King Michael turns to Ethan and says," It's time, my son. He gestured in the air, a spell. A spell of memory sharing.
The vision began in silence.
One moment Ethan stood in the cold shadow of his father's presence—breath slow, back straight, the weight of Jonathan's awakening still heavy in the air. The next, a soft flick of Michael's fingers turned the world inside out.
There was no magic circle. No flash of light. Only intent.
Ethan didn't blink—he couldn't. He was pulled through memory itself, as if the threads of time bowed to his father's will. A white-hot hum filled his bones, and when it cleared, he stood beneath an impossible sky.
Blue. Clear. Endless.
It stretched over a kingdom that gleamed like a jewel in the mountains. White marble towers rose like fingers toward heaven. Sunlight danced across shimmering bridges suspended by magic. Floating gardens, arcane lamps, golden banners embroidered with the symbol of the Flame Throne—his family crest—flapped lazily in the breeze.
Ethan took a shaky breath. The mana here was thick, ancient. Time felt slower. Every heartbeat rang like a gong.
"This place…" he whispered.
A voice beside him answered.
"The capital of Caldrithos. A kingdom that loved its king too much."
Ethan turned to see his father—not the cold monarch of his youth, but younger, brighter. Michael wore a crimson and gold cloak, dragon-scale pauldrons glinting in the sun, his hair bound in warrior's braid. He sat on a throne atop a dais carved from obsidian and starlight, surrounded by nobles and knights.
There was no crown on his head. He didn't need one.
The room echoed with debate—strategists arguing over the scale of the invasion. A demon horde, vast and ravenous, marched from the deadlands. Spies confirmed they were days from the walls.
"The armies of Caldrithos will not hold," said a noble, voice trembling. "Their magic alone outclasses our best battlemages. We beg you, High King—flee to the skies. Survive. We will hold the walls."
Michael stood slowly.
"No."
The word quieted the room like a blade at the throat.
"I will go. Alone. And I will erase them."
And he did.
The vision shifted violently—dragging Ethan across sky and fire.
Now, he stood atop a blood-soaked field. Beneath him, a thousand demons screamed.
His father's true form towered above all.
A behemoth of black-crimson scales and molten magma veins. Wings wider than city plazas. Horns jagged like mountain ridges. When he roared, it shook the bones of the earth.
Michael descended upon the demon army like judgment made flesh.
Firestorms fell. Mountains melted.
With each wingbeat, a legion perished.
With each swipe of his tail, chasms opened.
His breath—a solar flare—vaporized abominations in mid-charge.
Ethan couldn't look away.
It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
It was perfection turned to madness.
But then… the change came.
Michael's roars stopped sounding like battle cries.
They became screams of pleasure.
Ethan's heart clenched.
His father was laughing. Not with triumph—but with mania.
Bloodlust painted his face in molten cracks. His eyes lost their gold and turned pure infernal white. Ethan saw it. The Blood Rage.
The fire stopped burning only demons.
It burned everything.
Michael hovered above the battlefield, and turned—slowly—toward his own kingdom. His claws twitched. The scent of fear—of mortal fear—wafted from the walls of Caldrithos.
"No," Ethan whispered, taking a step forward. "Don't…"
Michael moved.
The sky broke open with a scream of flame. A single breath—just one—erased the gates. The next vaporized towers. The third—
There were no screams.
Men, women, children. Priests. Scholars. The crown prince. Gone.
Ash. Silence. Ruin.
The castle that kissed the sky fell, and in its reflection… Ethan saw his father's eyes.
Clarity. Horror. Grief.
Michael landed amidst the ashes, his claws trembling. Blood dripped from his maw. And then, finally, the dragon king fell to his knees, his wings folding in agony around him.
He didn't speak. He just wept.
He wept for days.
Ethan returned to the present like he'd been thrown.
The stone beneath him was real again. The air was cold again. But he couldn't breathe.
His knees hit the floor. His hands clenched his hair.
He wanted to scream.
"It was an accident," he said. "You didn't mean—"
"No," Michael's voice cut in. "I meant it."
Ethan looked up, eyes wide with disbelief. Michael stood where he had before—stoic, proud, unmoving. The glow in his eyes dimmed, but the weight in his shoulders remained.
"I wanted them to burn, Ethan. I wanted the screams. That is what Blood Rage does. It grants strength without limits, but it feeds on emotion. It twisted my pride into wrath. My pain into pleasure. My love into destruction."
"And when it was done, when the fire dimmed… I saw nothing left to protect. Only my crime."
Ethan swallowed hard. "But… you came back from it."
Michael's silence was long.
"Barely."
He walked forward, kneeling before his son. It was strange. Michael never knelt.
He placed a firm, calloused hand on Ethan's chest—just over his heart.
"You carry the essence of a Great Wyrm, my son. That fire within you will always hunger to be released. The Blood Rage is in your veins. One day, something will hurt you—deeply. And on that day… your fire will roar back."
"But you must choose."
"Do you master your fire—or does it master you?"
Ethan's eyes burned—not with magic, but with grief. Awe. Understanding.
He placed his hand over his father's.
"I won't let it consume me."
Michael looked down at their joined hands. "Then you must begin the training of the mind—not just the body. Cultivate discipline. Learn patience. Mercy."
He stood and turned, his crimson cloak flowing behind him.
"And if you ever lose yourself… know that I will be there. To stop you. No matter what."
Ethan blinked, eyes wide. "You'd kill me?"
Michael paused at the doorway.
"No," he said quietly. "I'd hold you until the fire remembered who you are."
Then he was gone.
Outside the door, Jonathan sat with his back pressed to the wall. His eyes were wide. His breathing slow.
He hadn't seen the vision—but he'd heard enough.
He stared down at his hands, at the subtle glow of mana now flickering in his veins. He remembered the fire. The pressure. The pain of awakening.
And now, he understood something new.
The boys he called his best friends…
Weren't just dragons.
They were gods, sealed in mortal skin.
And still, somehow… they were human enough to cry.
jonathans thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps.
Michael came back to the room, his gaze set on the three. I've placed a note on the table that excuses you for being late. Maureen called your mom, Jonathan. She explained that we had caused your tardiness, I'll meet you three at the car. We need to go so be quick in getting ready.