The midday sun hung high over the Pyraxis Reach, its light casting sharp shadows across the volcanic arena. Dragons of all ages gathered in the amphitheater, a massive pit carved from black obsidian that radiated heat like a living furnace. The murmurs of the crowd rose like the hum of a storm, all eyes focused on the two younglings standing at the center.
Tazerith stood tall, his crimson scales gleaming like molten metal. His wings were partially flared, his posture brimming with confidence. He had claimed many victories here, each fight a reminder of his dominance. His gaze bore into Drakaryn, who stood across from him, his opalescent claws lightly tapping the ground in an unconscious rhythm.
Tazerith's voice carried across the arena, a challenge wrapped in arrogance. "Drakaryn. You've run from me long enough. Today, we settle this. No elders to pull you away, no rules to hold us back."
Drakaryn's gaze never wavered. "You want a fight, Tazerith? Fine. But don't mistake my patience for fear."
The crowd roared as Vraxia stepped forward to officiate. Her tail struck the ground, silencing the arena. "This is a duel of honor," she declared, her molten eyes sweeping over the gathered dragons. "No restrictions, no interference. Fight until one yields—or cannot."
She turned to the combatants, her gaze sharp. "Begin."
Tazerith wasted no time. With a roar, he charged, his massive frame a blur of red and gold as he closed the distance. Drakaryn leapt to the side, his wings snapping open to carry him clear of the initial strike. Tazerith's claws raked through the stone where Drakaryn had stood, sending shards flying.
Drakaryn landed lightly, already calculating. Tazerith fought like a boulder rolling downhill—overwhelming force with little finesse. It was a style that crushed most opponents but left gaps for those quick enough to exploit them. Drakaryn knew he couldn't match Tazerith's raw power, so he wouldn't try. Instead, he circled, staying just out of reach as Tazerith lunged again and again.
Each attack was closer than the last, Tazerith's speed forcing Drakaryn to react faster and faster. He darted around his rival, claws skimming the arena floor as he tested Tazerith's defenses with quick feints. His strikes were light but deliberate, each one aimed at the vulnerable joints of Tazerith's wings and legs.
Tazerith snarled, his frustration mounting. "Stop running, coward!"
Drakaryn smirked, narrowly dodging another swipe. "If you're so strong, catch me."
The taunt worked. Tazerith lunged with everything he had, his wings snapping forward to close the gap. Drakaryn rolled beneath the attack, his claws slicing along Tazerith's exposed flank. The crimson dragon roared in pain, twisting to retaliate, but Drakaryn was already gone, back on his feet and circling again.
The crowd erupted in cheers and jeers, their excitement electrifying the air. Above them, the elders watched in silence, their expressions unreadable.
Tazerith's patience snapped. With a guttural roar, he unleashed a blast of raw mana, the energy tearing through the arena floor in a crackling wave. Drakaryn had no time to dodge; the force caught him squarely, sending him skidding across the stone. He rolled to a stop, his scales scorched and smoking.
Tazerith stalked forward, his claws clicking against the cracked obsidian. "Yield," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You're done."
Drakaryn's breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring. Every instinct told him to stay down, to concede. But something deeper stirred within him—a primal defiance, a refusal to accept defeat. He pushed himself to his feet, blood trickling from a gash above his eye turning his vision red.
"Not yet," he said, his voice steady despite the pain.
Tazerith roared again, charging with lethal intent. Drakaryn stood his ground, his mind racing. He had one option left, one chance to turn the fight in his favor or he would forever remain supressed by Tazerith. He reached deep within himself, tapping into the part of him that had lain dormant since the Bleeding Wood. The air around him seemed to still, a heavy silence falling over the arena.
Then he spoke.
The sound that emerged from Drakaryn's throat was not a roar, nor a word, but something more—a symphony of layered tones and harmonics. It resonated through the arena, a cascade of whispers, clicks, and overtones that seemed to echo from another world. The Ancient Dragon Tongue.
The effect was immediate. The ground beneath Tazerith trembled, cracks spreading outward as the mana-infused syllables tore through the air. Tazerith froze mid-charge, his body seizing as the dissonant harmonies struck him like a physical blow. His wings collapsed, his legs buckling as he crashed to the ground.
The arena was silent, the crowd stunned into stillness. Drakaryn stood over Tazerith, his chest heaving, his scales glowing faintly with an opalescent sheen. The power that coursed through him was overwhelming, his entire body trembling under its weight, visibly changing his appearance.
Tazerith groaned, his claws scraping weakly against the ground. He lifted his head, his eyes burning with fury. "This… isn't over," he spat.
Drakaryn didn't respond. He didn't need to. The fight was finished and with a half step, Tazerith subconsciously bowed his head, a symbol of submission that was unmistakable despite whatever words were slung about.
The elders descended into the arena, their presence heavy with authority. Rakthar was the first to reach Drakaryn, his molten eyes scanning him carefully. "You used the Tongue," he said, his voice low. It wasn't a question.
Drakaryn nodded, his voice hoarse. "It… it felt instinctive."
Rakthar studied him for a moment before stepping back, his gaze unreadable. The other elders murmured among themselves, their reactions a mix of awe and unease.
As the crowd began to disperse, Vraxia approached, her gaze hard. "Do you understand what you've done?" she asked. "The Tongue is not a tool to wield lightly. Its power comes at a cost."
Drakaryn nodded again, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His reflection in the polished stone floor caught his attention. His emerald green scales had changed, their once vibrant hue replaced by a shimmering opalescent white. His eyes, too, had transformed, glowing with a soft white luminescence that seemed to radiate from within instead of their previous gold.
He flexed his claws, the raw power still humming through his veins. He had won, but the victory felt hollow. The changes to his body were undeniable, a visible mark of the power he had unleashed. The crowd had cheered for him, but he could feel the weight of their stares. Was the change to his body good? or a potential backlash; only time would unravel the secrets.
At nearly 100 seasonal cycles old, Drakaryn wasn't just a youngling anymore. He was something else entirely.