Mount Verathar, the heart of Cinderglow, wasn't just a volcano—it was a god of fire that never slept. Its veins of molten magma coursed through the mountain like blood through a living creature. Dragonkind didn't just live atop its flanks—they drew their strength from it. Magic in this realm wasn't drawn from arcane texts but from the very bones of the world.
The Royal Palace of Cinderglow, built from volcanic blackstone and imbued with wards older than language, rose directly from the crater's inner shelf. The palace was alive with enchantments: flame sentries that bowed to the royal line, echoing corridors that remembered who had walked them last, walls that shifted for those of the blood.
But not all of it was known. Not even to the king.
---
Nine days after the Flame Ceremony, Aurenyx began to change.
His whelp form had grown—a little taller, with wings that now stretched like molten banners in moonlight. His scales had begun to deepen into the richer reds and golds that marked royal bloodline maturity. Still young, yes, but there was an alertness in his gaze most adults lacked.
That night, he slept in the royal nursery under the obsidian crest of House Draconis—a great emblem of a dragon encircled by thirteen runes, one for each ancient house.
But his dreams were not of lullabies or milk warmth.
They were filled with ash, and silence, and fire that did not burn.
He walked through tunnels not yet seen by mortal eyes. He felt the tremble of old breath beneath stone.
And on the wall—one rune pulsing softly.
Not glowing but pulsing. It's Alive.
"Find it," the voice said. It was not a voice meant for the world above. It sounded like the groan of a dying star. And Aurenyx felt it not with his ears, but in the marrow of his flame-hollow bones.
He awoke, eyes wide, breath hot. Smoke curled from his nostrils—not uncontrolled, not frightened but Instinctual. The fire had awoken within.
---
Cinderglow Palace was riddled with defensive enchantments: flame wards, memory echoes, soul barriers, and fire-anchored sentinels. No outsider could pass them without disintegration.
But Aurenyx was not outsider nor mere prince.
As he stepped through the grand nursery, the flamewards shimmered, then bent away. The soul barrier, which usually hummed near intruders, instead fell silent. Not even the echo sentries stirred.
He paused beneath the obsidian crest. And there—it happened.
The wall cracked.
Not physically—magically. A seam of red light outlined a hidden passage no one alive remembered. A stone fold slid aside without sound, revealing a narrow tunnel carved by neither tool nor time.
And Aurenyx walked through.
The path sloped downward, winding like the coils of a resting dragon. The walls were unlike anything in the rest of the palace—not volcanic, but smooth and metallic, interlaced with gold, silver, and a metal Aurenyx couldn't name. They hummed faintly, as though resonating with his heartbeat.
This was not just old. This was pre-Dracorith. Older than the monarchy, older than the war.
---
The tunnel opened into a chamber so vast it could hold a full-grown dragon in flight.
Its dome had once been complete, but now lay half-collapsed under the pressure of volcanic stone. Despite the ruin, the structure remained intact enough to recognize its purpose.
Pillars circled the chamber, each one etched with glyphs that shimmered between visibility and shadow. These were not modern dragon runes. They pulsed with deeper flame magic, laced with celestial energy—perhaps the language of gods.
The center of the room held a wide circle, blackened by scorch marks. A brazier stood at its heart—empty, cold. But its base was veined with soulfire crystal, dormant yet volatile.
This place was a battlefield. But also a trial ground.
Aurenyx touched one of the pillars.
Flash.
A vision erupted behind his eyes—not imagined, not dreamt, but a memory embedded in stone.
Dragons circled overhead, their bodies enormous and wrapped in divine armor. Fire collided with shadow, creating soundless explosions. At the center, a massive dragon with gold-and-red armor—his eyes burning like twin suns—guarded an arch of runes pulsing like a heartbeat.
It was Dravonox—the last Flame King—making a final stand.
The image blinked out.
Aurenyx stumbled back, breathing hard, his flame flickering uncontrollably.
Something had awoken.
---
As he recovered, a movement stirred in the far corner of the room. A figure slipped between pillars, tail gliding over stone. It was dark, mist-wreathed and silent.
Aurenyx let his fire crackle across his tongue, warning, prepared—but the figure did not attack.
Two violet eyes shone from the darkness, not hostile nor afraid but with curious.
"You shouldn't be here," came the whisper.
Voice was feminine, low and laced with amusement and... caution.
Aurenyx took a step forward, "Who are you?"
But already the presence had vanished. Only a faint trail of shadowflame remained—an ancient type of dragon magic thought extinct.
And a scent: midnight ash and wildstorm wind.
He would later learn her name—Karaith—a shadow-dragon girl of forgotten lineage.
But not today.
—
Aurenyx turned back to the circle.
Thirteen runes ringed it. Each one now glowed faintly—responding to his presence.
The central rune—the one from his dream—flared.
It looked like a curved fang wrapped in a flame spiral, simple yet hypnotic. Ancient dragons called it "Rhaz'tar", the Rune of Resurrection.
In his blood, the meaning was clear.
"Flame shall rise again."
Aurenyx pressed his claw to the rune.
Then brazier ignited—without sound with white fire, it was not natural. It burned with the coldness of truth and legacy.
From within the flame, a stone gate emerged—sealed, ancient, immense.
Thirteen seals lined its frame, each etched with a house emblem:
The Flame Crown (House Draconis)
Twin Wings (House Aeralith)
Frostfang (House Glacien)
Ash Spiral (House Vulmrak)
Shadowtail (House Velgorn)
And eight others lost to time.
This was a Trial Gate.
A place where young dragons were once sent to prove divine worth. It had not opened in millennia.
Only one ever passed. It was Dravonox.
Aurenyx's chest tightened—not in fear, but anticipation.
This was meant for him and he knew it.
---
Back above, Nursemaid Serith paced near the nursery. Flame threads danced around her fingers—a passive spell for locating royal essence.
"He's gone," she muttered. "But I can't trace his fire."
"Veiled?" came Velmira's voice.
The girl stepped forward, robes fluttering. Her icy-blue scales shimmered with internal frostlight, her presence calm but sharp.
Serith nodded. "Something's hidden him. That shouldn't be possible."
Velmira narrowed her eyes, staring at the obsidian crest on the wall.
She said nothing.
But in her gut, she felt it that something old had stirred.
And Aurenyx was walking straight into its center.
—
Aurenyx returned before dawn.
The wall closed behind him as if it had never opened.
No trace of the brazier's white fire remained. No rune glowed.
But his breath came out colder now—less the fire of a child, more the control of an heir.
He did not speak of the chamber.
Not to his parents, not to the guards, not even to Velmira.
But his training changed.
He began studying forbidden scrolls on ancient runes. Practicing firecraft beyond his age. Sketching unknown glyphs in his sleep.
And always, in his dreams—the whisper:
"He has touched the Gate."
---
Far away, beneath the ruins of the Elven Spire, where crystal ruins and shattered enchantments still pulsed weakly, a spell collapsed.
A mirror cracked.
A ward burned out.
A name awakened from stasis.
And a voice—female, elegant, cruel—laughed softly.
"The Crimson Flame has found the Gate," she whispered. "So the fire returns to the roots."
And across the Veil, the chains binding something far older than kings began to crack.
To be continued…