"Behold!" Pyrothane's ancient voice thundered across the amphitheater. "The new generation rises! Awaken your bloodlines beneath the sacred Ragnarok Flame Tree!"
The first awakening I witnessed belonged to Thornscale of the Ironforge family.
Before my eyes, his body stretched from three feet to nearly five. His scales deepened into such a dark crimson that they seemed to drink the firelight itself. When he opened his jaws, he no longer spat harmless sparks this time, true flame roared forth, hot, bright, alive.
A glowing mark flared briefly on his forehead: a single star, pulsing with ancestral power.
"One-star awakening!" his father bellowed with pride. "Thornscale has achieved the standard whirling transformation!"
All around us, cheers erupted. One after another, wyrmlings awakened beneath the radiant branches. Most reached one star, while a few soared to two—proof of above-average potential.
Every success brought celebration, rivalry, and whispers of comparison. In our world, a family's worth was measured not only by strength, but by how brightly their children's flames burned beneath the sacred light.
Then came the awakening that silenced even the elders.
Pallet stood at the center of her family's circle, her small frame trembling with violent energy. Her body lengthened, and her crimson scales flushed with molten gold, glowing with veins that pulsed like living lava.
And then came the spark of rarity.
Between her fangs, flames flickered not a simple breath, but fire woven into her teeth themselves. Tiny tongues of flame wrapped each fang, hissing and snapping with lethal elegance.
Gasps rippled through the grove.
"Fire Fangs…" someone whispered in awe.
"Three stars!" Chief Magmaroar thundered, his deep voice making the Sacred Grove tremble. "Pallet of the Lavaforge family has awakened with three stars and manifested Fire Fangs!"
Thunderous applause shattered the stillness.
Three-star awakenings were rare enough to be remembered for generations—but Fire Fangs made it legendary. A gift seen only in a handful of bloodlines each century.
Yet amid the cheers, Magmaroar's massive jaws did not curl into a smile. His gaze, hard as obsidian, held neither pride nor warmth.
For him, such glory would have been sweeter had it belonged to his son.
Pallet stood tall despite her father's coldness. She lifted her head proudly, ignoring the envy around her. Her Fire Fangs blazed once more, etching molten trails in the volcanic stone as she tested their bite.
Flames danced along her grin—brilliant and fierce.
Then her eyes found mine.
"Magnificent!" I shouted before I could stop myself, voice cracking. "You're incredible, Pallet!"
She smiled—bright, proud—but behind it, I saw something else.
Concern.
Concern for me.
The ceremony continued.
Blazecrest of the Emberforge family awakened with two stars, her flames so intense they melted the stone beneath her feet.
Scaleheart of the Ashclaw bloodline barely managed one star, yet stunned everyone by shaping his fire into delicate sculptures midair—precision over power.
Crimsonfang of the Forgefire clan earned two stars with sheer brutality, shattering boulders with his claws as molten cracks spread around him.
One by one, the younglings awakened. One star. Two stars. Pallet's three-star brilliance.
Every wyrmling… except me.
"This year has brought many strong awakenings," Pyrothane rumbled, satisfaction thick in his tone. "Not bad, not bad. Perhaps our tribe shall rise stronger than before."
He looked down at us, his gaze sweeping over the younglings before settling briefly on me. No expression. A titan who had witnessed thousands of failed whirlings had no reason to expect more.
"The awakened shall now receive their ancestral sigils!" an elder declared.
I stood in silence as my peers approached the Ragnarok Flame Tree. Sacred fire traced stars on their foreheads—marks of awakening, pride, legacy.
Mine was only emptiness.
"Look at them," someone whispered from a nearby clan. "Every single one awakened except that purple runt."
"Is he really the heir of Scorchclaw's bloodline? Maybe this is the beginning of their decline," another voice muttered coldly. "He wasted one precious Sacred Flame Fruit after another."
The words cut deeper than claws.
I looked down at the glowing fruits clutched in my trembling hands—the treasures my mother had bled for, wounds she might never heal from.
Desperation swelled inside me, raw and suffocating. My heart pounded like a war drum.
Without thinking, I shoved the fruits into my mouth, chewing with clenched fangs.
Please… awaken. Please… this time.
And then flames erupted—drawing every eye.
The crowd gasped. Roars of awe filled the grove.
But the fire was not mine.
Two blazing figures rose beside me—my brothers.
Blazefang roared, unleashing a torrent of crimson fire that coiled through the air like a living serpent.
Infernotail followed, his body swelling with power as his tail slammed the earth like a hammer of flame.
"Two sons of Scorchclaw have awakened and stand at the brink of a two-star whirling!" someone cried. "Look at their flames—blazing as if their father himself were reborn!"
They stood radiant. Awakened. Glorious in the eyes of all.
And I… remained still.
Silent.
Unchanged.
A shadow among stars.