Morning spilled like liquid gold over the spires of Ebonflame Dominion. The twin suns—one crimson, one white—rose above the volcanic ridges that guarded the capital, Obsidia Sanctum, their light refracted by drifting ash into ribbons of scarlet and amber. From the highest balcony of the Drakmor Citadel, the world seemed endless—mountains breathing smoke, rivers of magma coiling through black stone valleys, and beyond them the glimmering silhouettes of flying dragons wheeling between sky-fortresses.
To anyone else, it was a scene of glory.
To Balerion Drakmor Vantheus, it was a cage made of beauty.
He leaned on the obsidian railing, pale fingers trembling under the morning wind. Each heartbeat was a quiet war. The blood of two races wrestled within him—dragonfire and moon-cold hunger. Every breath carried the ache of veins that refused to obey.
It's always the same, he thought. The moment I wake, my blood screams to burn and drink at once.
Behind him, the citadel hummed with distant voices—servants changing banners, knights drilling in the lower courtyards. Today was the First Moon Festival, the day when every noble house paraded its heirs before the court. For the Dominion, it was pride. For Balerion, it was humiliation renewed.
He was seventeen and carried titles most would kill for: Son of Azura Drakmor, the Eternal Flame Queen; Son of Velkan Vantheus, the Crimson Sovereign. Yet he was the only heir in history forbidden to train in the arena. His mana veins cracked under the slightest surge. Even his shadow staggered when he tried to cast.
A sound broke the stillness—the slow clap of taloned hands.
"Still hiding from dawn, little ember?"
The voice belonged to Kael Drakmor, his mother's nephew. Bronze scales traced the man's jaw; his eyes gleamed with molten arrogance. Two dragon-blooded guards lingered behind him, grinning.
"I'm admiring the sunrise," Balerion said quietly.
Kael chuckled. "Admiring what you'll never soar above? Perhaps you should admire the ground instead. You're closer to it."
The guards laughed. Heat pulsed behind Balerion's ribs, anger stirring—but he kept his face still.
Breathe. Let them think you are ash, not flame.
Kael stepped closer until the railing trembled under his aura. "Your mother forbids you from the duels, but I wonder—does she forbid you from kneeling?" He raised a clawed hand, sparks licking his fingers.
A familiar burn climbed Balerion's throat. His vision flickered red, then black.
Not here… not now.
If he lost control, dragonfire and bloodlust would erupt together—and his heart would tear itself apart.
A voice drifted from the corridor.
"Kael."
Cold, female, commanding.
Selene Valeria emerged from the shadows, silver hair bound in a braid, the insignia of the vampire academy glinting on her collar. "Is this how the Drakmor heir proves his honor—by tormenting an unarmed scholar before festival day?"
Kael's grin faded a fraction. "Stay out of dragon affairs, leech."
"I will," Selene said, "when you stop fouling the air with your ego."
For a heartbeat, silence held. Then Kael snorted, turned on his heel, and vanished with his entourage. The scent of ozone lingered.
Balerion exhaled slowly. "You shouldn't involve yourself."
"You're welcome," Selene replied, folding her arms. "Though I expected at least a thank-you before the self-pity."
He managed a weak smile. "I was composing one internally."
"Compose faster next time." Her crimson eyes softened. "They envy what they don't understand, Balerion. I'd almost envy you myself—if I didn't see how it hurts."
She left before he could answer. The echo of her boots faded down the hall, leaving him alone with the wind and the quiet war in his chest.
The day unfolded in ritual splendor. Banners of black and gold rippled from every tower. Processions filled the obsidian streets: dragon-knights in scarlet armor, vampire nobles in flowing silks, elven envoys gliding like moonlight. Above them all, the great Sky-Forge Bell tolled, its sound resonating through every mana vein in the city.
Balerion watched from the upper terrace, separated by ceremony and by weakness. His mother's dragon form circled overhead—vast, majestic, a being of pure flame. His father stood upon the grand dais, cloak billowing like spilled wine, his gaze enough to make generals bow.
They ruled together yet apart: flame and night, creation and consumption. Even from afar, their presence made the world seem smaller.
And he—caught between them—was fading.
An attendant approached. "Young Master, the council requests your presence at the mid-day review."
Balerion nodded, though he knew what awaited him: another polite mockery, another report of "no measurable progress." The Dominion valued strength above genius; strategy meant little when your body cracked under mana flow.
He followed the attendant through the citadel corridors, their walls alive with runes that pulsed like dragon hearts. Tapestries told stories of conquest—the Drakmor legions burning through the northern realms, the Vantheus lords draining gods dry under moonlight. Every portrait reminded him what he was supposed to become.
In the council chamber, twelve elders waited around a circular table of dark crystal. His father presided at one end, regal and cold; his mother stood behind him, expression unreadable.
"Balerion," Velkan said. "Report."
He bowed. "No progress in cultivation, Father. My veins—"
"We know," one elder interrupted. "Each year the same words. Genius of mind, failure of body."
Another added, "Perhaps the bloodlines were never meant to merge. We risk divine offense keeping him alive."
A pulse of heat flickered from Azura's wings, silencing them. "He lives because I will it," she said softly, deadly.
Velkan's gaze narrowed. "And yet will alone cannot forge strength." He turned to Balerion. "What say you, son? Why should the Dominion believe in a prince who cannot stand among warriors?"
The words should have cut, but they landed on scar tissue. Balerion raised his head. "Because one day, Father, even blood obeys command."
The chamber fell silent. For a moment, his mother's lips curved—a flicker of pride quickly hidden.
Velkan dismissed him with a wave. "See that it does before the gods lose patience."
That night, the city burned with celebration. Fireworks burst across the sky, dragons roared above towers, and vampires danced beneath rain of crimson petals. Music echoed from every plaza.
Balerion sat alone in the library's highest spire, surrounded by scrolls and blue fire-lamps. The air smelled of parchment and old storms. He traced a sigil across an open tome—a theoretical fusion array meant to stabilize clashing mana. Every attempt ended in fractal collapse.
If I could just make them listen… He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the twin pulses—one hot, one cold—each refusing the other. Why do you hate each other so much? You are both me.
The blood answered with silence.
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating runes carved into the stone walls. For a heartbeat, he saw two shadows reflected—one crowned with wings of flame, the other with wings of night—looming behind him like warring ghosts.
Then the pain hit.
A surge of heat and frost shot through his veins, driving him to his knees. Books scattered as he clutched his chest, choking on air. His vision split: one eye saw the library, the other saw an endless field of stars.
In that cosmic shimmer, two titanic figures towered—one of fire, one of blood. Voices thundered through his skull.
"Submit."
"Submit."
He screamed, half in defiance, half in agony. "No! You are mine to command!"
For an instant, the world went white. The windows shattered outward, shards of glass spiraling like snow. Then everything fell silent.
When consciousness returned, he was lying amid the wreckage. The pain was gone, replaced by a faint, rhythmic glow under his skin—black scales edged with crimson light blooming along his forearm before fading.
Outside, the twin moons had risen—one blood-red, one silver. Between them hung a third light, faint and new, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
Balerion stared at it, breath trembling.
Something answered me.
He looked down at his hand, where a single obsidian scale remained, glinting with both flame and shadow. It felt warm, alive, as though the world itself had exhaled through him.
Far below, the festival drums still thundered. No one noticed the ripple that spread through the night sky—a silent wave that made dragons pause mid-flight and vampires lift their heads in unease.
Balerion closed his eyes. "One day," he whispered, voice hoarse, "you'll bow."
The wind carried his words into the dark.