The first sound Aurenyx ever made was not a cry—but a hum.
It was deep and low, like the quiet tremor of earth beneath a slumbering mountain. The kind of sound that ancient stones might remember from a time before time, when dragons first breathed fire into a silent world. It echoed through the birthing chamber, sending faint ripples across the floor, causing the carved obsidian walls to shimmer with a reddish glow.
And in that moment, the world around him seemed to pause.
The royal nursery—deep within Mount Verathar, one of the oldest and most sacred volcanoes in the Dragon Realm—was a place carved from legend. The walls were made of heat-hardened blackstone streaked with veins of glowing amber. Pillars shaped like clawed talons rose to support a domed ceiling of crystal and dragonbone, which let in the pale light of dawn.
The air was thick with warmth and fire-scent—spiced embers, rich minerals, and the faint tang of ancient magic. At the chamber's center rested the newly hatched child, lying among soft layers of molten-fibered silk. A ring of fire shimmered faintly around his tiny body, as if the flame refused to leave him, even in sleep.
Aurenyx had arrived into this world less than an hour ago—and already, things were not as they should be.
Across the walls, ancient wards etched in golden rune lines—Flameward Seals—began to flicker. These sigils, forged with the soulfire of elder dragons and designed to contain magical outbursts from newborns, sputtered in panic. Sparks danced along their edges, then dimmed entirely, one by one.
Above, the crystal dome dimmed. Shadows moved strangely in the corners of the room, bending and twitching as if alive. Even the usual breeze from the open lava vents beneath the mountain stopped flowing. The nursery grew utterly still.
And the hum continued—soft, pulsing—coming from the chest of the newborn prince.
It was not the sound of one life, but two.
Aurenyx's chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm—one heartbeat fast and light, the other slow and thunderous, each beat layered atop the other. His scales were deep crimson, barely formed, still soft from hatching, but already patterned with golden threads that shimmered under the firelight.
Each breath he took exhaled tiny waves of heat, distorting the air. Flames that hovered near him would bend inward slightly, pulled toward his presence, as if fire itself recognized its kin.
The midwives—skilled dragonkin in humanoid form, wearing ceremonial robes lined with flameglyphs—had long since retreated. Though trained for such sacred births, they now stood at the outer edges of the nursery's circular chamber, eyes wide, murmuring silent prayers to the First Flame.
Only one remained close to the child.
Nursemaid Serith, an older dragoness in her humanoid form, knelt beside the cradle. Her scales were a pale, shimmering green—softened with age—and her long, curled horns bore golden rings earned through decades of faithful service to the royal bloodline. A line of faded scars traced one side of her neck, a reminder of battles fought protecting royal hatchlings in the past.
Yet even she looked uncertain now.
Her brows furrowed. Her clawed hands trembled slightly, though she hid it well. Still, she stepped closer and lowered her voice.
"You're strong, little flame," she murmured, gently brushing her hand across the newborn's head. "But you are not alone. Your mother rests in the hall of healing… and your father watches from the veil."
She glanced toward the large stone archway at the end of the nursery, where King Vauren stood in shadow—his powerful dragonic humanoid form cloaked in fire-kissed armor, his horns arching like blades of obsidian.
He had said nothing since the child's birth and his eyes—ancient and burning like molten gold—were fixed on his son, unreadable.
—
Mount Verathar's nursery chambers were not built like mortal palaces.
They were shaped by dragonfire, carved over generations into flowing curves rather than harsh angles. Every wall told stories—etched murals depicting battles of the Godwars, the reign of Dravonox, and the birth of dragonkind. Red-orange glowstones hung like lanterns in high sconces, and the floor was made of black volcanic glass polished to a mirror shine.
In the center of the room, beside the child's nest, ran a shallow stream of magma channeled from deep within the volcano's heart. It glowed faintly and crackled gently, offering both heat and song—a tradition said to calm a young dragon's instincts.
Aurenyx stirred, his tail curled, his claws flexed, and from deep within his body… the glow returned.
It began as a soft golden shimmer along his spine. Then, with no warning—
Fwooom!
A column of fire erupted from his small mouth, but this was no ordinary hatchling flame.
This fire danced like liquid light, moving in slow waves as if resisting gravity. The temperature shifted wildly—hot, then cold, then hot again. Its color was not orange, nor even red, but a rich golden-white, threaded with violet veins, like divine silk caught in a storm.
Serith's eyes widened in shock. "By the Flamefather…"
She tried to raise a containment glyph—a spell formed from her palms—but the fire ignored it. Instead, the flame reached through her magic, wrapping around her arm and chest like a ribbon. Not burning her… not hurting her…
But showing her something.
She gasped as visions poured into her mind.
A ruined city drowned in ash. Skies torn open by divine spears of light. A massive dragon—larger than any she had ever seen—standing at the center of a battlefield, wings stretched wide like a curtain of stars, roaring into the heavens. An army of dragons bowed before him. Above them floated four thrones of fire, ice, storm, and shadow.
Then, a sword of silver light pierced the dragon's chest.
Then the vision vanished.
Serith dropped to her knees, clutching her chest.
The fire dimmed instantly. Aurenyx yawned, curled into himself, and let out a soft puff of smoke.
---
Later that evening, the healers arrived.
Serith refused to be examined. Her body was unharmed, but her gaze had changed. She stared at Aurenyx with reverent awe now, like a priestess before a holy flame.
"I was not burned," she whispered to Elder Vaelrik, the palace Soulkeeper. "I was... judged."
Vaelrik, an elder dragon in humanoid form with a beard of white flames and blue-scaled robes stitched with divine symbols, leaned close to the sleeping child. He held a soul-lens crystal above Aurenyx's chest.
What he saw turned his face to stone.
"His fire… carries memory," he murmured. "Not just power but memory."
He looked up. "This is no ordinary soulflame."
The council met that same night beneath the Palace in the Vault of Ash, a massive subterranean chamber lined with glowing soulstones and relics of the Old War. Firelight reflected in their scaled faces as arguments began to swirl.
"Divine Soul," Vaelrik said, placing the lens on the stone table. "It pulses through him."
"Impossible," muttered another elder. "The Divine Soul was lost with Dravonox."
"Unless…" Thrazir, the High Elder, finished grimly. "Unless it has returned."
—
In the sacred texts of the dragonkin, the Divine Soul was not merely a title. It was the purest essence of the First Flame—the source of all dragonkind.
Only four dragons in recorded history had awakened it, and only one had mastered it: Dravonox.
To bear such a soul meant more than strength—it meant carrying the weight of history, of divine war, of unfulfilled vengeance.
And now, a child no bigger than a pillow carried it in his chest… before his eyes had even focused on the world.
---
Back in the nursery, King Vauren stood alone by the cradle.
Ysera lay nearby in a healing trance, her breath slow and steady.
Aurenyx slept between them, curled into a small spiral, the ring of flame around him glowing softly—like a heartbeat made of light.
Vauren's eyes never left his son. His jaw was clenched and The light from the cradle flickered across his face, revealing emotion he rarely let show: awe, fear… pride.
"This power," he murmured, "will either save our people… or doom them again."
Ysera stirred, her voice weak but clear. "He is not doom Vauren, he is hope."
The King said nothing.
But that night, he walked into the Chamber of Oaths—a hollow of volcanic stone beneath the royal mountain—and placed his claw on the Flame Sigil of the First Kings.
It had not burned in over a thousand years but It ignited the moment his claw touched it.
---
In distant corners of the world, things stirred.
In the shattered sands of the Demonlands, a broken tower trembled. Shadows oozed from beneath its foundations, and somewhere within, a mirror cracked—releasing a whisper of golden flame.
In the storm-choked cliffs of the Elven Highlands, seers looked to the sky and wept without knowing why.
And deep in the ruined temple beneath the world, beneath even death, a voice murmured:
"The Twin Flame returns. The wheel turns once more. This time… the fire will not die."
---
In the days that followed, the palace changed.
The nursery was reinforced with soulsteel and divine runes. Four elite Soulguards now stood watch at all hours—none spoke unless spoken to, and none dared look into the child's glowing eyes for too long.
Serith resumed her duties but did so with quiet reverence.
Aurenyx grew faster than expected. By his seventh day, he was already crawling and showing signs of speech—humming notes in his sleep, drawing symbols in ash, his claws leaving runes behind instead of scratches.
On the seventh night, the sky above Draconhold turned red.
Aurenyx rose in the middle of the cradle, his body glowing like embers. He began to hum again—this time, he was not alone.
Another voice joined his song.
No one could trace its source. It came from nowhere—and everywhere.
The fire rose in pillars and the air rippled.
A mark appeared on his chest: a spiral of flame intertwined with a fang—the Seal of the Flame God.
The Divine Seal that can stirred gods in their slumber.
And now the child…opened his golden eyes.
To be continued…