Draconis Genesis: The Dawn of Magic

Drakaryn lay stretched across the great stone outcropping, his massive form blending into the rock as if he were a living extension of the earth itself. His opalescent scales shimmered faintly under the sun's warm caress, the light refracting into delicate rainbows where the angles caught perfectly. To any observer, the dragon might have appeared lifeless, a statue carved by the hands of time, but subtle movements betrayed the truth—his chest rising and falling in a deep, steady rhythm, the faint twitch of his tail, the occasional flick of his ear membranes in response to some distant sound.

The warmth seeped through his body, pooling in the marrow of his bones and threading through the veins where mana thrived. Sunlight was not merely comforting; it was nourishing. The mana-saturated light collected within him, pulled in with each slow inhale and absorbed by his scales like water into parched soil. He had not eaten in some time—he didn't need to, not yet. The vitality from his recent meals still pulsed within him, mingling with the sunlight's essence to sustain his massive body.

And so, beneath the boundless sky and the songs of the wind, Drakaryn drifted into sleep, his thoughts slipping away like sand through talons.

The void between waking and dreaming is a place of strange connections, a formless ether where boundaries blur, and the mind wanders untethered. Drakaryn's slumber was deep, his consciousness slipping further than he realized. It began as a dull hum in the quiet of his mind, a sensation without shape or purpose, pulling him gently forward. He resisted at first, instinctually wary of anything that lured him into the unknown. But the hum persisted, soft and steady, like the trickle of water over stone.

And then, without warning, he was no longer himself.

His perspective narrowed, his senses dulled in ways that sent an immediate ripple of alarm through his thoughts. He felt… confined. Small. A prisoner in his own body, no—not his body. The realization struck like a spark against dry tinder, but the flames of panic had no time to catch.

Before him, his vision was strange—blurry and close, and the colors of the world felt dim, washed out. Everything was foreign. He could feel soft warmth against his skin, a blanket or some form of nesting material wrapped securely around him. Something stirred within his limited field of view—soft shapes moving, unfamiliar sounds drifting down from above.

Then he saw them.

The "creatures" he had glimpsed in his earlier vision were there again, though his perception of them now was far more vivid. The larger ones loomed above him like incomprehensible giants, their faces framed with strands of dark and light hair, their eyes wide and expressive as they peered down. Their mouths moved constantly, strange tones and vibrations spilling forth. Drakaryn could not understand the meaning, but there was no mistaking the intent. They looked upon him—or rather, the body he now inhabited—with an odd mixture of reverence and tenderness.

His gaze shifted downward. The creature's hands—tiny, pudgy things with laughable stubs for claws—wiggled clumsily before his face. He tried to flex his fingers, to test their strength, but they merely flailed in response, erratic and weak. The sensation was deeply unsettling, this lack of control, this absence of power.

Drakaryn's thoughts churned like storm clouds. Was this a dream? A curse? A punishment for meddling too far into the unknown? The hum of Dragontongue still resonated faintly in his mind, as though it had connected him to something far beyond his understanding. What is this? he wondered. What am I seeing?

Time seemed to slip away without his notice, leaving him trapped in the strange perspective of this fledgling creature. An unknown number of hours—or days—passed in a haze, punctuated only by the bizarre and alien sensations of this fragile body.

The creature slept often, drifting into brief and formless slumber before waking with sudden cries that startled even Drakaryn. These cries, sharp and shrill, summoned the two larger beings immediately. They cooed and murmured, wrapping their strange, featherless limbs around the fledgling and pressing its head close to their chests.

At first, Drakaryn recoiled at the sight. Was this some form of battle? A contest of dominance? The fledgling squirmed and fussed as if fighting against them, but soon it latched its small, rounded mouth onto their chests and… fed.

The realization dawned slowly, but with it came an instinctive understanding. This was how their kind survived. Their young did not consume unhatched siblings or weaker clutchmates to gain strength as dragons did. They were nurtured by these "instructors," relying entirely on their care. It was… grotesque, in its own way, but also fascinating.

The fledgling—this tiny, soft creature—seemed endlessly hungry. It fed greedily, often smacking at the adult's chest with its laughably weak limbs, as though trying to encourage the flow of nourishment. Drakaryn watched the process in silence, bemused by the strange ritual. Perhaps it is stronger than it appears, he mused. She must have already consumed the rest of her clutch to demand so much from her instructors.

He searched for signs of the others—siblings, rivals—but there were none. The creature was alone, doted upon endlessly by its two "instructors." This was unusual. In dragon clutches, the weak were culled swiftly, consumed by stronger siblings or discarded by the elders. For this creature to dominate her entire clutch at such a young age was extraordinary. Was she stronger than she appeared? Was this a display of power masked in fragility?

The possibility intrigued him.

Drakaryn observed quietly as the days—if they were days—blurred together. The fledgling spent much of its time exploring its own body, as if unaware of its limits. It kicked its tiny feet, waving them in the air with the same chaotic energy it applied to its hands. Sometimes it made strange sounds, little shrieks and gurgles that seemed to amuse its instructors. They would mimic the noises, their faces softening into expressions of warmth that Drakaryn could not understand.

At times, their voices reminded him of birdsong—soft and lilting, flowing like water under the golden light of day. But when the sun vanished, their tones shifted. The sounds became quieter, gentler, almost like the slow hiss of wind through deep caverns. It was as if they spoke differently depending on the cycle of the sun and moon, as if their language ebbed and flowed with the turning of the world.

Drakaryn strained to listen, to feel the flow of their strange communication. There was something oddly harmonious about it—deliberate, yet natural. The more he listened, the more he felt as though the sounds held layers he could not yet perceive, like echoes of Dragontongue itself.

In the rare moments of silence, Drakaryn's mind wandered back to his own body. He could still feel it faintly—distant and heavy, sprawled across the sunlit rock where he had fallen asleep. The sunlight continued to pour over his scales, feeding him mana, but his consciousness was tethered to this fragile creature. There was no physical pain, no immediate danger, but the disconnection unnerved him.

How is this possible? he wondered. The Dragontongue had power—enough to bend vitality, space, and even time—but this… This was something different. Had he reached too far? Spoken a word that bridged a gap never meant to be crossed? The thought unsettled him, but there was no denying the connection now. He could see, hear, and feel through this creature as though it were his own body.

It was as if some invisible thread bound him to her, delicate yet unyielding.

Eventually, Drakaryn stopped trying to fight the experience. There was no immediate threat here, no danger he could sense. The fledgling was content to sleep, to feed, and to test the limits of her strange, soft body. And though it chafed against his instincts to admit it, there was something… soothing about the simplicity of her existence.

She did not fight for her survival. She did not need to dominate her kin or prove her worth to elders. She simply was, cared for and protected in a way Drakaryn could scarcely comprehend. It was an alien way of life—one of vulnerability and trust—and yet, he could not look away.

And so, he watched.

He watched as the fledgling's eyes opened wider each day, their gaze curious and unfocused as she explored the unfamiliar world around her. He watched as she flailed her limbs, delighting in the chaos she created. He listened to her voice, the strange sounds that held no weight or intent, yet seemed to bring her instructors endless joy.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, its light warming Drakaryn's scales even as his mind remained adrift in the fledgling's world. He had no answers, no explanations for what had happened or why. But for now, there was nothing to be done. His body remained safe, his strength untouched. The connection—however bizarre—did not threaten him.

And so, with the reluctant acceptance of a dragon who could do nothing else, Drakaryn allowed himself to drift further into the vision. He would observe. He would learn.

For a dragon, curiosity was not a weakness. It was a hunger—one that burned as deeply as his need for mana and vitality. And though the creature he watched was small and fragile, her existence teased at something far greater than he could yet see.

What secrets did this fragile being hold? What new laws could she defy?

Drakaryn closed his eyes, the strange images continuing to play behind his eyelids like a fire that refused to go out. Time slipped away unnoticed, the world outside his vision growing distant and dim as he sank deeper into the unknown.