"Dragontide's Son is the second book of Dragontide. Ellie and Tyler's son, Pryce Harper-Green, sets off on a misguided journey."

Read the first book of Dragontide, "Dragontide's Daughter.

***

Pryce Harper-Green squinted at the murky waters of Lake Dragontide. The lake, usually serene, looked almost foreboding under the approaching storm clouds. With blistered hands, he hauled the last net onto the trawler's deck. Empty. Or close enough. A few scrawny fish flapped listlessly, barely worth the effort. A sigh escaped his lips as he surveyed the meager catch.

"Another wasted morning," he said to himself, tossing the net to the side with more force than necessary.

Crystal Shores mirrored his mood. The once-vibrant village seemed to droop under the weight of its own struggles. The cottages with their peeling paint and sagging roofs huddled together against the chilly breeze blowing in from the lake. Pryce's eyes traveled over to the docks where Old Man Finnegan stood, leaning heavily on his gnarled walking stick.

The old man shuffled over as Pryce tied up his boat. "Rough day?"

Pryce nodded. "Nothing worth keeping," he said, kicking at an empty barrel on the dock.

Finnegan chuckled. "Lake's been stingy lately," he said. "But that's how it goes sometimes."

"Yeah, well, I'm tired of it," Pryce snapped before catching himself. He glanced at Finnegan. "Sorry, it's just . . . this isn't what I want."

"Got bigger dreams than this old dock, do ya?"

Pryce looked out over the lake again. "I want more than just scraping by."

"Ah," Finnegan nodded, tapping his stick on the wooden planks. "That wanderlust in your veins, boy?"

"It's not just that," Pryce said. "I want to be a dragon trainer."

Finnegan studied him for a long moment before speaking again. "It's good to have dreams, lad. But don't forget where you come from."

Pryce frowned at that. He knew Finnegan meant well, but Crystal Shores felt like a cage to him—one that grew smaller each day.

As Pryce helped Finnegan untangle a particularly stubborn net, a small, leather-bound book slipped from his back pocket and landed on the dock with a soft thud. The cover was worn from frequent handling, and the title, "Legends of Dragontide," was barely legible.

Finnegan bent down with a grunt, picking up the book. He turned it over in his hands. "Still got your nose in dragon tales, eh?"

"It's just a story," he said, reaching to take the book back.

Finnegan held it out of reach for a moment longer, peering at the faded cover. "This one about that old legend? The Dragonkin Marauders and their promise of power?"

"Yeah," Pryce said. "It's about how they tamed dragons and became the most feared group in all of Dragontide."

Finnegan handed the book back to him. "Dragons ain't pets, lad. They're dangerous beasts. Takes someone special to tame 'em."

"And you think I'm not special enough?" Irritated, Pryce stuffed the book back into his pocket.

The old man shook his head. "Didn't say that. Just saying it's not all glory and gold like those stories make it out to be. Back in my day, I tangled with more than a few dragons. Lost good friends to those encounters."

Pryce's eyes widened. "You fought dragons?"

"Some say hunted. But there were times when we had no choice but to kill 'em." He glanced at Pryce, his expression serious now. "If you really want to be a dragon trainer, you need to understand what you're getting into."

Pryce nodded slowly, digesting Finnegan's words as they worked in silence for a while longer.

"Ever seen one up close?" Finnegan asked suddenly.

Pryce shook his head. "Only in pictures."

"They're more than just pictures," Finnegan said softly. "They're living, breathing forces of nature."

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain and stirring the dark clouds overhead. The first fat droplets began to fall as they finished with the nets.

"Storm's coming," Finnegan remarked, looking up at the sky.

"Better get inside," Pryce said, gathering their tools.

They hurried toward the shelter of Finnegan's cottage as the rain began to pour in earnest. The storm washed over Crystal Shores like an uninvited guest, drenching everything in its path.

Finnegan shuffled around his cottage, lighting an oil lamp and stoking the smoldering fire in the fireplace. The warm glow chased away the dimness that had settled in with the storm. Pryce watched as the old man reached for a battered kettle.

"How about some seaweed brew?" Finnegan asked, filling the kettle with water.

Pryce nodded. He'd heard of the Shorlings' peculiar tea but had never tried it himself.

As Finnegan busied himself with the kettle, and the storm raged outside, Pryce's eyes wandered around the cottage. He'd never been inside before, and what he saw left him awestruck. The walls were adorned with paintings—dragons, serpents, and ships locked in fierce battles on stormy seas. Each piece was vivid, capturing moments of chaos and beauty.

Thunder rumbled outside, and a flash of lightning illuminated a particularly striking painting of a storm dragon, its electric blue eyes seeming to glow.

"These are incredible," Pryce said, stepping closer to one of the paintings. It depicted a massive dragon with scales that shimmered like molten gold, its wings outstretched as it soared above a burning ship.

Finnegan glanced over his shoulder. "Collected those over the years. Each one tells a story."

Pryce pointed to a painting showing two dragons locked in combat, their bodies coiled around each other in a deadly embrace. "What's this one about?"

"Ah, that's the tale of Aurathorn and Nightclaw," Finnegan explained as he adjusted the kettle over the fire. "Aurathorn was a guardian dragon, protector of an ancient elixir. Nightclaw sought to steal it for his own gain. Their battle lasted for days, shaking mountains and boiling rivers."

Pryce's eyes moved to another painting showing a ship being attacked by sea serpents. The crew fought valiantly but seemed hopelessly outmatched. "And this?"

"That's 'The Last Voyage of Captain Draven.' He was one of the finest sailors to ever navigate Lake Dragontide," Finnegan said. "But even he couldn't escape the wrath of the seadrakes."

Pryce marveled at each piece, feeling as if he were stepping into another world with every glance. The storm outside raged on, lightning flashing through the windows and illuminating the paintings in brief bursts of light.

"You've seen all this?" Pryce asked quietly.

"More than I care to remember," Finnegan replied, turning back to face him. "These are just glimpses of what lies out there."

As the kettle began to whistle, Pryce found himself drawn to a smaller, more subdued painting. It depicted a rider atop a dragon, soaring over what looked like Crystal Shores.

"I didn't know we had dragon riders here," Pryce said, excitement creeping into his voice.

Finnegan poured the hot water into two chipped mugs. "We don't, not anymore. In my youth I was a dragon hunter, but that there's the last Dragontide rider. Disappeared years ago."

Pryce opened his mouth to ask more, but Finnegan handed him a steaming mug of seaweed brew, effectively ending the conversation.

Pryce sipped the tea, its briny taste oddly comforting. Suddenly, a deafening boom shook the cottage, rattling the windows and sending tremors through the floorboards. Pryce nearly dropped his mug.

"What in the name of—" Finnegan said, already hobbling towards the window.

Pryce joined him, peering out into the tempest. The sky had turned an eerie, sickly green, crackling with energy that made his skin prickle. Lightning forked across the heavens, illuminating the village below in stark, terrifying flashes. It was unlike anything he had ever seen.

"By the gods . . ." Finnegan's voice trailed off as he stared at the spectacle.

Crystal Shores was in chaos. People ran through the streets, their screams barely audible over the howling wind. Doors slammed, and shutters banged against walls as villagers scrambled for shelter.

Without thinking, Pryce bolted for the door. "I have to help!" he shouted over his shoulder, ignoring Finnegan's protests.

The moment he stepped outside, the wind nearly knocked him off his feet. Rain lashed at his face, stinging his eyes as he stumbled down the path. Panicked villagers rushed past him.

"Get inside!" Finnegan yelled, but Pryce pressed on.

He saw Old Man Doyle's prized goats running loose, bleating in terror as they darted between houses. Chickens flapped wildly in the wind, their feathers scattering across the muddy ground. Even the usually placid village dogs were howling, adding to the clamor of panic.

Pryce pushed through the throng, searching for any sign of what might have caused this disturbance. His mind raced with possibilities—had one of those seadrakes come ashore? Or was it something even more sinister?

Suddenly, a sound cut through the chaos—a roar so powerful it seemed to shake the very air around them. Pryce's gaze shot up to the sky, searching for the source of the sound.

And that’s when he saw it.

A monstrous shadow descended from the swirling green clouds, blotting out the light of the storm. It was a shape too large, too powerful to be anything else. A wave of terror washed over him. This wasn’t a painting. This was real.

Dragon.