Draconis Genesis: The Dawn of Magic

Drakaryn ignored the shifting glances and murmurs that rippled through the dragons watching from above. Their silent stares meant nothing to him. They were distractions—gnats buzzing around a predator that had no reason to swat them down. Whatever thoughts they carried, whatever calculations or envies they whispered to themselves, Drakaryn left them to it. His attention was already fixed on the depths below.

Drawing a slow, deliberate breath, Drakaryn filled his lungs with the searing air, his massive chest expanding as if to contain the volcano's very essence. Then, without another glance upward, he dove.

The magma welcomed him, swallowing his form in an instant. It was not a plunge but a deliberate descent—his wings folding tightly against his back, his body streamlined as he sank beneath the glowing surface. The fiery liquid hissed and roared around him, pressing against his scales with a heat that would have reduced any lesser creature to ash. But Drakaryn was no lesser creature. He moved through it as if born for this environment, the molten material parting sluggishly in his wake.

The descent was slow, measured, and deliberate. Traveling through lava was not the same as flying through open skies or even swimming in water. It was thick, viscous, and suffocating, the pressure building steadily the farther he sank. Though his scales shielded him from the searing temperature, the weight of the molten earth threatened to crush all but the strongest of bones.

Yet Drakaryn pressed on, unperturbed.

Vision was pointless here, of course. The magma was an opaque red-black void, its density impenetrable even to dragons' eyes. Their inner eyelids, designed to withstand debris and extreme environments, protected his vision, but there was nothing to see. Dragons relied on senses far beyond sight—on instinct, on mana sensitivity, on the faint vibrations that traveled through molten stone like whispered signals.

It would have been enough to drive lesser minds mad. The disorienting sameness of everything, the cloying thickness of molten earth pressing from every direction—it was like being buried alive in a boundless sea of fire. But to Drakaryn, it was merely another test of his patience and will.

For several long minutes—or perhaps hours, time became meaningless here—Drakaryn pushed downward. Occasionally, he paused to feel the flow of mana around him, adjusting his direction to follow the faintest currents of energy. He knew he was searching for something subtle, something hidden. To any other dragon, it would have been like searching for a single pebble tossed into an ocean where no light reached.

Yet Drakaryn could feel it—something calling to him from the depths, something denser and richer than the chaotic swirls of mana around him. He let his instincts guide him, his body carving a path deeper into the volcano's veins.

When the strain on his lungs grew sharp, when the weight of the lava began pressing against his body like a vice, he paused. Drawing on his storage space, he allowed a sliver of vitality to flow into his bloodstream. The orbs' energy surged through him, instantly alleviating the fatigue and restoring his strength. His lungs felt full again, his body rejuvenated, and the oppressive discomfort faded to nothing.

Replenished, Drakaryn pressed on.

After what felt like days—or perhaps mere hours—he found it.

A subtle shift in the pressure of the magma, a hum that resonated not through sound but through mana itself. It was like entering the eye of a storm—a pocket of stillness within the chaos of molten earth. Drakaryn stilled his movements, letting his body drift as he felt the currents around him. Here, the mana was thick, so dense it was almost tangible, a weight that settled into his bones and vibrated through his scales.

This was the place.

He hovered there for a long moment, savoring the sensation. In every direction, the mana's concentration was noticeably lower, weaker, as though it bled away the farther one traveled. This was the volcano's beating heart, its core of elemental fire and earth. Dragons might bathe in the surface magma or perch atop the volcano's rim, but few—if any—would dare venture this deep. It was easy to become lost here, swallowed by the endless press of molten rock.

But for Drakaryn, it was exactly what he needed.

Reaching into his storage space, he summoned one of his recent trophies—a bronze scale from the dragon he had dispatched earlier. It appeared in his claw with a faint shimmer, its edges still rough and imperfect. Though once part of a rival's body, the scale was now nothing more than raw material—potential waiting to be shaped.

Drakaryn turned it over in his claws, studying its surface with a critical eye. It was tainted by the brutishness of its former owner—cracks, imperfections, a dull sheen that spoke of wasted potential. That would not do.

He extended a talon and bit the tip of his finger, a bead of dark crimson blood welling up before smearing it across the scale. Blood carried power among dragons, tied intrinsically to their vitality and essence. To infuse something with one's blood was to claim it, to make it an extension of oneself.

The scale trembled faintly as Drakaryn's mana poured into it. He began to speak—not loudly, but softly, the words of Dragontongue flowing from him like molten gold. The syllables were layered and complex, each one reverberating with meaning. Fire, earth, refinement, unity—he wove these concepts into the scale with precision, his voice vibrating through the surrounding magma.

As the words poured forth, the scale began to change. The roughness smoothed, the cracks sealed themselves, and the dull bronze hue faded. In its place came a faint shimmer—opalescent and delicate, like his own scales. It reflected light in shifting patterns, catching the faint glow of the surrounding magma and refracting it into a kaleidoscope of colors.

Drakaryn continued the process for days. He did not grow tired; whenever his body cried for nourishment or air, he drew vitality from the orbs in his storage space, feeding himself with precision and control. Time lost all meaning as he worked, his mind entirely focused on the scale in his claws.

Eventually, it was done.

Drakaryn turned the scale over one final time, feeling the harmony that now pulsed within it. It was no longer just a scale; it was a vessel, a conduit for fire and earth mana that pulsed in resonance with his understanding of both elements.

He spoke one last word in Dragontongue, severing his connection to the scale. It drifted free from his claws, hovering weightlessly for a moment before settling into the molten currents. Drakaryn let it go, releasing his focus.

Immediately, he felt the faint thread tethering him to the scale—a connection that wove itself into his web of comprehension. Though it remained here, at the heart of the volcano, it would feed his understanding passively, like an anchor drawing in knowledge of the fire and earth elements.

Satisfied, Drakaryn stilled himself and began absorbing the surrounding mana. He pulled it into himself with deliberate care, letting it flood his body and strengthen his core. The dense, chaotic fire mana felt sharp, jagged, almost alive as it coursed through him. But with each breath, he refined it, bending it to his will.

Whenever the strain became too much, he pulled another thread of vitality into his body, maintaining a perfect balance between absorption and restoration.

Here, in the depths of the volcano, surrounded by fire and silence, Drakaryn felt himself growing stronger—his body, his mind, his very essence tempered by the raw power of the elements. The world outside—Aria's fragile existence, the volcanic spectators above, the distant hum of other dragons vying for dominance—faded entirely.

Here, there was only fire.