The night air was heavy with silence, the kind that settles just before a storm. High above the academy spires, Alex stared at the sky, the dragon scale warm in his palm. He had no idea why it pulsed—only that it did, and that something ancient had stirred. Something waiting.
The moment passed.
He tucked the scale into the cloth wrap beneath his shirt, trying to ignore the flutter of unease in his chest. His mark still glowed faintly, a red spiral beneath his skin. Tomorrow, everything would change. He just didn't know how.
---
When Alex woke the next morning, smoke curled through the room.
He sat up coughing, blinking through the haze. His blanket was blackened around the edges—no flame, but the scorched circle under his hand sizzled faintly.
A pillow hit him in the face.
"Again?" Brinn groaned from across the room. "You seriously need a spell-proof bed. Or a muzzle."
Alex swatted the pillow aside and stared at the damage. "I didn't cast anything."
"Sure, you never cast anything," Brinn muttered, dragging himself upright. "Except spontaneous combustion in Spellcraft, a singed book in Alchemy, and nearly melting your boots during Enchantments."
"That was last month," Alex said weakly.
"Which makes it better?" Brinn got up and examined the blanket. "This is different though. You were asleep, and it was hot enough to char stone."
Alex looked down at his hand—no burns, but the warmth still hummed beneath the skin.
"I had another dream," he said quietly. "Wings, fire… something old. Something watching."
Brinn paused, then shook his head. "Dreams don't start fires."
Alex didn't answer. He couldn't. Not when his heartbeat echoed like drumfire in his chest.
---
By midmorning, the academy courtyard was thick with noise. Students sparred in pairs or practiced incantations across the cracked stones. Spellcraft was in session again.
Alex hated Spellcraft.
He stood near the edge of the group, trying not to meet anyone's eyes. Today's lesson was basic elemental manipulation—again. Simple flares. Controlled bursts of light and heat. Brinn's glowed gold. One of the girls summoned a soft breeze with her fingers.
Alex stepped forward.
Master Derin watched him with arms folded. The instructor had long since given up hope that Alex could produce anything more than a spark—and after the robe fire, even that seemed risky.
Alex focused. He whispered the incantation—words he barely understood—and reached for the flicker of energy inside.
At first, nothing, as usual.
Then—boom.
A pillar of flame shot upward from his palm, searing through the practice dummy and scorching the practice tiles around his feet. The blast echoed through the courtyard. A few students screamed. One fell backward, shielding her face.
Master Derin shouted, dousing the flames with a wall of wind.
Alex staggered, gasping. His hand smoked. The smell of burning wood and scorched stone filled the air.
The courtyard fell silent.
"No rune circle. No proper channel," Master Derin muttered, crouching to inspect the charred floor. "How the hell…?"
"I didn't mean to—" Alex started.
"That wasn't a beginner flare," the instructor snapped. "That was advanced channeling. And you can't even cast a glow orb."
Alex looked at Brinn. His friend said nothing, just stared, stunned.
Derin shook his head. "This is going to the High Scholar. Step aside, Alex."
Whispers followed him as he left the courtyard.
---
He wasn't surprised when the summons came that evening.
The note was brief, the handwriting sharp. Tower of Scrolls. Immediately.
Alex made his way through the academy's west wing, up a staircase he hadn't climbed before. Few students ever came this way. Most feared the place—rumors of curses, lost knowledge, or ghosts of the Flame Wars lingered like dust.
He reached the top and hesitated before the heavy door. Then he pushed it open.
The room beyond was circular and dimly lit, its walls lined with scrolls and leather-bound tomes. Ancient banners hung from high beams—dragons embroidered in faded silver and red.
At the far end, near a smokeless blue fire, stood Fenrik Vale.
The High Scholar looked older than most statues. His robes were ink-stained and his gray beard braided with tiny copper rings. He glanced up.
"Ah," Fenrik said. "The boy who turned the training court into a furnace."
"I didn't mean to," Alex said quickly. "I was just trying the spell."
Fenrik nodded. "So I heard. No circle. No focus gem. No formal invocation. And yet—fire."
Alex shifted uncomfortably.
"You've done it before," Fenrik added. "First week of class. Robe ignited. Alchemy lab—book combusted. Strange warmth, even in winter. Am I wrong?"
Alex blinked. "No. But I thought I was just… bad at magic."
"Oh, you're awful at magic," Fenrik agreed cheerfully. "But this… isn't magic. Not the kind we teach."
He walked to a shelf and pulled down a worn book, bound in dark leather. He set it in front of Alex and opened to a page etched with an ancient spiral—a red mark that matched the one under Alex's skin.
"Do you know what this is?"
Alex's throat went dry. "No."
Fenrik tapped the symbol. "The Mark of the Flamebound. It hasn't appeared in over a thousand years."
Alex stared. "What does it mean?"
"That your blood carries something older than spells," Fenrik said quietly. "Older than kingdoms."
He turned another page. Images of dragons spiraled across the parchment—majestic, terrifying, powerful. Beneath them were humans, cloaked in crimson, eyes glowing.
"Dragon Lords," Fenrik said. "Humans chosen by dragons to share their power. It wasn't just myth. I've spent my life proving it."
Alex swallowed. "And you think I'm one of them?"
"I think something ancient has awakened inside you," Fenrik said. "And if it is what I suspect—it means the world is about to change."
Alex's hand drifted to the scale beneath his tunic.
Fenrik's eyes sharpened. "You've already found something, haven't you?"
Alex hesitated, then unwrapped the cloth and placed the scale on the table. Its glow flickered in the firelight.
"I found it in the forest," he said. "It... calls to me."
Fenrik leaned forward. "You're not wrong to be afraid. But fear alone won't help you. Knowledge will. Learn what you are, Alex. Before someone else does."
He closed the book and handed it to him.
"Keep this hidden. Don't trust easily. And most of all—don't lie to yourself."
---
Alex wasn't sure how long he wandered after leaving the tower. His thoughts churned like stormclouds. Flames. Marks. Power he didn't ask for. The weight of something forgotten.
He ended up on the old wall near the northern dorms—an unused path few students bothered with.
Brinn was already there.
"I figured you'd be brooding somewhere high and dramatic," Brinn said, tossing a pebble over the edge.
Alex sat beside him. "I talked to the High Scholar."
Brinn raised an eyebrow. "He tell you you're cursed?"
"Worse," Alex said. "He told me I might be something dangerous."
Brinn blinked. "That… doesn't sound like you."
Alex unwrapped the scale.
Brinn stared. "What is that?"
"A dragon scale."
There was a long pause.
"You're joking."
Alex shook his head. "And this." He pushed back his sleeve to show the mark—red spiral glowing just beneath the skin. "It showed up after I found the scale."
Brinn reached out, hesitant, then drew his hand back. "So... the fire, the dreams, the spell explosion—this all connects?"
"I think I'm connected to dragons somehow," Alex said. "Or to something that remembers them."
Brinn let out a slow breath. "Okay. That's insane. But also... not completely surprising."
Alex turned to him. "You believe me?"
Brinn gave a weak smile. "You're a walking fire hazard. Of course I believe you."
They sat together in silence.
Then Alex asked, "What if I lose control?"
"Then I'll be there to smack some sense into you," Brinn said. "Like always."
Alex laughed—a short, shaky sound.
He looked at the scale, then at the distant silhouette of the mountains.
He wasn't dreaming anymore.
Something ancient was stirring. Not just in the world.
But inside him.