The first time Alex tried to cast a spell, he set his own robe on fire.
It wasn't intentional, of course. He had followed every step from the Spellcraft Primer: firm stance, steady breath, channeling the flow through his core as instructed. But instead of the harmless flicker of guiding light, a wild flame had burst from his palm and climbed up his sleeve like a starving wolf.
The other students never let him forget it.
"Fire Mage Alex, bringer of destruction—of laundry!" they'd chant whenever he walked into the academy yard. Sometimes they threw charred scraps of parchment at him for effect. Creative, really. Painful, but creative.
Now, two years later, he stood alone at the edge of the training grounds, clutching a wooden practice sword that felt far heavier than it should. His tunic clung to his skin, damp with sweat from the midday sun, and his dark curls stuck to his forehead.
"Again," barked Master Verrin from across the yard, his grizzled jaw clenched in disapproval.
Alex raised the blade awkwardly. His arms ached. He swung—
Clang.
Steel met steel, and his blade flew from his hands with a loud thunk, landing a few feet away. Laughter erupted from a cluster of students watching nearby. Of course. They'd stayed just to witness his failure.
"Pick it up," Verrin snapped.
Alex bit the inside of his cheek and walked over to the sword, trying to block out the snickering. His fingers trembled as he bent down. Not from fear—at least, that's what he told himself—but from exhaustion. He had trained harder than anyone that week, desperate to prove he belonged. It hadn't worked.
"Alex," Verrin said, more quietly now. "Your posture is poor. Your balance is worse. You can't rely on brute strength, because you have none. Focus on what you do have. Agility. Heart. Try again."
He nodded, gripping the sword tighter.
In the end, the session ended as they always did—with Verrin sighing and shaking his head, and Alex limping back to the dormitories alone.
---
The Academy of Arkenridge was ancient. Built into the side of the mountain, its spires reached toward the clouds like fingers clawing for forgotten gods. Magic pulsed through its stones, remnants of the old world, before the Age of Silence. Here, the kingdom's most gifted were trained: swordsmen, mages, scholars, and warlords in the making.
Alex wasn't any of those. He was... something else. A fluke, maybe.
He had no noble blood, no known lineage. His father had died before he was born; his mother, a herbalist from a small village in the west, had sent him to the academy with the last of her coin and a tearful hope that he might become something greater.
He wasn't.
On most nights, he'd sit beneath the old twisted tree near the back of the library, its branches curled like gnarled hands, and watch the stars. He liked that they didn't laugh at him. That they didn't expect anything. Just silent watchers in the sky, ancient and kind.
Tonight was different.
As the wind rustled the leaves above him, a low, strange hum reached his ears. It wasn't the breeze. It was... deeper. Like a vibration in the very bones of the world. He sat upright, frowning.
Then he felt it—a pull. Not physical, but undeniably real. Like invisible threads tugging at something within him. His heart pounded. The hairs on his arms stood up.
"Just your imagination," he muttered.
But when he turned, he saw something glowing at the base of the tree. Faint. Flickering. Like blue fire trapped beneath the earth.
He crept forward. The grass beneath his feet crackled with energy. He reached out—hesitantly, foolishly—and touched the light.
It flared.
A rush of images slammed into his mind: wings as wide as castles, eyes like molten gold, a voice that rumbled like thunder through mountains. A name echoed through his skull—Elix—and then a burst of pain so intense it knocked him backward.
He hit the ground hard, gasping.
The light was gone.
He lay there, stunned, his chest heaving. Above him, the stars blinked silently, still watching. But now they felt... closer. Sharper. Aware.
From the shadows, something shifted.
A figure stepped forward—hooded, cloaked in silver threads. His face was hidden, but his voice was ancient.
"It has begun," the man said. "The blood has awakened."
Alex could only stare, too dazed to speak.
The man knelt beside him and placed a cold hand on Alex's forehead. "Do not be afraid. You are the last. The world will hate you for what you are, but it will need you for what you become."
"Who... are you?" Alex croaked.
"A friend," the man said. "One of few left who remembers the truth. Rest now. You'll need your strength."
And just like that, the figure vanished, swallowed by shadow.
Alex sat alone beneath the tree, a soft burn still throbbing in his chest. Whatever had just happened, it wasn't imagination. The hum was gone, but something inside him had changed.
He didn't know it yet, but the first seal had broken.
And far beneath the mountain, a dragon opened its eyes.