Chapter 8: A New Generation
**Three thousand years had passed since the birth of Damien.** Now, a full three thousand years old, his emerald-green scales shone with the wisdom and strength of a true dragon. It was time for him to claim his own territory, just as his sister, **Serafina**, had done. She had already conquered the middle island, reshaping it into a volatile territory of fire mages with a central fortress built from **volcanic obsidian and rivers of controlled magma**. With her little brother's help, she had used Earth and Fire Magic to forge great weapons for the hybrid armies their father was building.
**Damien**, a scholar and a warrior in equal measure, was excited to prove himself. He had spent his first three millennia studying the Eastern Island's defenses, strategizing troop placements and anticipating counterattacks. He gathered his forces and prepared to do battle with the masters and journeymen who ruled the Eastern Island. But before his ships could even set sail, a courier arrived with a sealed letter of surrender. The mages, hearing of the terrifying power of the First Dragon and his children, had chosen to give up without a fight. Damien, who had longed for a true test of his strength, was deeply disappointed that **fear**, not battle, had won the land.
**Marcellus**, watching from his perch in the central fortress, laughed for two full days. The sound echoed across the Western Island, a terrifying, rhythmic rumble of triumph. When he finally addressed his son, his voice was a low growl of amusement.
"Go take your lands, boy. There's no need to cry about it," Marcellus said, waving a casual hand. "We already rule this planet. This universe wouldn't even be big enough for your father, let alone this planet. Go make yourself comfortable and build. This is where I will teach you how to rule. Your sister isn't built to rule. She is an iron fist, similar to me, but different. She reminds me of someone I knew long ago—very, very fierce."
The memory of his mother caused a subtle, dangerous **flicker of Dark Energy** to pulse across Marcellus's \text{6}'\text{10}" dragonoid frame, a barely contained tremor of ancient torment.
Marcellus shook off the fleeting shadow, his face hardening instantly. He told Damien to gather his forces and formally take the Eastern Island, his tone all business. Damien, defeated but obedient, went off to gather his troops, the frustration a bitter knot in his gut. He had wanted to prove himself in battle, but his father had denied him the chance. As Damien slammed the massive door on his way out, the sound reverberated through the colossal fortress.
Marcellus, left alone, stared at the two remaining eggs. The black and white shells were still dull, their surfaces a constant reminder of his incomplete obsession with the number three. He needed a third true dragon. He needed them to hatch.
But as the door slammed, the two eggs seemed to know it was their time. As if in response to Damien's frustration, the **white egg** began to crackle with an impossible surge of high-voltage electricity, hinting at a raw **Lightning affinity**. The **black egg** began to rumble, and a thick, swirling shadow mist poured from its surface, confirming its command over **Darkness**. Both eggs grew rapidly. The black one became larger than Damien's egg had ever been, and the white one grew to three-fourths the size of the black, but was still visibly bigger than its siblings.
A bright smile, a mixture of hope and greed, spread across Marcellus's face. He would have his final piece of the puzzle. He had no idea he was about to get so much more.