Draconis Genesis: The Dawn of Magic

The volcanic heat pulsed against Drakaryn's scales as he lay submerged in molten earth, his thoughts threading deeper into the latticework of the chaotic fire mana around him. He could feel it—wild, untamed, writhing like a living beast—but within that chaos was purpose. It was as though fire itself whispered to him, begging him to give it form, to speak its nature into existence with Dragontongue. He was close—so close to another breakthrough—and the hum of power reverberated in his chest like an echo of something ancient.

That was when the voice broke through his focus.

"You're in my spot!"

Drakaryn's eyes snapped open, one of them gleaming faintly as it cut through the shimmering red haze of molten rock. Annoyance bristled through him immediately, flaring like an ember against his patience. The words were laced with arrogance—brash and loud—entirely unworthy of his time.

Slowly, deliberately, he rose from the magma. The viscous liquid rolled off his opalescent scales in rivulets of fire, pooling back into the churning sea below. His form emerged bit by bit—first the head, his massive horns silhouetted against the rising ash; then his shoulders, shimmering faintly as they reflected the firelight. He moved with the slow, lazy grace of a predator who knew exactly where he stood on the food chain.

Above him, perched on a jutting outcrop at the volcano's edge, was the offending dragon. The creature was large—easily twice Drakaryn's size—with scales the color of molten bronze that gleamed red in the light of the lava. His chest swelled with exaggerated breaths, wings flexed for effect, his entire posture screaming dominance. But there was something dull in the way he held himself, something unearned about his arrogance. A brute, no doubt—one who ruled with raw size and brute strength because no one had yet bothered to challenge him.

Drakaryn regarded him for a long, measured moment, his expression unreadable. A few dragons lounging on the volcanic rim stirred at the commotion. Their heads turned, their scales catching the glow of the lava as their eyes narrowed in anticipation. The females, in particular, seemed to take notice, their interest sharpening like blades as they waited for the inevitable.

The bronze dragon, seeing that he had the audience he desired, puffed out his chest and snarled, "Did you hear me, little runt? I said, you're in my spot. Move, before I decide to make you!"

Drakaryn exhaled slowly, a faint wisp of heat escaping through his nostrils. His irritation burned hotter than the magma that dripped from his scales, but he tempered it. For a heartbeat longer, he said nothing. Then, still sprawled lazily where he stood, he cracked open one eye, the glow within it sharp and cold.

"Fuck off."

The words were simple, biting, and carried with them the absolute confidence of someone who was far beyond caring about such petty nonsense.

The effect was immediate. Murmurs rippled across the onlookers, and the bronze dragon froze for half a moment, clearly taken aback that Drakaryn—smaller, younger, and clearly "new" to the volcano—had dared dismiss him so casually. The shock lasted only a moment before his pride flared like a torch doused in oil.

"You dare?" The brute snarled, his voice shaking the rock beneath his talons. His wings flared wider now, his claws scraping deep gouges into the ledge as he stalked forward. "Do you know who I am? I rule this place! I'll teach you to—"

Drakaryn stopped listening.

He watched the idiot approach, the heavy, clumsy movements betraying the dragon's lack of finesse. The brute's scales, though red-tinted and thick with fire mana, were marred with cracks and imperfections—a sign that he absorbed without truly understanding, a hollow vessel too stupid to see beyond his own posturing.

A quiet fury stirred within Drakaryn.

He had no time for this.

The bronze dragon reached the edge of the magma pool and rose onto his hind legs, one massive clawed arm lifting high into the air to swipe at Drakaryn's face. It was a move designed to intimidate—to broadcast strength and dominance to the watching dragons. But in its execution, it was painfully slow.

Drakaryn moved.

In less than a heartbeat, his body coiled and struck with the speed of a lightning bolt. His claws gathered into a sharp point, his muscles surging with mana-infused power as he thrust his arm upward. The brute's swipe never landed.

Drakaryn's claws punched cleanly through the dragon's chest, the impact cracking through the air like the sound of stone shattering. The bronze dragon's eyes widened in shock, his breath escaping in a wet, choking gasp. Before he could react further, Drakaryn spread his fingers, his talons raking through soft flesh and bone to close around the brute's heart.

The moment froze, silent and still, as if the volcano itself were holding its breath.

Then Drakaryn ripped his arm back, tearing the heart free in one brutal motion. A spray of blood—thick, black, and steaming—splattered across the rocks, sizzling as it hit the molten surface below. The bronze dragon's body stiffened, his claws still raised mid-swipe, his mouth open in a silent roar that would never finish.

Drakaryn wasted no time. Before the lifeless body could slump forward into the lava, he uttered a single word of Dragontongue—an ancient, layered phrase that hummed with raw authority.

The corpse dissolved instantly.

To the watching dragons, it appeared as though Drakaryn merely stood, and in the next breath, the bronze dragon's body evaporated into a pinkish mist. The mist swirled and condensed into translucent spheres—vitality orbs—that hovered for the briefest moment before being swept into nothingness. A faint glimmer of scales and bones followed, vanishing with an invisible pull as Drakaryn's storage space claimed its prize.

The volcano fell silent.

All around him, the watching dragons stared, their faces etched with varying shades of disbelief, awe, and fear. Females who had been watching with idle curiosity now looked on with a hunger that burned in their eyes, their focus locked on Drakaryn like moths drawn to flame. Others shrank back, recognizing the ease with which he had dispatched the would-be "ruler" of this place.

Drakaryn stood at the center of it all, his opalescent scales unmarred and glowing faintly as they reflected the firelight. Blood still dripped lazily from his talons, sizzling as it struck the magma below. He flicked his hand once, casting off the remnants, and turned his gaze upward to the outcrops where the dragons watched.

"Anyone else?"

His voice was quiet, but it carried—a blade sharpened by a single word.

Not one dragon stepped forward.

Drakaryn let his gaze linger for a moment longer, ensuring that the challenge was understood, then exhaled slowly and settled back into the magma. The molten rock rolled over his form as he sank deeper, the heat enveloping him once more. His focus returned to the fire mana that pulsed at the heart of the volcano, to the threads of power he had come here to claim.

The disturbance—this brief, pointless annoyance—was already forgotten.

But for the dragons watching from above, Drakaryn's arrival had left a mark. It was not just the ease with which he had defeated the brute, nor the way the body had vanished into mist. It was the simple, undeniable fact of his presence: a dragon with scales that defied all expectation, who absorbed the fire's mana not with desperation but with purpose.

For many of them, the sight would linger—a warning, a curiosity, and perhaps, to a few, an opportunity.

And for the females, there was no mistaking what they saw. Dragons sought strength in mates—strength to pass down, strength to share. And Drakaryn, with his shimmering, opalescent scales and his terrifying ease of power, was now the most dangerous dragon in their midst.

As the volcano's fires churned and the ripples of the brief altercation faded, Drakaryn closed his eyes and focused on the mana once more. There was work to be done—knowledge to uncover—and he had no patience for interruptions.

The fire welcomed him now, its chaotic energy bending toward him in offering.

And in its flames, he would find the answers he sought.