Everything we know about the Orange Dragons from the Empyrean series so far. Theit hatching grounds, their unpredictability and the known ornage dragons and their riders. 🧡
This entire page is made by me, i did my research on both the books and The Empyrean Wiki, but feel free to correct me if something is wrong or missing. Do not use without giving credit, i spend many hours on each and every spread. This stunning art of Marbh (my fav hehe) is made by the amazing @bookartbysloan on instagram, make sure to check out her other pieces too!
If you have questions, feel free to ask! My messages/requests are always open. ♡
This is part of the "aura's dragon guide" series. Find the rest on my masterlist here, i will update all of these once onyx storm is out. Every sunday i post a new part. (or somewhere throughout the week if class is boring lol)
I loved making this one, i feel like the Orange dragons have the most personality to them besides greens + i love Marbh so i'm biased. The art made by @bookartbysloan is amazing i love this one so much, it's absolutely amazing. I love the addition that their hatching grounds are all over the Northen Esbens as they are so unpredictable it makes sens ethat they would move around. 👀🧡
Summary: Brennan wakes up after the battle of Aretia.
Prompt: Uncertain
Each inhale Brennan takes feels like agony. He stares up at the clear blue sky, unable to move his aching limbs. His back is burning, his head is pounding with such an intensity it feels like someone’s slamming a hammer into it, and he can barely remember what happened after getting shot.
Marbh shifts to wrap a tattered wing protectively around Brennan. “You’re awake,” he sighs with relief. “Thank the stars.”
“What… What happened?” Brennan asks, turning his head slightly. The small movement is enough to make his neck hurt.
“An arrow pierced your heart and you fell from my back. Your siphon…”
He furrows his brows at the hesitation in his dragon’s voice. “Yes…?”
“He used the last of his signet’s power to revive you.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in. The only sound he can hear is Marbh’s labored breathing and the wind rustling the long grass that’s oddly pale. Naolin had siphoned into him? He’d killed himself? No. No, that can’t be right.
Brennan shook his head as he struggles to sit up on his elbows. “That’s not possible,” he whispers. He certain in his belief as he scans their surroundings.
They’re on a hill overlooking a vast plain that seems to go on forever. A few dragons scattered across the field stagger to their feet in search of their riders; some of them have to drag themselves across the ground due to how severe their injuries are. In the distance, he sees the outline of Aretia bathed in an eerie red glow. Black plumes of smoke rise from the rooftops but no dragons fly towards that direction.
Is it on fire? How? The destruction of cities in war is a federal crime. Why isn’t anyone—
Marbh shields him under a massive wing as a low flying dragon passes by. His muscles are taut with tension.
Brennan braces his hand against the earth for support. He instantly regrets it as a stinging pain shoots up his right arm and lifts his hand to his face. Red scar lines in the form of two concentric diamonds bordering a small four-pointed star have been burned into his palm. It’s one of the many custom runes Naolin was tempering as part of a “project” he’d been working on during his off days. He’d called it Yirluz; it was meant to symbolize a heartbeat or pulse — something to make the blood flow again after death.
Brennan’s stomach churns as he remembers watching him test it on a dead fox once. The creature, despite having been mauled to the point where it’s lower jaw was torn off, had started to breath. He vividly recalls the bone deep horror of watching it try to get up despite its body being eaten away by rot and decay. He’d begged his partner to drop whatever he was working on, to forget about it before he fucked with something he didn’t fully understand.
He stares at the ground, at the surrounding grass that’s so diluted it appears white yet still stands tall amidst the healthy plains. The drainage only extends a few feet but it’s enough to make his blood turn cold. “What did he do?”
Marbh avoids his gaze.
“What did Naolin do, Marbh?”
“He channeled from the source.”
Brennan’s chest tightens at the realization. The source? As in…?
“Yes.”
No. No, that’s impossible. A part of his brain screams that it can’t be true, that Naolin wouldn’t be that stupid. Deep down, however, he knows it’s an immutable fact. Naolin was — is stubborn. To him, death isn’t an inevitability but an obstacle. He would do everything in his power to bring him back even if it means sacrificing his soul. But venin are a myth; they shouldn’t be real.
“The venin are as real as you and I, unfortunately. It is why Tyrrendor attempted to secede.”
Brennan glances up at his dragon. “What did you just say?”
“Fen Riorson isn’t trying to cause chaos. He wishes to help Poromiel fight against the enemy; if not, the venin will invade Navarre and drain the continent of magic.”
The information hits him harder than the arrowhead still wedged in his chest. This whole time he’d been lied to? He killed so many people for… for what? Had he been manipulated this whole time? Did he die for nothing?
He struggles to his feet, ignoring the pain in his hand, and leans against Marbh for support. His eyes widen as he watches Aretia burn. He swears he can hear screaming in the distance. Was this his mother’s doing? His body trembles and aches with such excruciating agony, he sinks to the ground helplessly.
This whole time his mother, his father, his own dragon, have been lying to him. They’ve been misleading him, nudging him in whatever direction they wanted him to go. His purpose — to serve and protect his nation — has been rendered null.
“I did not lie,” Marbh says softly, bending low to press his nose against his hair.
Brennan cringes at the touch. “You didn’t tell me the truth,” he whispers, digging his fingers into the soft soil. “You kept the existence of venin from me—”
“You did not ask—”
“Bullshit! How the fuck was I supposed to know to ask about that? How am I supposed to prepare myself when I don’t even know the real scope of the situation?”
Marbh shifts uncomfortably and looks away in shame.
“What’s the point of Bàsgiath’s existence if they’re not willing to teach us how to fight the real enemy? Why are we even here? Are we just fodder? Sacrifices for the gods?”
Why, why, why? So many questions beginning with that word start to invade Brennan’s thoughts. Why didn’t his mother tell him beforehand? Why didn’t his father, who read him the stories of the Barrens? Why was he abandoned in this field?
He receives no answer from his dragon. It’s entirely possible Marbh is just as lost as he is. He doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He should go back, demand answers, force his mother to do something but he can’t. He can’t go home like this. He can’t let his sisters see him as anything but their confident older brother — their healer for when things get bad. He can barely muster the courage to walk, let alone force a smile for them.
“We must go,” Marbh says after an excruciatingly long moment of silence.
“There’s nowhere to go.”
“There are tunnels nearby for us to seek shelter in. You can recover there until you make up your mind.”
“On what?”
The orange daggertail looks down at him softly. “You must choose whose side you're on. If you do not wish to fly for Navarre, you may fly with Tyrrendor and Poromiel. Regardless, I will be by your side until we cease to exist.”
How can he choose a side when he barely understands his purpose in the world?
With aching limbs, he forces himself to climb onto Marbh’s back and positions himself between his shoulders like always. It used to bring him comfort, a sense of stability. Now, he feels nothing but a chaos of warring emotions. Betrayal, anger, grief, fear, yearning, a bone deep weariness in his soul. It’s like a torrent inside him waiting to burst at the seams.
He leans forward, letting his shoulders slump. “I want Naolin,” he whispers.
“We will look for him when your strength returns,” Marbh promises. “Rest now, little one. I will be here when you wake.”
It's time for a WIP Wednesday snippet! I've been hunkered down with Onyx Storm (amazing, incredible, so many notes) and then sick with the plague, but I'm BACK BABY!
Have you ever wondered what happened with Brennan and Naolin at the Battle of Aretia? Because I sure as hell have. Here's to hoping I have this baby finished very soon for you all. It's what's on the tin, if you know you know, this will be saaaad.
Standing on the edge cliffs, I felt my heart beat against my ribs. Wind whipped into my back from the roiling waters far below and heavy mist kissed my heated neck. There was no escaping the onslaught that faced us. Knowing I had moments before he had to mount Tairn, the giant dragon’s morningstar tail flicking with agitation through the electricity-laden air, I looked to my left.
He stood there, as he always did, hands flexing at his sides. Tairn chuffed viciously calculating the battle ahead focused anticipation, but I only had eyes for one man. Naolin stood tall, eyes forward to stare intently at the oncoming hoard. The wind blew his hair forward, and it caressed his cheek the way my hand had the night before. I could still feel his skin beneath my touch, hot and wanting. Still feel him above me. But now was not the time for such thoughts.
Running my thumb along my chin to dissipate the nervous energy I turned to stare forward again. My body ached to turn back, but I knew it was not smart. Without me having to ask, Naolin stepped closer, his fingers closing around mine in a death grip loaded with promise. Just that simple touch opened my lungs and I took my first deep breath in who knew how long.
“Whatever it takes,” Naolin said softly beside me, determination resounding in his words. Unable to resist, I glanced sideways and saw the same resolution set in his brow, in the way his head angled forward on that slight angle.
