A blade flashed—a single, sharp glint slicing through the layered green above, so quick it seemed to split the afternoon itself. The tree beneath the strike, thick and proud, shuddered only once before toppling with the clean finality of fruit falling from a branch. The sound echoed through the clearing, solid and unhurried.
A voice broke the hush, easy and self-assured. "Not bad, bro!" The words floated on a current of amusement, their source a youth with a long, battered coat that swayed behind him as he stepped forward from the shadowed line of trunks.
His eyes were fixed with reverence on another youth, just a little older, or maybe only more dangerous—bronze skin, a tangle of wild, flame-red hair that caught the light in living sparks. Those eyes, too, carried their own fire: irises a deep crimson, bisected by golden, reptilian slits that missed nothing. Short, heavy horns curled above his brow, gleaming in the sun, and a thick, scaled tail moved behind him with the lazy confidence of something born for conquest.
He couldn't have been more than fourteen, a dragon kin in every line and posture, but there was nothing of Dravion's quiet, elemental danger in him. His arrogance felt shaped by hands other than fate.
He stood with four others—a tight-knit band, all human at first glance, their features too polished, their movements too clean, not a scale or claw exposed. Only the hint of wings folded against their backs, and tails flickering with impatience, marked them for what they were.
The mana in their blood was dulled, buried deep beneath pride and practice, but in the way they walked, in the way they breathed, the truth showed. They wore their dragon heritage like a crown, not a curse.
The boy with the sword flashed a grin, lowering his blade with a casual pride that demanded attention. "You kidding? I could turn this whole forest upside down if I felt like it." He straightened his back, jaw tilting skyward, every muscle telegraphing a challenge to the world.
From the front of the group, a girl stepped forward, her approach unhurried, almost too composed for her age. She moved with the sort of stillness that belonged to winter. Her hair, white as untouched snow, drifted behind her, catching the filtered sunlight in faint halos. Her skin gleamed with an icy paleness, smooth and cold, and her eyes—shards of sapphire—fixed on the sword-bearer, expressionless but cutting.
"Trevuqis," she said, her voice a blade hidden in velvet. "The Grand Chief gave us orders. Minimal damage."
She didn't wait for him to spit another retort. The blade at her side drew itself in a single, silent motion and pressed to his throat, the point resting just enough to pull a thin line of blood, bright against his bronzed skin before disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
The air thickened as the group watched, no one willing to move first.
Trevuqis tensed, the swagger slipping from his face as humiliation colored his cheeks. His hand hovered near his own sword but refused the impulse to draw. He met her eyes—defiance clashing with a jealousy he could not fully mask.
"Careful, Xyntherra." Trevuqis tried to sound unfazed, voice dropping into a drawl as he spread his hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't want to forget I'm the Grand Chief's grandson, would you?"
The title hung in the clearing, heavy with unspoken threat. He let it sit there, watching discomfort ripple through the others.
"And you?" He let the question settle, voice low and deliberate. "Leader or not, you think you can stand against the whole clan? One scratch, and my family won't just bury you. They'll erase your name."
"And what makes you so sure I won't?" Xyntherra's voice didn't rise. If anything, it grew colder, more precise. She looked a year or two older, taller than the others, posture honed to a blade's edge. The sort of beauty that dared you to meet her eyes, knowing you'd lose something in the attempt.
She gave no warning, only the slow pressure of steel against skin. The threat was quiet, but real, her eyes promising nothing but finality if he moved.
Trevuqis's confidence collapsed, panic flickering across his face as the realization cut through his bravado. He edged back, throat pulsing beneath her blade, and for a heartbeat, there was no sound at all.
Then the world shattered—light erupted through the trees in a violent pillar, white and thick with power, tearing sky from earth in a column of pure, screaming mana. The forest recoiled, shadows fleeing as the explosion of brilliance washed over them, so sudden and vast that every head turned to witness its birth.
For a moment, the only sound was their own breathing.
Trevuqis found his voice first, the taunt forgotten. "What was that?" he breathed, unable to hide the awe or greed lighting his face. For a single instant, all his posturing slipped, replaced by naked curiosity—the kind that lived in every dragon's blood.
He didn't have to think long. In a heartbeat, ambition took over. Treasure, ancient and wild, calling to him with a voice older than memory. The sort of prize that could carve a new legend, if only he got there first.
"Kaelvir! Miven! Rhyzari!" Trevuqis barked, excitement overtaking caution. "Let's go! Mana like that's worth more than every command we've got. While you lot waste time with rules, I'm going to claim something real."
He didn't wait for permission or challenge. His wings snapped open, broad and dark, slicing the air as he leapt skyward. One by one, the others followed, not out of loyalty but fear—his lineage still meant power, even to those who knew its limits.
They scattered into the sky, chasing that raw, impossible light, drawn forward by hope and hunger both.
Xyntherra remained where she was, her grip tightening on her sword, eyes fixed on the place where the light had faded. Her face was unreadable, but inside, something shifted—a tension waking inside the calm.
She let the silence fill her, let it echo in her bones as she watched the last traces of smoke and mana twisting above the treetops.
"Someone fell from the sky," she murmured, voice barely more than a breath, carrying the weight of stories older than she could remember. "That's the altar's place. The old one. Father told me… where the sun sets, that's where the gods descend. That's where the Queen left it…"
Her wings flexed, pale and strong, the bones built for war as much as flight. She closed her eyes for a beat, jaw set against everything unsaid.
The egg. The one that never hatched, the gift her father still mourned. She wondered, not for the first time, if finding it would finally earn her his pride—the last legacy of a fallen queen.
Without another word, Xyntherra launched herself into the sky, her flight slicing the air in one unbroken motion. She moved fast, but the forest moved faster—shadows slipping between the trees, eyes watching from every hollow. Predators, seekers, beasts hungry for a legend, and all of them turning toward that single point where the altar waited.
It wasn't just dragon children called by the light. The world itself seemed to stir, drawn by the promise of ancient power.
And beneath it all, Dravion stood in the silent wood, unaware of the web tightening around him, as the world remembered what it meant to chase a god's legacy.