the endless sky, but also protection.

The fierce love of a mother dragon defending her nest.

The bonds between kin, unbreakable as mountain stone.

I moved to the silver white egg, then the golden red one.

Each one pulsed with its own personality, its own dreams and fears.

The blue green dragon ling felt curious and bold.

The silver white one seemed gentle but determined.

The golden red one burned with protective fury even while still unborn.

I can feel them, I whispered.

They’re they’re beautiful.

Yes, Stormheart agreed.

Now comes the choice that will shape all your tomorrows.

Will you call them into this harsh world?

Will you promise to stand with them against whatever comes?

I thought of my father’s words about endurance and choice.

Pain is temporary.

Death is final.

But life, life was everything in between.

I choose them, I said firmly.

I choose all of them.

The moment I spoke those words, the mountain itself seemed to hold its breath.

The wind that had been howling through the peaks fell silent.

Even Fenris went perfectly still.

His ice blue eyes fixed on the nest.

Then the blue green egg began to crack.

It started as a hairline fracture near the top, but spread quickly as the dragon ling inside fought for freedom.

I kept my hands pressed against the warming shell, feeling the life force inside surge stronger with each passing moment.

Speak to them, Stormheart urged.

Let them hear your voice as they enter the world.

I I swallowed hard.

I don’t know what to say.

Now say what’s in your heart, young one.

Dragons are born understanding truth.

I leaned closer to the eggs, feeling the cracks spread under my palms.

My name is Ericson, I said softly.

I’m alone like you are.

But maybe, maybe we don’t have to be alone anymore.

The blue green egg split open with a wet tearing sound.

What emerged made me gasp in wonder.

The dragon ling was no larger than a cat with scales that shimmerred between blue and green like deep ocean water.

Its eyes were the bright gold of autumn leaves, and when it looked at me, I felt an instant connection snap into place between us, stronger than anything I’d ever experienced.

Hungry came its first mental communication.

Cold.

You warm.

Safe.

Yes, I whispered carefully scooping the tiny dragon into my lap.

You’re safe.

I promise.

The silver white egg cracked next, revealing a dragon ling with scales like new snow and eyes the pale blue of winter sky.

This one felt different in my mind, calmer, more thoughtful.

It studied me for a long moment before sending its first message.

Brother, not brother, pack, not pack.

What are you?

I’m a Viking, I said, though the words felt strange.

Was I still a Viking after everything that had happened.

But I think I think I’m your family now.

Family?

The silver white dragon repeated, settling against my side.

Yes, family.

The golden red egg was the last to hatch.

And when it did, the dragon ling that emerged burned with an inner fire that made the air around it shimmer.

Its scales were the color of forge flames, and its eyes blazed like embers.

Unlike its siblings, this one didn’t send thoughts immediately.

Instead, it studied everything, the cave, Stormheart, Fenrris, and finally me, with intense concentration.

When it finally spoke into my mind, its mental voice carried surprising maturity.

You are not dragon, but you helped us live.

Why?

Because, I said, meeting its fierce gaze.

Sometimes the best family isn’t the one you’re born into.

Sometimes it’s the one you choose.

Choose?

The golden red dragon mused.

Yes, we choose you, too, not dragon brother.

Stormheart moved closer, his massive head lowering to examine his grandchildren.

The ancient dragon’s mental voice carried depths of emotion I couldn’t fully understand.

Perfect.

They are all perfect.

Skyrath would be proud.

Over the next few hours, as the newly hatched dragonlings dried and gained strength, Stormheart explained what lay ahead.

The hatchlings would grow quickly at first, reaching the size of large dogs within a moon cycle.

But they would also be vulnerable, requiring constant care and protection.

The mountain holds many dangers, he warned.

Ice trolls hunt in the deep valleys.

Stone giants wake when the earth trembles, and always, always, the cold seeks to claim the unwary.

“We’ll face it together,” I said, surprised by my own certainty.

Fenris, who had been watching everything with patient interest, finally spoke.

The boy has the heart for it, but he’ll need more than heart to survive what’s coming.

What’s coming?

I asked.

Stormheart and Feneris exchanged a look that spoke of shared knowledge.

Tell me, I insisted.

I have a right to know.

The ancient dragon sighed, a sound like wind through caverns.

Your village was not the Iron Hart clan’s final target, young Ericson.

They serve a darker master.

One who seeks to claim all the northern lands.

Who?

Grimjaw the ice sworn.

A yarl who has made pacts with the frost giants of the far north.

He promises them the warm lands of the south in exchange for power beyond mortal understanding.

My blood chilled.

Frost giants were creatures from the oldest stories.

Beings of ice and hunger that dwelt in the uttermost north where even the bravest Vikings feared to sail.

The Ironhard clan was just the beginning.

Stormheart continued.

Grimjaw has been gathering allies for years.

Outcasts, exiles, men desperate enough to serve in human masters for the promise of wealth and power.

Your father’s village resisted his call to surrender.

That’s why it was destroyed.

When the survivors scattered to the four winds, some may have reached other settlements, others, the dragons meaning was clear.

I felt the three dragon llings press closer to me, their young minds picking up my distress.

The blue green one.

I’d started thinking of him as tide because of his oceancoled scales sent waves of comfort.

The silver white one who reminded me of clouds and snow.

Cloud I decided offered quiet support.

The golden red one, Ember for her inner fire, projected fierce protectiveness.

Not alone, Ember said firmly.

Pack protects Pack.

They’re right, I said, feeling strength flow back into me.

But I need to know more.

How do we stop someone who commands frost giants?

Stormheart’s ancient eyes gleamed.

Ah, now you ask the right questions.

Come, there are things you need to see.

He led us deeper into the cave system, through passages carved by dragon claws and smoothed by centuries of use.

Venerris padded alongside us while the three hatchlings rode on my shoulders and in my arms, their claws gripping my clothing as they took in their first glimpses of their ancestral home.

We emerged into a vast chamber whose walls were covered in carvings that seemed to move in the flickering light from Stormheart’s nostrils.

Dragons in flight, locked in battle with creatures of ice and shadow.

Vikings standing alongside worms, their weapons raised against an endless winter.

The First Alliance, Stormheart explained, long ago, when the ice giants last tried to claim the southern lands, dragon and human fought side by side.

The carvings told the story in flowing sequences.

I saw dragons carrying Viking warriors into battle, their flames melting the weapons of frost giant armies.

I saw humans tending dragon eggs while their dragon partners held mountain passes against impossible odds.

It worked, I breathed, for a time, but the cost was terrible.

Most of my kind died in that war, and the humans lost entire generations of their bravest warriors.

The ice giants were driven back to their frozen wastes, but both sides were left broken.

And now they’re returning.

They are.

And this time there are no dragon flights to oppose them, no alliance of fire and steel.

Stormheart’s mental voice carried profound sadness.

There is only an old dragon, a wise wolf, and a boy with three hatchlings.

And us, Tide interjected firmly.

Don’t forget us.

We are small, Cloud added thoughtfully.

But small things can grow large.

Fire burns brightest when the night is darkest, Ember declared with surprising wisdom for one so young.

I studied the carvings more carefully, noting details I’d missed before.

In several scenes I saw small figures, children perhaps, standing among both dragons and humans, their hands glowing with inner light.

“What are those?”

I asked, pointing.

Stormheart followed my gaze.

Dragon bonded humans who formed such close connections with dragon that they developed abilities beyond normal mortal limits, enhanced strength, the ability to sense danger from great distances, resistance to cold and fire.

And how did they become dragon bonded?

The ancient dragons eyes fixed on me with new intensity.

By sharing their life force with dragon hatchlings, by choosing to become family with creatures not of their own kind.

The implications hit me like a physical blow.

You mean yes, young Ericson, you are well on your way to becoming something your people have not seen for 500 years.

The question is, will you embrace that transformation, or will you fight it?

Before I could answer, Fenrris suddenly stiffened, his ears swiveling toward the cave entrance.

Something approaches.

Multiple somethings, armed and dangerous.

Stormheart’s head shot up, nostrils flaring.

I smell iron, leather, sweat, and fear.

Humans traveling fast.

The Iron Heart clan?

I asked, my heart racing.

Possible, Feneris replied grimly.

Or worse, the ice touched sometimes send scouts ahead of their main forces.

The three hatchlings reacted to the adults alarm by pressing closer to me, their mental voices joining in a chorus of worry and determination.

Danger scent.

Protect family.

Hide or fight.

Hide, I decided quickly.

They’re too small to fight, and I’m not ready either.

Stormheart nodded approvingly.

Wisdom.

But if hiding fails, then we fight, I said, surprised by my own fierceness.

These are my family now.

No one hurts my family.

We retreated deeper into the cave system, following passages that led up into the heart of the mountain.

Behind us, I could hear voices echoing from the main chamber, harsh, guttural sounds that sent chills down my spine.

“Not speaking, Norse,” Cloud observed with her characteristic thoughtfulness.

Different tongue, older, colder.

Ice giant speech, Ember added, her mental voice tight with recognition she shouldn’t have possessed.

Born knowledge, tells me that stopped me cold.

Born knowledge, Stormheart ahead of us in the narrow passage, explained without turning around.

Dragons are born with the accumulated memories of their lineage.

It’s how we pass down essential knowledge without having to teach each generation from the beginning.

Your hatchlings know things their ancestors knew.

Many things, Tide agreed.

Fight knowledge, fly knowledge, magic knowledge.

Magic, I whispered.

Dragon fire is magic, Ember said as if it were obvious.

Dragon speech is magic.

Dragon flight defies the laws that bind earth crawling things.

We are magic, bonded brother.

The voices behind us grew louder, and now I could make out individual words in that strange, cold language.

They were searching for something or someone.

They’re following our scent, Fenris reported.

Ice giant trackers have noses almost as keen as wolves.

How many?

Stormheart asked.

Six, maybe seven.

But they move like warriors, not like scouts.

A hunting party?

The ancient dragon mused.

Which means they know we’re here.

The question is, do they know what we are?

Our passage opened into another chamber.

This one’s smaller, but with multiple exits.

Stormheart paused, his great head turning as he considered our options.

Straight ahead leads to the peak, he said.

Dangerous in this weather, but it offers escape routes into the next valley.

Left leads deeper into the mountain, safe, but we could be trapped if they find the entrance.

Right leads to the old breeding caves.

What’s in the breeding caves?

Things better left undisturbed,” Fenry said om ominously.

“But also things that might help if you’re brave enough to wake them.”

The voices were getting closer.

I could hear metal scraping against stone as the hunters climbed the passages behind us.

“Choose quickly,” bonded brother Tide urged bad smells getting stronger.

I closed my eyes and tried to think like my father would have.

“What would a Viking warrior do when outnumbered and cornered?”

The answer came to me with startling clarity.

Change the terms of the battle.

The breeding caves.

I decided if there’s something there that might help, we need to risk it.

Stormheart studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly.

Your father’s son indeed.

Very well.

But stay close, all of you.

The old places remember old angers, and not all of them distinguish between friend and foe.

We took the right passage, plunging deeper into darkness.

Behind us, the hunter’s voices grew muffled, but didn’t disappear entirely.

They’d found our trail and were following.

The passage sloped downward sharply, and the air grew warmer as we descended.

Soon I could see why.

Veins of some glowing mineral ran through the rock walls, providing a dim but steady light.

The three hatchlings perked up as we walked, their scales seeming to absorb and reflect the strange illumination.

Home feeling, Cloud observed, like den memory from before time.

Dragons made these tunnels, Ember added.

Long ago, big dragons, strong dragons.

We emerged into a cavern that took my breath away.

It was enormous, its ceiling lost in shadows high above.

But it was what filled the cavern that made me stagger.

Eggs.

Hundreds of them, maybe thousands.

They lined carved shelves in the walls, filled nests scattered across the floor, hung in silken cocoons from the ceiling.

Most were clearly ancient, their shells dark and cold, whatever life they’d once held long since faded.

But some some still held the faint shimmer of inner light.

“By the gods,” I whispered.

“The great nursery,” Stormheart explained, his mental voice heavy with memory.

When our kind was numerous, this was where we brought our eggs for the final stages of development.

The warmth from the earth’s heart, the protection of the mountain, the presence of so many of our kind.

It was the safest place in all the northern lands.

Some still live, Tide observed, padding over to one of the nearest nests, sleeping, but not dead.

Why?

Because they were laid during the last war, Stormheart said sadly.

Their parents died fighting the ice giants before the eggs could hatch.

Without dragon fire to quicken them, they’ve been sleeping ever since, waiting for the right moment, the right spark.

Like your grandchildren were waiting, I realized exactly like my grandchildren.

And now the ancient dragon’s meaning became clear as the hunter’s voices echoed from the passage behind us.

If the ice giant warriors found this place, they would destroy every egg.

Centuries of dragon lineage would be lost forever.

But if we could somehow wake the sleeping eggs.

How many might still be viable?

I asked urgently.

Impossible to know without examining each one individually.

Perhaps a dozen, perhaps none, or perhaps all of them.

Ember said with sudden intensity.

Born knowledge shows me something.

Dragon bonded human.

One who carries the life spark of our kind.

Such a one might wake even the deepest sleepers.

You’re saying I could hatch them?

All of them?

Not hatch.

Cloud corrected gently.

Wake.

The hatching they must do themselves.

But the waking?

Yes, if you are willing to risk everything.

What kind of risk?

Stormheart’s ancient eyes fixed on mine.

Sharing your life force with three hatchlings was one thing.

They were newly laid, requiring only a spark to begin their natural development.

These eggs have been dormant for centuries.

To wake them, you would have to give more than a spark.

You would have to give a part of your very soul.

The hunter’s voices were getting closer.

I could hear them arguing in their cold language, probably debating which passage to take.

“No time,” Fenris warned urgently.

“Choose now or lose the chance forever.”

I looked around the vast cavern at the hundreds of eggs that represented the future of dragon kind.

Then I looked down at Tide, Cloud, and Ember, my three young companions who had already changed my life in ways I was only beginning to understand.

They looked back at me with complete trust.

Tell me what to do, I said.

Years later, the scalds would sing of that day in the great nursery.

They would tell of the boy who chose dragons over his own kind, who gave his human soul to wake the sleeping children of the sky.

They would speak of the moment when fire returned to the northern lands and the ice giants learned to fear the sound of wings again.

But I was there.

I lived it.

And I know the truth the songs cannot capture.

That it wasn’t magic that woke those eggs or destiny or the will of the gods.

It was love, pure, simple love for creatures who had accepted me as family when my own kind cast me out to die.

The dragons rose that day, not because of ancient prophecy, but because a small Viking boy chose to believe that family is what you make it, not what you’re born into.

And perhaps that’s the most powerful magic of all.

My name is Erikson, called Dragon Brother by some, Flame Walker by others.

This is my story, the first part.

Anyway, there is much more to tell, for the war with the ice giants was just beginning, and the boy who had been left to die in the mountains was about to become something the world had never seen.

But that, as they say, is a tale for another day.

Thank you for joining me on this epic journey through the frozen peaks and dragon caves of the north.

If this tale of courage, family, and the bond between boy and dragon stirred your warrior’s heart, please smash that like button, subscribe for more legendary Nordic tales, and drop a comment telling me where in the world you’re watching from.

From the fjords of Norway to the plains of Texas, I want to hear from my Viking family.

Until next time, may your fires burn bright and your enemies flee at the sound of your approach.