Something cracked.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a dull pressure shift, like a knuckle popping in a quiet room. The kind of sound that makes you wonder if it was real—until something else starts cracking.
It came from inside his chest.
Well. Not a chest. Not anymore.
Icaris wasn't sure how long he'd been like this—half-asleep, half-dead, sealed in something warm, wet, and unreasonably cramped. He hadn't moved in what felt like years. Or days. Or ten minutes. Time was a vague, uncooperative concept now.
He tried to breathe. Air didn't come.
Instead, heat poured into his lungs. Rich, heavy, and alive. His ribs ached. His spine felt coiled. Everything about his body felt wrong.
He shifted a claw.
Claw.
He paused on that word for a second longer than he should've.
"Huh."
No fingers. No hands. Just thick, scaled digits ending in something sharp enough to make a statement.
Panic tried to stretch its legs, but it didn't get far. He wasn't freaking out. That was the strange part. No heartbeat pounding in his ears, no spiraling dread. Just that old, familiar numbness he'd always defaulted to when life got weird.
And this was very, very weird.
He pressed a limb—leg? wing? something—against the inside of his enclosure. Smooth. Curved. Eggshell. There was resistance, then a faint crack.
The light outside trickled through like lava through a fracture. Orange and pulsing, almost like breath.
The shell was alive. Or breathing. Or he was.
Another crack formed. This time it hurt. A jolt of raw sensation surged down his spine, followed by a growl that came from his own throat.
Deep. Low. Not human.
"Alright," he muttered, or thought, or dreamt, "I get it. I'm hatching. Great."
Sarcasm helped. A little.
Something broke fully this time. A shard fell from the curve above his head and clattered against stone.
Sound. Actual sound. Not imagined, not internal. Just raw noise. It echoed strangely—like he was in a cave.
Which made sense, he guessed. Where else do you put dragon eggs?
Yes. Dragon.
That part came slower. Not because he didn't believe it—because it felt... correct. Deeply. Stupidly. Instinctively. Like remembering your name after a long nap.
He wasn't human anymore. That fact didn't crush him. It didn't even scare him. It just… landed. Like a book thudding onto a table.
A small part of him—the one that used to hike to strange corners of the world just to see what was on the other side—whispered, Cool. The rest of him, the part that had watched the sky rip open and the world go quiet, whispered something else.
Why?
The shell shattered fully now. Heat blasted across his scales—because he had scales now. Red, black-edged. Rough like volcanic rock.
He slumped forward onto hard stone, limbs awkward, wings limp. His body felt too new, like someone had glued him together and the instructions were still in the box.
Claws scraped the cave floor. Muscles twitched.
A noise echoed from nearby. Breathing. Not his.
Others.
Of course there were others.
Something hissed.
"Another one cracked. Took him long enough."
That voice was sharp, cocky. Male. A few feet off, probably behind a rock. Another hatchling.
Icaris blinked, eyes adjusting to the glow of Aether veins running like gold lightning through the cave walls. Everything smelled like sulfur and dust and old power.
He forced himself upright. Shaky. Embarrassing. Not ideal for a dramatic debut.
He turned toward the voice. Saw the speaker: red scales, broad head, eyes full of arrogance. A few glowing marks along his left leg. Battle-scratches already, like he'd been born picking fights.
"You good?" the red one asked, smirking. "Or are you one of those slow-bloods?"
Icaris stared at him. Then looked down at himself. Clawed forelegs. Tail. Wings.
"I was hoping this was a coma dream." His voice was rough, dry. "But here I am. Talking to a scaled lizard with attitude. So probably real."
The other dragon blinked. "What's a lizard?"
Icaris didn't answer. He didn't know how to explain sarcasm to someone who hatched five minutes ago.
More movement to the side. Another hatchling. This one smaller, sleeker. Black scales with blue glints. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped closer.
"He smells strange," she said quietly, tilting her head. "Off-blooded."
Icaris flared his nostrils. She wasn't wrong. Something in him did feel off. His fire—it didn't sit right. It wasn't just heat. It pulsed, like it was listening.
Dreamfire. The word drifted through his thoughts. Not one he invented. Just one that was.
"Do I smell worse than you?" Icaris asked, glancing at her. "Because that'd be tragic."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're mouthy."
"Been a rough week."
"What's a week?"
"Never mind."
He shifted again, tail dragging behind him. His wings twitched. Still clumsy, but getting better. He was learning how to move this body the way you learn to walk across ice—slowly, and with the suspicion that everything under you might collapse.
Somewhere outside this cavern, a world waited.
He could feel it like a thread pulling through his chest. Trees. Sky. Magic in the air thick enough to taste.
Whatever this place was, it wasn't Earth. It wasn't war-torn or broken. It was alive.
And he wanted to see it.
He didn't care about prophecies or curses or divine destinies. All he cared about was what was out there. Mountains. Storms. Ruins. Skies too wide to measure.
He was a dragon now. Fine.
But the explorer?
He was still very much alive.