The Volcanis Peaks stood as a testament to fire's raw beauty and power, a land forged in the crucible of molten rock and relentless heat. Rivers of lava coursed like fiery veins through jagged cliffs, and the air shimmered with the ever-present haze of ash. This was the home of the Scorchscale Clan, where dragonborn lived in harmony, their souls bound to fire and the ancient power it carried.

  For the Scorchscale, the dragon was everything. It was strength, pride, and identity—a source of unity and distinction. Each dragonborn had a dragon spirit, a bond that allowed them to shift forms, wielding the might of their companion.

  The searing plateau, a sacred training ground for the clan's warriors, embodied this bond. Within its bounds, heat and resilience were forged, sharpened, and revered. The ground, charred black from centuries of battles, bore glowing fissures that spilled molten rock into shallow pools. Heat waves shimmered through the air as warriors readied themselves for combat, their ember-like markings blazing with anticipation.

  Eldrik Skyrend loomed at the heart of the battlefield, arms crossed over his chest, his presence as imposing as the volcano itself. The glow in his eyes was liquid amber, shifting like smoldering magma as he studied his children spar before him. When he spoke, his voice was a rolling thunder, carrying the weight of centuries.

  "Show me your strength!" The command cracked through the air like a lightning strike. "Prove you are worthy of the fire within you!"

  Kaela and Ragnar circled each other in the center of the arena, their blades flashing as they clashed with sharp, resonant strikes. The wooden grips of their weapons bore the imprint of years of training, worn smooth by countless battles.

  Kaela ducked low, her movements sharp and fluid, and struck toward Ragnar's legs. He leapt over the sweep effortlessly, twisting mid-air to land behind her with a counter-slash. Kaela blocked it just in time, their blades locking together as she smirked up at her older brother.

  She met his gaze with a breathless smile, defiant and unwavering. "You're getting slow, Ragnar."

  His jaw tightened. With a sharp twist of his wrist, he sent her weapon spinning from her grip. But Kaela didn't hesitate. She flowed with the motion, rolling into a low sweep that caught Ragnar off guard. His balance faltered, his stance slipping on the hot rock, and he barely righted himself before she lunged again.

  Off to the side, Mira stood poised, her daggers gleaming under the sunlight. At Eldrik's signal, she sprang forward, a streak of speed so fast the air crackled in her wake. Her blades struck their targets with lethal precision, splintering the charred dummies on impact. Shards of wood scattered across the ground, the rhythmic clash of training echoing through the plateau.

  Thorne Skyrend stood at the edge of the training grounds, his fingers tightening around the wooden hilt of his sword. His grip was white-knuckled, his pulse drumming against his palms. In the arena, his siblings moved like a raging storm—Kaela's strikes were razor-sharp, each motion honed to perfection; Ragnar's strength rippled through every blow, each swing of his blade as effortless as breathing. Even Mira, silent and focused, cut through her targets with chilling precision.

  The clang of steel and the hiss of lava filled the air, but all Thorne could hear was the pounding in his ears. His dark auburn hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, the sun casting fleeting streaks of gold through the messy strands. He pushed them back, as if clearing his vision would somehow clear the weight in his chest.

  Focus. Pyrix's voice rumbled through his mind, steady as the searing core of the Peaks. Stop comparing yourself to them.

  Thorne's jaw clenched. I'm not—

  You are, Pyrix cut in, firm but patient. Your fire isn't theirs. Stop chasing their shadows. Find your own flame.

  A sharp call split through his thoughts.

  "Thorne!"

  His spine snapped straight. Eldrik's piercing gaze bore down on him, expectant, unyielding. Around him, Kaela and Ragnar shared smirks, their amusement barely concealed. Mira, uninterested, was already resetting her stance, her daggers catching the dim light as she focused ahead.

  "Step forward," Eldrik commanded.

  Thorne's feet felt like lead, but he forced himself into the ring. A subtle warmth pressed against his skin, the faint shimmer of his markings betraying the tension simmering beneath.

  "Face Ragnar."

  Ragnar rolled his shoulders, spinning his blade with a practiced flick of his wrist. The polished surface caught the dim glow, a contrast to the easy confidence in his stance.

  You've got this, Pyrix murmured. Trust your instincts. Listen to me, not them.

  Eldrik's hand dropped.

  Ragnar moved first—fast. His blade came down in a brutal arc, and Thorne barely got his sword up in time. The impact sent a shockwave through his arms, the force nearly wrenching it from his grasp. Ragnar didn't pause. Another strike, then another, each one faster, heavier, relentless. The clang of metal echoed through the hall as Thorne was driven back, his heels skidding over the stone floor.

  Breathe! Pyrix urged.

  Gritting his teeth, Thorne did more than breathe—he attacked. With a desperate surge, he ducked under Ragnar's next swing and lunged, twisting his blade toward his brother's exposed flank. A sharp, fleeting thrill of victory rushed through him as his blade made contact—only for Ragnar to twist at the last moment, the strike glancing off his armor instead of sinking home.

  Ragnar's eyes flashed. The next blow came like a hammer. Thorne barely blocked in time, but the sheer force of it sent him stumbling. Another strike followed—then another. He could only parry, struggling against the onslaught. He saw an opening—small, but there—and lunged again, his heart slamming against his ribs.

  Too slow.

  Ragnar caught his wrist mid-swing and wrenched his arm wide. Pain flared, white-hot, as his grip failed and his sword clattered to the ground. Before he could recover, a knee slammed into his gut. The air ripped from his lungs as he hit the floor hard, his vision dimming at the edges.

  Laughter rippled at the edges of the watching crowd. Thorne's stomach knotted. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but it wasn't just anger. It was shame, thick and suffocating.

  Don't panic— Pyrix began, but Thorne shoved the thought aside.

  Easy for you to say. His own voice was sharp in his head, barely containing the bitter edge. You're not the one being humiliated!

  "Is that it?" Ragnar scoffed, rolling his shoulders as he tossed his weapon aside. A slow exhale left his lips, steam curling in the cold air. Then his body convulsed.

  Obsidian scales rippled over his skin, spreading like ink, his form stretching, expanding. His shirt split first, fabric tearing with a sharp snap, the remains fluttering to the ground in singed scraps. The bones in his arms twisted, fingers elongating into massive talons as his wings burst forth in a violent unfurling of dark membrane. The force of the transformation sent dust swirling around him, the ground trembling beneath his shifting weight.

  Then he roared.

  The cliffs shuddered with the sound, loose rocks tumbling from their ledges. With a single beat of his wings, Ragnar propelled himself upward, his shadow cutting across the training grounds as he spiraled into the sky. His dragon form, Drakthar, was a force of nature—with ember-lit channels running beneath, glowing like cracks in a smoldering inferno.

  Kaela followed. A sharp intake of breath, a flare of golden energy, and her human form melted away. In her place, Sylphira, her radiant dragon, unfurled her wings, catching the thermals with effortless grace. She lifted into the sky with a single, elegant stroke, weaving seamlessly through the air as if it were second nature.

  Mira was next—her shift smooth, almost soundless. One moment she was standing firm, the next, Flareus shot upward in a streak of cerulean. Sleek, fast, precise. Her sapphire scales shimmered under the midday sun as she twisted between her siblings, her aerial movements controlled, flawless.

  Thorne didn't move.

  His sword lay abandoned at his feet, but he barely registered it. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breaths uneven as he watched them dance across the sky. It was mesmerizing. It was terrifying. It was everything he should have been.

  A sharp voice cut through the moment.

  "Shift, Thorne!"

  The command cracked like a whip. Eldrik's gaze was relentless, his smoldering gaze pinning him in place.

  Thorne's fingers twitched at his sides. He squeezed his eyes shut, reaching inward, clawing for the fire buried deep within. Pyrix was there—somewhere—just beyond his grasp. Warmth flickered at the edges of his consciousness, teasing him, but the moment he tried to seize it, it slipped away like smoke through his fingers.

  You're not trying. Pyrix murmured. His voice was calm, steady, but Thorne felt the weight behind the words.

  I am! Frustration burned in his chest, raw and seething. It's you—why won't you just come out?!

  Pyrix exhaled, patient as ever. Because it's not about me. Your fire is waiting. Stop being afraid to ignite it.

  The plateau was silent now, save for the distant roars of his siblings.

  Kaela landed first, Sylphira's radiant form shrinking as she stepped forward. Scales dissolved into skin, wings vanishing, her limbs reshaping effortlessly into her human frame. She strode toward a leather pack she had left prepared, retrieving a folded outfit. With practiced ease, she dressed, running a hand through her long golden hair, brushing away specks of dust before turning toward him. A smirk tugged at her lips.

  "I guess we shouldn't be surprised," she said, fastening her tunic. "Some of us are just born to watch."

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  Ragnar touched down moments later, Drakthar's massive wings folding before he shifted back into flesh and bone. His bare feet hit the ground with a heavy thud, his transformation seamless. He moved to where a spare set of clothes had been stashed and dressed swiftly, fastening his belt as he turned to face Thorne.

  "You're wasting Father's time," he said, voice cold and firm.

  Thorne's ember-markings flickered—weak, feeble, barely more than a fading spark.

  But something else did, too.

  The wind carried the heat of his siblings' flight, the air thick with lingering warmth. Without noticing, Thorne clenched his fists, and for the briefest moment, a ripple of heat pulsed from his skin. It was subtle—too small for anyone to notice—but the dry grass at his feet darkened, crisping at the edges as if brushed by an unseen flame.

  A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed it down.

  Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away. Behind him, laughter rang out—sharp, knowing, unshaken.

  It followed him long after he was gone.

  As he reached the plateau's edge, Thorne's breath hitched. Below, rivers of searing magma carved winding trails through the shadowed expanse, their glow licking at the darkness. The heat pressed against his skin, yet a chill coiled deep inside him, a cold knot of despair that even the blazing depths couldn't burn away.

  "You'll never be like us." Ragnar's voice, sharp and certain, curled in his mind. This time, it wasn't just a memory—it was truth, spoken in his own voice.

  Thorne turned away, fists tightening. The winding tunnels of the Volcanis Peaks swallowed him, their walls pulsing with fiery light. Dark silhouettes danced across his path, stretching and twisting like specters. Here, away from the judging eyes and whispered doubts, he could pretend he wasn't the one who didn't belong.

  His family's legacy towered over him, carved into the very bones of the peaks. His mother, Lyrissa—Emberclaw in her dragon form—whose scales shimmered like blazing copper, her very presence commanding reverence. His father, Eldrik—Stormwing—whose wings crackled with electricity, the sky bending to his will. His siblings—Kaela, Ragnar, and Mira—each a testament to their lineage, their dragons fierce, untamed forces of nature.

  And then there was Thorne. Wingless. Formless.

  A hollow pressure settled in his chest.

  You can't keep running. Pyrix's voice slithered through the silence, heat curling around each word.

  Thorne's steps faltered. I'm not running, he muttered.

  Then what are you doing? Pyrix's voice sharpened. Hiding?

  A spark of anger flared in Thorne's gut. I've tried everything. Training, meditation—everything. And nothing works. He exhaled, the words burning on the way out. Maybe I don't have it in me.

  Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

  Then Pyrix spoke, softer this time. Do you think I chose you for nothing? Do you think I would bond with someone incapable of wielding my power?

  Then why won't you show yourself? Thorne's voice cracked. Why won't you come out?

  A pause. Then: Because you don't trust yourself. You're afraid of what will happen if you let go—if you let me in.

  Thorne clenched his fists, frustration churning in his veins. The heat in the tunnel thickened, pressing against his skin. He barely noticed the shift at first—the faint ripple in the air, the way the embers along the tunnel walls flared in response. The glow wasn't just from the rivers of fire anymore.

  His hands felt... warm.

  Too warm.

  Thorne sucked in a sharp breath as the air around his fingers shimmered, the scorching aura warping the space ever so slightly. The glow in his chest pulsed again, the intricate markings—spirals of flames etched across his skin—briefly flaring brighter, as if reacting to something unseen. The warmth wasn't just external. It was inside him.

  For a moment, it felt like something was stirring.

  Then, as quickly as it came, the heat dissipated. The embers dimmed. The air stilled.

  Thorne swallowed, pressing a hand to his chest where the faint sensation still lingered.

  Pyrix's voice was barely more than a whisper now. You're not as powerless as you think.

  But Thorne wasn't sure whether to believe him.

  Time blurred as he made his way back. The fiery radiance of the Volcanis Peaks flickered in the distance, casting long, restless shadows. The air remained thick with the scent of sulfur and scorched rock, clinging to his senses like an unshakable weight. Sweat dampened his skin, but the heaviness in his chest had little to do with the sweltering atmosphere.

  When the towering Skyrend residence finally came into view, it stood like a silent judge against the night. Rugged stone walls loomed ahead, their intricate carvings of dragons mid-flight frozen in eternal battle. Each step toward it felt heavier, as if the very mountain sought to remind him of everything he was not.

  At the entrance, his parents stood side by side, rigid as statues. His father, Eldrik, held his hands behind his back, his sharp gaze unreadable. Lyrissa's lips pressed into a thin line, her golden eyes betraying nothing. But it was the figure beside them who made Thorne hesitate.

  Arion.

  The elder's robes shimmered like sunlit embers, their hues shifting with each subtle movement. His mere presence carried a weight that pressed against Thorne's ribs. Arion never visited without reason.

  Thorne's stomach knotted. Something was wrong.

  Arion's gaze settled on him, unreadable yet piercing. "We will meet again tomorrow." His voice, deep and even, left no room for argument. After a brief glance at Thorne, he shifted his focus back to Eldrik and Lyrissa, offering them a curt nod before turning away. His departure was like a gust of hot wind—felt in the moment, but leaving no trace behind.

  Thorne's parents said nothing, only stepping aside to let him enter.

  Inside, the hall pulsed with flickering light. Shadows danced across the cavernous walls, gliding over the towering stone pillars. A low, circular table sat at the center, surrounded by thick cushions where his family often gathered.

  Kaela leaned back, her arms draped over the cushion like a queen on her throne. Ragnar sprawled beside her, one leg stretched out, his fingers drumming lazily against the surface. Across from them, Mira perched at the edge of her seat, a dagger twirling between her fingers, the metal flashing with each precise spin.

  Thorne stepped forward, and their gazes found him at once.

  Silence hung for a beat too long before Ragnar smirked. "Well, that looked serious."

  Thorne ignored him, his attention shifting to his parents as they settled onto the carved stone sofa. The tension in the air thickened, coiling around him like unseen chains.

  He exhaled slowly. "What was Arion doing here?"

  Eldrik leaned forward. "Tomorrow, there's a ceremony in honor of the Protectors of Our World at Luminaries Sanctum. Every respected family is expected to attend."

  Ragnar straightened, a hint of mockery in his voice. "You really should come, Thorne. It'll be a shame if everyone sees you missing. I mean, who else would they look to for inspiration?"

  Kaela smirked, tilting her head. "Exactly. What would the gathering be without you? Someone has to remind them what a real dragon looks like."

  Thorne's hands curled into fists. A restless energy stirred beneath his skin, not from the surroundings but from the pressure building inside him.

  "I don't want to go." His voice was tight, edged with barely contained frustration. "What's the point? I'll just be a reminder of what I lack."

  The room stilled.

  Then, Lyrissa's voice cut through the heavy air, sharp as a blade. "Enough."

  Kaela and Ragnar stiffened, though neither spoke.

  Lyrissa's gaze pinned them in place. "You will not belittle your brother. Strength is not just about power—remember that."

  Kaela sighed, crossing her arms but saying nothing. Ragnar rolled his shoulders, his smirk faltering before he glanced away.

  Eldrik's gaze hardened. "There's no room for objection. You are a member of this family—strong or not. You will come with us tomorrow."

  The finality in his tone left no room for argument.

  Thorne swallowed hard, his pulse a steady drum in his ears. The weight of expectation settled like a stone in his gut. He wanted to fight, to push back—but what would be the point? His father had already decided.

  Tomorrow, he would go. Even if he felt like an imposter standing among them.

  The next morning dawned with a fiery sunrise, casting a warm glow over the Volcanis Peaks. Thorne lingered near the stone path leading to the Skyrend residence, his heart heavy as he prepared for the day ahead. The weight of his siblings' teasing lingered in his mind, but he pushed it aside as Eldrik called for the family to gather.

  "Come on, Thorne!" Kaela called out, already mounted on her sleek Flamehorn, its streaked body glimmering in the light, reflecting hues of orange and gold like liquid fire. The creature's eyes burned with an intelligent glow, and its long, sinuous body shifted eagerly beneath her, ready for the journey ahead. "Don't keep us waiting! We wouldn't want to miss the ceremony."

  "I'm coming," Thorne replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He climbed onto his own Flamehorn, a sturdy creature that snorted and shifted beneath him, ready for the journey.

  Ragnar smirked, shaking his head. "Why are you always so slow? Can't you ever be on time?"

  Mira, perched gracefully on her own mount, let out an exaggerated sigh. "At this rate, we'll get there when the ceremony is already over. Maybe that's his plan—to avoid embarrassing himself."

  Thorne's grip tightened on the reins, his jaw clenching. He lowered his gaze, heat prickling behind his eyes, but he refused to let them see how her words stung. His siblings had always been stronger, faster, better—but did they always have to remind him? His stomach twisted, but he forced his expression into something neutral, biting back the sharp retort that threatened to escape.

  Before he could respond, Lyrissa's sharp voice cut through the air. "Enough, both of you!"

  Her golden eyes, usually warm, burned with disappointment as she turned to Ragnar and Mira. "This isn't the time for your childish teasing. I won't have you tearing each other down when we should stand as one. Thorne is coming, and that's all that matters."

  Mira huffed but looked away, while Ragnar only shrugged, feigning indifference.

  Eldrik's deep voice followed, just as firm. "Don't start this again. We're leaving now."

  As they set off, the family rode through winding paths carved into the mountains, the air buzzing with anticipation. Eldrik led the way, his posture proud and commanding, while Lyrissa rode close beside him, her eyes scanning the horizon.

  "Do you think there will be many families from other communities?" Kaela asked, twirling a dagger in her hand as she rode. "I heard the Luminaries Sanctum has been preparing for this ceremony for weeks."

  "Only the most respected," Ragnar added, a hint of challenge in his tone. "It's our chance to show we belong among them."

  Thorne shifted in his saddle, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten. "Like anyone will notice if I'm not there."

  Kaela turned, a teasing smile on her lips. "Oh, come on, Thorne! If you don't show up, who will we have to laugh at? It'll be a dull ceremony without you."

  Ragnar snorted. "Right! They'll probably wonder where the family's biggest joke went. I mean, how often do we get to meet Sentinel Emberwing? You don't want to miss the chance to meet the only dragonborn guardian of Eclipse Heart."

  "Everyone's talking about him," Mira chimed in, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "He's respected by all communities, even the high-ranking members. They say he knows everything about the Protectors who saved us from the threat thousands of years ago."

  "And he's the only one who has actually met them," Lyrissa added, a hint of reverence in her tone. "Imagine what it would be like to hear those stories from him. You'd probably learn a thing or two about being a real dragonborn."

  Just then, Eldrik, who had been riding a few paces ahead, turned his head slightly, his voice calm and steady. "You're right about that. The Eclipse Heart has always identified the Chosen Ones whenever a threat looms over our world. They possess a unique strength and intelligence that allows them to confront dangers that most cannot."

  Thorne felt a mixture of awe and unease at his father's words. "But what if they fail?" he asked, almost unconsciously voicing the doubt that had been gnawing at him.

  Eldrik met his gaze, his expression serious. "They won't. The Chosen Ones have a bond with the Eclipse Heart that guides and empowers them. That connection ensures that they are equipped to handle any threat."

  As they continued their journey, the conversation lingered in Thorne's mind, the weight of expectation hanging over him like a storm cloud. The significance of their destination, the Luminaries Sanctum, loomed ahead.

  After few hours of riding their Flamehorns, the family arrived at the Luminaries Sanctum, a majestic structure that loomed before them like a beacon of hope and unity. The Sanctum was built from shimmering stones that reflected the sunlight, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that danced across its surface. As they dismounted their Flamehorns, Thorne's siblings were filled with awe, their eyes wide as they took in the grandeur of the place.

  "Look at that!" Kaela exclaimed, pointing at the towering spires that reached toward the sky. "It's even more magnificent up close!"

  "Unbelievable," Ragnar added, his voice filled with reverence as he admired the intricate carvings that adorned the walls, depicting legendary battles and the Protectors of old.

  "Thorne, are you alright?" Lyrissa's voice broke through his thoughts, concern etched on her face.

  "I—yeah, I'm fine," he lied, though the tightness in his chest remained. He scanned the crowd, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on him. "Just... a bit overwhelmed."

  "Let's stick together," Eldrik said, his tone firm yet reassuring. "Remember, you are as much a part of this family as anyone else. You have a place here."

  Despite his father's words, Thorne couldn't shake the strange feeling that coursed through him. It was a mix of unease and longing, as if the very air thrummed with an energy that called to him yet simultaneously pushed him away.

  Deep down, he sensed that something was about to happen—something that would directly affect his life in ways he couldn't yet comprehend. It was as if the universe was shifting around him, aligning in anticipation of a pivotal moment. The weight of this premonition hung heavily on his shoulders, amplifying his feelings of doubt and fear.