The next ten years passed in a flash.
Nothing really changed.
My mother protected me. I rarely saw my father. I spent most of my time alone. I learned nothing, did nothing—each year felt like a single day, each month a fleeting moment.
That was when I realized—a dragon, no, a half-dragon's lifespan was nothing to scoff at.
I barely remembered my past life. Then again, even in that world, humans rarely recalled their early years.
Those who have too much time never notice it slipping away. Those who have too little feel every moment burning.
The ants, the birds, the wolves, the lions—those were the lifespans I envied.
I often wondered how long I would live. How far my life would stretch. What this world was truly like.
I dreamt of cities filled with humans—some with pointed ears, some barely half the size of others. In my dreams, I wandered the continents, seeing places beyond my reach.
My mother told me stories of the world beyond. Of how she had once flown across the seas. She spoke of the 32 races that shared this world—beings of different shapes and powers.
Oni—living elements, their bodies shaped by the power within. Blue Oni controlled water, red Oni fire, and so on.
Beastfolk—creatures of fur and fang, feared by humans. Wild, untamed, their senses sharper than any blade.
Wyverns—the chaotic cousins of dragons, driven by destruction and violence.
I listened. I wondered. But more than anything, I questioned—where did I belong?
My mother spoke of angels, beings with so much Var that it rivaled that of dragons. I wasn't sure what she meant. Energy? Magic? Some kind of currency? It was all Greek to me.
She told me how humans with pointed ears lived longer than those without. She called them elves.
I didn't like that name.
And then, there were the humans.
"The strangest of all," she said. "The shortest-lived, yet often the most powerful."
That was a mystery to me.
I wanted to see humans. I wanted to understand their strength. I wanted to know why they were more like dragons than even I was.
I lived in a cave—a small one, barely big enough for me and my mother.
Accustomed to?
Still, it was warm.
WHOOSH.
A gust of wind slammed against the ground as my mother descended. Her steps cracked the earth beneath her. She was powerful, and I had always hoped to live up to her.
Then, something stirred in my soul. A feeling of knowing. My dragon half had awakened, understanding before I did.
At ten, dragons leave their parents to grow strong on their own.
I was no different.
Hacalith, my mother, gazed down at me, solemn. And yet, I wasn't upset. I barely knew her. If anything, I wanted to leave—to explore, to learn magic.
Maybe that was my dragon half. Or maybe, it was just me.
Hacalith exhaled. "It's time, Ava."
I swallowed, my fingers curling into fists. "Time for what?"
"To explore," she said. "To be given a Law that will shape your soul."
I frowned. "I thought humans don't get their Laws this early?"
"They don't." Her golden eyes softened. "You are different. You are a natural pearl. Your Law will awaken in time. Humans take longer, but you are not just human."
I didn't understand. But something inside me accepted it.
She spread her wings.
"Live well, Ava."
And then, she was gone.
For a long moment, I stood there.
The cave suddenly felt colder.
I looked around. Two paths lay before me—one leading deeper into the mountain, the other to the world outside.
I resented this place.
So, I left.
Gladius Rex.
The second smallest continent.
The land of dragons.
A massive, stony island, half covered with rivers, lakes, and forests. The rest was nothing but barren rock, shaped by battles fought long before me.
The forested half of the continent was different. A place where fighting was forbidden. Any dragon who broke that rule was sentenced to death.
I stood at the cave entrance, staring at the sky.
I tried to fly.
I had no wings.
But I still tried.
When that failed, I walked.
And walked.
Until my legs ached.
At the edge of the stone fields, a small river cut through the land. Dragons passed by, resting along the water's edge.
I knelt by the river, cupped the water in my hands, and drank.
Then, I saw my reflection.
A small, frail child stared back.
Black hair streaked with silver, longer now.
I looked human.
Small red ants marched along the riverbank in perfect lines. I watched them, feeling something strange—like I was looking at something I couldn't understand but somehow envied.
I was a fusion of two beings, yet I had been given the worst aspects of both.
From my human half—fragility. A body weaker than any dragon's, a lifespan that might end before I ever truly lived.
From my dragon half—solitude. An existence meant to be apart, untouchable, distant.
Would my dragon soul take over, stretching my years into the thousands? Or would my human side pull me down, cutting my time short before I ever saw the world?
Would I live long enough to understand what I even was?
A shadow passed over the water.
I turned.
A boy stood nearby.
He looked human—like me—but different.
His hair was deep brown, his golden eyes sharp and watching. Two curved horns jutted from his head, the same dark shade as the leathery wings folded neatly behind him.
He walked toward me and sat down at my side.
"Name's Kundra," he said, his voice steady. "And you are?"
I blinked, still taken aback by his presence. "Availeth."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded, his golden eyes glinting with quiet curiosity.
"Availeth," he said, almost studying the name as he repeated it.
"How old are you?" he asked, his voice casual but firm, like he wasn't sure he'd believe my answer.
I hesitated. "Ten."
Something flickered in his golden eyes.
"I'm a hundred."
I blinked.
"Dragons live a long time," he said. "Ten thousand years, sometimes more. A hundred years is still young to us."
I stayed silent.
Kundra stretched out his legs. "Want to stick together?"
I frowned. "Stick together?"
"Until the end."
"Until the end" he smiled back.
Something about those words made me feel lighter.
He leaned back on his hands. "My sisters would want to meet you. But first—who's your mother?"
"Hacalith."
Kundra stiffened. His golden eyes narrowed. "That's a lie."
I frowned. "Why?"
"Because Hacalith—the Queen of Growth—doesn't have children."
I opened my mouth to argue but stopped.
She never actually told me her name. She had never said was my mother.
I had just believed it. Because I wanted to.
I looked down. "…Maybe you're right."
Kundra exhaled through his nose, closing one eye as he studied me.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Your pearl hasn't been awakened."
I raised an eyebrow. "What's a pearl?"
He smirked.
"Think of this world like the sea."
"Not every being, every creature, has a pearl—like clams in the ocean."
"Each pearl is different. Some might look the same, but no two are ever truly alike."