Dragons
Taranis– comes from ancient Celtic mythology, whereTaraniswas a powerful god associated with thunder, storms, and the sky. His name is believed to derive from the Proto-Celtic roottoranos, meaning “thunder.” Taranis was often depicted wielding the wheel, a symbol of cycles, fate, and the relentless turning of time.
While he is remembered as a storm god, Taranis was not chaos incarnate — he representedcontained power, balance, and endurance. Storms governed by law rather than destruction. This meaning ties directly to an ice dragon: a being of immense force held under discipline and control. Ice is not the absence of power, but power restrained — a storm frozen in place, waiting. For a veteran dragon who survives by control rather than spectacle, the name reflects strength tempered by time, patience, and fear of what happens if that control finally breaks.
Cinder– comes from the Old Englishsinder, meaning ashes, slag, or the remains left after fire has burned. A cinder is not flame itself, but what endures when the fire is thought to befinished — a coal that appears spent, yet still holds heat beneath its surface.
Unlike fire, which is visible and destructive, a cinder representssurvival. It can smolder unnoticed, preserve warmth through the cold, and reignite when given air and care. The name reflects someone burned by circumstance, reduced by loss, and left behind — yet not extinguished. In mythology and folklore, embers are often the quiet beginning of renewal, the smallest heat capable of rebuilding a hearth or starting something vast. For a human who has endured public blame, isolation, and injustice,Cindersignifies resilience rather than weakness — proof that fire doesn’t need to roar to matter.
Chapter one
Faceoff - The puck drop that starts play or restarts after a stoppage.
Taranis
The puck didn’t care how old I was.
It didn’t care that I was four months away from thirty-seven, that I’d been playing this game long enough to know exactly how fast everything could disappear. It didn’t care about standings or playoff math or the way I’d been waiting for the wrong hit all season.
Or the way management was clearly waiting for the same thing, because despite “talks”, there was no sign of any contract extension.
And I could hardly tell them I was going to outlive management, management's kids, or their children's children.
Seattle came at us hard from the opening drop, black-and-teal jerseys cutting through the ice like blades. The crowd was loud—so loud it rattled the glass—but once I set my skates and settled into my stance, the noise softened into something distant.
There was only the net behind me.
Only the puck in front of me.
Only breath, balance, and instinct.
The first shot came quick and low. I dropped and blocked it cleanly, the impact solid and familiar, the puck bouncing harmlessly away. I pushed back to my feet and reset, tapping each post out of habit.
Right.
Left.
Breathe.
Seattle didn’t slow down. They pressed again, faster this time, moving the puck side to side, forcing me to follow. I slid across the crease, weight shifting smoothly, body doing exactly what it had been trained to do. A pass flashed across the front of the net, and I reacted without thought, throwing myself sideways.
My glove snapped shut. The puck smacked into the pocket with a hit that echoed through my arm, but I held on. I held it tight and lifted my glove, showing the save to the crowd.
The arena exploded.
My teammates swarmed in close, sticks tapping my pads, voices loud with adrenaline. I laughed and nodded and gave them the grin they expected—the easy one, the reassuring one, but inside, something shifted. Not pain.
Cold.
It crept in quietly, subtly at first, like I’d stepped into a shadow. My breath fogged the air in front of me as I breathed out more than it should have. I shook my head and focused on thefaceoff. Adrenaline did strange things to an ice dragon. I didn’t question it. I couldn't afford to question it.
The game settled into a brutal rhythm. Seattle fired shots from everywhere, crashing the net, jabbing for rebounds. Bodies collided in front of me, sticks flashing, skates carving too close for comfort.
I blocked a shot with my chest that knocked the breath from me.
Another with my gloves that sent a sharp sting through my fingers.
I sprawled once, stretching across the ice to keep the puck from sliding over the line, and the crowd roared when I got there in time. Each save felt earned and demanded focus.