The Dragon Whisperer of Storm's End

Story Preview

In the rough Viking village of Storm's End, where waves crashed like thunder against black cliffs, eight-year-old Hicren sat carving tiny dragons from driftwood. The other Viking children practiced sword fighting on the beach, their shouts mixing with seagull cries. But Hicren preferred watching the clouds drift by, imagining shapes in their billowing forms. His father's forge rang with hammer strikes nearby, crafting weapons for warriors. "Strength conquers all!" the villagers always said, flexing their mighty muscles. Hicren's small hands weren't made for heavy swords, but they were perfect for noticing details others missed—like the strange shimmer in the morning mist that day.

The village elders gathered in the great hall, their beards braided with iron rings that clinked as they argued. "The dragon raids grow worse," growled Chief Magnus, pounding his fist on the oak table. "We need stronger warriors!" Hicren peeked through a crack in the wall, his bright eyes taking in every word. The adults spoke of dragon traps and battle plans, but Hicren noticed something they didn't—the dragons only attacked when the moon was full, and they never touched the houses with wind chimes. He scribbled these observations in his secret journal, hidden beneath loose floorboards in his family's cottage.