Little Rudigarex – Rudy for short – was the only dragon in Frostpeak who couldn’t fly. While the others soared on thermals, he could only glide—dropping from cliffs with a hopeful whoosh, angling his wings just right, and “falling with style” until he skidded to a landing across the snow on his belly. Without inner fire, he couldn’t heat the air beneath him, couldn’t lift, couldn’t hover. And in Frostpeak, that meant he’d always be last.
Still, he signed up for the annual Aerial Dash.
“Brave,” some elders murmured. “Foolish,” more than a few countered.
Rudy didn’t care either way. He’d been experimenting for weeks in the kitchens, mixing spices, herbs, and volcanic peppers into a concoction he called Skyfire Stew. Dragons with real flame didn’t need it. But maybe, just maybe, it could spark something in him.
On race day, while the others stretched their wings and breathed warm plumes into the air, Rudy quietly slurped up a steaming bowl of Skyfire Stew. His throat tingled. His belly glowed. A faint warmth pulsed beneath his ribs.
The starting horn sounded.
The racers leapt from the cliff. Rudy jumped too—gliding, as always—but this time, when he willed heat into his chest, a sudden burst of warmth surged outward. The air beneath him shimmered. He didn’t fall. He lifted.
Not high. Not gracefully. But enough.
He tucked his wings, caught a thermal, and shot forward. Gasps echoed from the ridge as he passed the slowest racers, then the middle pack, then—unbelievably—the veterans.
Only Icebane, the reigning champion, remained ahead.
Rudy pushed harder. Heat flared in his chest, sputtering but real. He surged alongside Icebane, their wings slicing the wintry wind in tandem. For a heartbeat, Rudy thought he might win.
But the final gust favored the champion. Icebane crossed the finish line first.
Rudy crossed second.
Silence fell across the mountain. Then it erupted in cheers. Not because Rudy had nearly won, but because he’d finally flown.
Rudy didn’t mind second place. He’d tasted the sky. And next year, he’d be ready for more than a glider’s fall.
He’d be ready to rise.
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