The light of the twin moons bathed the Valtheris Expanse in a spectral glow, casting jagged shadows across the broken land. The air hummed faintly with the omnipresent resonance of mana, an energy that pulsed in every rock, tree, and creature. Drakaryn stood at the edge of the group, his sharp gaze fixed on the dark horizon. His heart beat in time with the rhythm of the land, the call of the wild tugging at his blood.
"You have grown fat on easy kills," Vraxia's voice rang out, cutting through the quiet. Her molten gaze swept over the young dragons gathered before her, now nearly twice the size they had been as hatchlings. "No more free meals. Tonight, you prove your worth."
Her words hung in the air like a stormcloud. Around Drakaryn, the fledglings shifted uneasily. This wasn't the first time Vraxia had driven them into danger, but the stakes always seemed to climb. They were no longer the squabbling hatchlings of a single clutch but a hardened few, culled by the relentless brutality of their upbringing. The survivors knew what failure meant.
"Beyond the ridge," Vraxia continued, "lies the Bleeding Wood. There, the mana flows strong, and the beasts are stronger. You will hunt. Return with your kill, or do not return at all."
Drakaryn tensed as the fledglings began to move. No one dared to lag behind, not with Vraxia watching. The Bleeding Wood was a dangerous place, its name derived from the strange red sap that oozed from its trees—an indicator of high mana concentration. Where mana flowed freely, the creatures that thrived were far from ordinary.
He leaped into the air, his wings catching a strong current as he soared alongside his peers. The wind whipped against his scales, carrying with it the scents of the hunt: raw earth, damp wood, and something metallic, almost like blood.
The group scattered as they neared the forest, each dragon diving into the shadows in search of prey. Drakaryn hesitated for only a moment, his instincts urging him away from the others. He veered left, cutting a path through a thicket of brambles that glowed faintly with mana. The further he ventured, the heavier the air felt, thick with power and the unmistakable scent of predators.
Drakaryn crept through the underbrush, his senses sharp. Every rustle of leaves, every shift in the wind set his nerves on edge. He caught sight of movement—a flicker of light among the trees. A pack of crystalline wolves emerged from the shadows, their translucent bodies shimmering like glass. Their eyes glowed with an unnatural blue light, and mana pulsed faintly in the veins that crisscrossed their bodies.
His muscles coiled as he observed them. The wolves moved with eerie coordination, their forms blending seamlessly with the shimmering forest. Drakaryn knew this was no ordinary prey. These creatures were infused with mana, their strength and agility amplified beyond natural limits.
I need to separate one from the pack.
He crouched low, his claws digging into the soft earth as he crept closer. A younger wolf, slightly smaller than the others, strayed from the group. Drakaryn struck, a blur of emerald and gold bursting from the shadows. His claws raked across the wolf's side, drawing a sharp yelp and a spray of glowing ichor.
The pack reacted instantly. They turned in unison, their glowing eyes locking onto Drakaryn as one. He realized too late that his attack had been too bold. The wolves charged, their howls echoing through the Bleeding Wood. Drakaryn's wings snapped open, propelling him backward just as the lead wolf lunged, its fangs narrowly missing his throat.
He twisted in the air, landing on a low outcropping of rock. The pack encircled him, their movements predatory and deliberate. His mind raced. He couldn't outrun them in the dense forest, and the strength of their pack would overwhelm him in seconds if he faltered.
The lead wolf pounced, and Drakaryn reacted on instinct. He let out a guttural roar, ancient and primal, his jaws moving in a way that felt unfamiliar yet deeply natural. The sound carried with it a force that shook the air around him—a fragment of the Ancient Dragon Tongue.
The lead wolf froze mid-air, its crystalline body splintering as if struck by an invisible hammer. The shattering sound echoed through the woods as shards of its glowing crystal fur and ichor rained down, the wolf collapsing in a heap of glimmering fragments.
The surge of magic left Drakaryn reeling. His legs buckled, and he sank to the ground, his chest heaving. His vision blurred as he tried to focus on the remaining wolves. They hesitated, growling low, their glowing eyes darting between him and their fallen leader.
For a moment, it seemed they might retreat. Then, emboldened by his weakened state, the largest of the pack lunged at him, teeth bared. Drakaryn snarled, his claws lashing out in a desperate arc. He caught the wolf's side, but its momentum carried it forward, knocking him onto his back.
Pain flared as another wolf's teeth sank into his shoulder finding a gap between his scales. Drakaryn roared again, thrashing wildly until his claws found the wolf's throat. He wrenched the creature off him, its lifeblood spilling onto the ground in a glowing torrent.
The remaining wolves hesitated, then fled into the shadows. Drakaryn lay still, his body trembling with exhaustion. The wounds on his shoulder and flank burned, his blood mingling with the glowing ichor of the three dead wolves.
He didn't know how long he lay there, his breaths shallow and uneven. The forest was silent now, save for the faint hum of mana. Drakaryn forced himself to his feet, his limbs screaming in protest. He turned to the shattered remains of the lead wolf, its glowing essence pooling around the jagged shards of its body.
Hunger gnawed at him, primal and insistent. He lowered his head to the corpse, tearing into the crystalline flesh. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted—sharp, metallic, and searing with mana. As he devoured the pack leader, a strange warmth spread through his body, dulling the pain of his wounds.
Drakaryn continued, consuming each of the fallen wolves. Their bones, dense and glowing, crunched beneath his teeth. Their flesh, though unnatural, restored his strength. Their blood, a luminous blue, seemed to flow into his veins, replenishing the mana he had expended.
With each bite, he felt his body harden. His scales grew heavier, his claws sharper, his senses keener. By the time he had finished, sure to leave a prize cut to take back, his wounds had closed, leaving faint scars etched into his emerald hide.
From a distant ridge, Vraxia watched silently. She had witnessed Drakaryn's desperate battle, his use of the Ancient Dragon Tongue, and his brutal recovery. Her molten eyes narrowed as she considered the implications.
The Ancient Dragon Tongue was not a gift to be wielded lightly. It was a relic of their kind's most primal power, a force that could both elevate and destroy. For one so young to tap into it, even instinctively, was both remarkable and dangerous.
She turned away, her tail lashing the ground. "That one," she muttered to herself, "will either be the strength of dragonkind or its undoing."
---
Drakaryn returned to the cavern under the cover of darkness, his body heavy with exhaustion but alive with newfound strength. He dropped the remnants of his kill at the entrance, earning a faint nod from Vraxia as he passed.
He collapsed onto the cool stone of his resting place, his mind replaying the events of the hunt. The wolves, the Ancient Dragon Tongue, the surge of power—it all felt distant, like a dream. But as he drifted into sleep, one thought lingered.
The forest had tested him, and he had survived. But the weight of what he had unleashed—what it meant—he had no idea what would come of it.