Draconis Genesis: The Dawn of Magic

The cave, if it could be called that, became an increasingly fascinating subject of Drakaryn's reluctant attention. He observed it often now, as Aria's fledgling gaze sharpened further, allowing him to take in details he would have missed before. It was unlike any natural cave he had ever seen—not the jagged, primal hollows dragons clawed into mountainsides or the yawning caverns shaped over millennia by water and time.

The walls here were flat, unnaturally so, as though something with deliberate purpose had smoothed the roughness from the stone. Dragons carved their dens with talons and fire, shaping crude, practical spaces born of necessity and strength. But this place was different—meticulously crafted with care, an effort so methodical it was almost absurd. The walls did not show the chaos of power; they showed control.

Stranger still were the adornments that littered the space, objects whose purposes escaped Drakaryn entirely. Hangings of cloth—rich with colors he now realized were dyed in vivid reds, greens, and deep blues—draped down over sections of the walls. Their edges were embroidered with twisting designs, strange patterns that might have been decorative or perhaps symbols of some kind. Images, too, dotted the stone—a mix of markings and primitive artistry that seemed to tell stories or reflect ideas he could not yet grasp.

There were no treasures of value here. No gleaming scales or polished gemstones. No mana crystals to be consumed. And yet, the humans—the instructors—seemed to treasure these things deeply, placing them carefully in positions of prominence. Drakaryn scoffed inwardly as he studied the cluttered environment through Aria's curious eyes. What pointless vanity, he thought, though a sliver of his mind couldn't dismiss the quiet intricacy of it all. These beings clearly valued something beyond survival.

Even more curious were the flames.

They were small—pathetic by his standards—and yet these creatures carried them with reverence, cradling them in metal bowls or atop strange wooden rods as they moved through the dim cave. The fire's light flickered against the walls, throwing wavering shadows that danced with every movement. At first, Drakaryn had thought they were a part of some ritual. Perhaps a crude display of dominance, as dragons would roar fire into the sky to mark their territory.

But the more he watched, the more he understood. These beings needed the flames.

It was as though they were blind when the light waned, unable to see in the low glow of a mana-saturated environment. Unlike dragons—whose eyes pierced through the densest darkness with ease—these creatures fumbled without their fire. Drakaryn observed the male stumbling once when the light from his hand-wrought torch faltered, muttering curses in that strange melodic tongue as he knelt to relight it.

How weak must they be? Drakaryn mused, his thoughts tinged with disdain. To be so reliant on something so fragile. Fire was power, a weapon. For dragons, it was a tool of destruction, an extension of their might. But here, these creatures relied on fire not to conquer but to survive. Without it, they were helpless.

Yet… they were clever, too.

Drakaryn could not deny that these beings were more than they appeared. They adapted. The fire was small, yes, but it served its purpose, pushing back the darkness they could not see through. It struck him, in a strange way, as a lesser reflection of the cleverness dragons held in their own nature. They did not have scales or talons, nor the strength to rend earth and stone, but they made up for their frailty with cunning.

Over time, Drakaryn began to see more of the cave's intricacies. Aria's vision continued to improve, her eyes focusing on distant objects with increasing clarity. Now, when she looked up, he could see the ceiling of their strange cavern, where beams of dark wood crisscrossed above, carefully fitted together like the bones of a great carcass.

Drakaryn marveled at the precision, though he would never admit it. The beams were not natural; they had been placed there, arranged into a deliberate lattice that held the weight of the earth above. These creatures had shaped their environment, transforming it from a raw hollow into a home.

The idea was alien to him. Dragons adapted to their surroundings, certainly—they claimed caverns and cliffs, bending the land to their needs with fire and claw—but they did not build. This place was not simply survival. It was something more.

The days continued to pass, their rhythm slow and predictable. Aria's world remained small but endlessly fascinating to her, and through her, Drakaryn watched and listened. The instructors' voices filled the cavern constantly, their tones a mix of melodic encouragement and hushed murmurs that carried hints of worry and care.

It was during one of these exchanges that Drakaryn finally began to make sense of their speech. It was subtle at first, like finding faint mana threads in an otherwise barren land. A word would repeat itself often—soft, clear, and directed toward the fledgling.

"Aria," the female instructor would say, her voice gentle and bright.

"Aria," the male echoed, his deeper tone firm but no less tender.

The girl would respond with clumsy noises, her mouth moving awkwardly as though trying to mimic them. Drakaryn listened closely, testing the sound silently in his mind. Aria. It was her name—he was certain of it. Names carried weight, even in this world. Dragons were named to reflect their strength, their purpose, their destiny. To speak one's name was to acknowledge their existence, to give them shape and power.

He repeated it to himself silently, feeling the syllables roll across his thoughts. There was something strange about this name, though he couldn't yet determine what. It was simple, far too simple for something so significant.

Aria.

It was then that he noticed something else—something that sent a faint shiver of unease through him.

Whenever the name was spoken, the girl would look up, her eyes shining with clarity and focus. It was as though the word tethered her attention, anchoring her to the here and now. Drakaryn could feel her energy stir faintly when it was said, a subtle hum that resonated in a way he couldn't explain.

Do they know what they're doing? he wondered. Or is this instinct—something ingrained in their kind?

Whatever it was, the sound of her name lingered in his thoughts like an echo. It was more than a label. It was intent given form.

As Aria's vision sharpened and her movements grew steadier, her world expanded—slowly but undeniably. She explored the cavern more now, crawling across the smooth stone floor with relentless determination. The instructors followed her carefully, their melodic voices drifting down as they encouraged her.

She would reach out with her hands—clumsy still, but improving—touching the strange objects that filled the cave. Drakaryn saw them clearly now: tables crafted from wood, benches draped with cloth, small objects stacked neatly on shelves. Cups and bowls of ceramic sat carefully arranged, alongside polished tools whose functions eluded him.

There were no jagged edges here. Everything was smooth, shaped by hands that lacked strength but made up for it with precision. Even the tools seemed to carry a deliberate purpose, honed and refined to suit their needs.

At night, when the fires were lit, the flickering light would cast shadows across the walls, bringing the images and patterns into sharper focus. Drakaryn studied them often, fascinated by the strange, winding shapes. Some were abstract, like tangled threads, while others formed clear pictures—figures of beings like Aria's kind, their hands raised toward the sun, surrounded by curling flames or waves of water.

Stories, perhaps. Or prayers.

They have a culture, he realized with no small amount of surprise. They are more than just prey.

Drakaryn's observations were punctuated by his own quiet frustrations. For all the time he spent tethered to this creature, he still did not understand why it was happening or how to stop it. He was a dragon, a creature of immense strength and dominance. To be bound in this way—to witness the world through the eyes of something so weak—was humiliating. And yet… he couldn't look away.

There was something here, something important. Aria's name echoed in his thoughts, its resonance growing stronger with each passing day.

He watched as the girl took another unsteady step, her balance improving, her gaze alight with the same fierce determination he recognized in fledgling dragons. The instructors' voices rose in celebration, their faces filled with pride and joy.

Drakaryn narrowed his focus, watching closely as Aria's small hands reached out to steady herself on a table's edge. Her fingers gripped the polished wood, her knuckles white with effort as she pulled herself upright.

Weak, he thought absently. But persistent.

And persistence, he knew, was the foundation of strength.

With that thought lingering in his mind, Drakaryn sank deeper into his slumber, the hum of Aria's world surrounding him like a distant song. He still did not understand what had tethered him to her—or why—but for now, he would watch. He would learn.

Because if there was one thing Drakaryn knew with certainty, it was this: even the smallest, most fragile creatures could hold secrets worth uncovering.