Rakonath couldn’t believe the difference his bloodline made in everything. His speed in the air made yesterday’s flights feel like a slow glide. Power thrummed through marrow and scale. Even his dragon core, nestled like a jeweled furnace in his stomach, pulsed hotter and steadier. Max… you and I… whatever we become, I look forward to devouring those foolish enough to stand in our path. [ Unique Bloodline Created ] ‎ [ Awaiting System’s Acceptance ] ‎ [ Bloodline Error ] ‎ [ Bloodline Transformation ] ‎ [ Bloodline Accepted ] ‎ [ Bloodline – Unique – Bloodline of a Marked One ] ‎ [ +75% to All Stats ] ‎ [ +25% to All Physical & Magical Attacks ] ‎ [ +25% to All Physical & Magical Resistances ] The windows faded, leaving only the echo of that last line— Marked One. Marked by whom? Part of him wanted to believe it was Wekime, somehow possibly adjusting the scales of power with a talon. Another part thought it had to be Max and the connection they shared, and how the black skill marked the man. Still, Rakonath wanted to believe it was something else. He had been marked by something greater than a god or gods. He had been marked by purpose , he decided. With that thought firmly planted in his mind, he banked through a current, letting the wind slide over newly hardened scales. He could see the world unfold in a single glance. Far away, Embergrove’s lanterns winked within the forest like buried stars, and beyond it, past rolling grasslands and the silver thread of the river, set upon the stone mountain of Hearth Deep rose an obelisk. One hundred yards of black stone—no seam, no flaw—thrust up from a rock as if the world itself had grown a tooth. Power radiated off it in slow pulses, a heartbeat synced to six others scattered across allied capitals. Rakonath felt each pulse as a different flavor: Cordellia’s warmth, Sog’s iron determination, Tanila’s gentle, patient current, Fowl and Batrire’s grounded steadiness, Jazzjak’s … well, Jazzjak didn’t have one, but their helper’s fingerprints were everywhere in all this, and Max’s—Max’s was power and a river of hope. The dragons had gathered here because Rakonath had called them. He spiraled down, talons hammering sparks from the obsidian platform, wings folding with a crack. Dust and heat swept outward. Hundreds of dragons ringed the clearing in concentric arcs, scale colors circling the obelisk he had raised. Sapphires, emeralds, iron greys, molten golds, reds, and other colors all witnessed his newest accomplishment. Some were ancient, horns ridged, and eyes like glaciers. Some were little more than wyrmlings, still tripping over their tails, eyes wider than their heads seemed able to contain. Every snout turned toward him. Every chest rumbled, respect vibrating the stone beneath their wings. He was not the oldest here. Not the first to claim the sky. But he was their Marked One . Their god. And they felt it now. His bloodline sang that truth into their bones. Rakonath lifted his head, tasting the air. “Flight,” he rumbled, and the word rolled across the clearing like thunder. “Today, we mark a beginning. Not with conquest, though there will be battles. Not with hoarded gold, though you’ll have plenty. We mark it with duty . With legacy .” A ripple of approving growls rose like the wind. He let his gaze fall to a particular dragon near the front—the cobalt hide that caught his eye stood out next to the black obelisk stone. Vaelion, an elder blue dragon, storm-blooded, eyes like a storm about to break upon a continent. “Vaelion,” Rakonath said, voice softening. “Step forward.” Vaelion approached, lowering his head in deference. “Marked One.” Rakonath’s lips peeling back in a mock-snarl before easing into a grin. “We do not crown kings in a sky too wide to fence. We name alphas. Those who lead when leadership is needed, and listen when it is not.” A murmur hummed through the ranks, pleased. “I name you Alpha of the Flight, ” Rakonath said, and the obelisk pulsed once, the black stone seeming to drink in his words. “You already bear my spark. You will choose four more to carry it. Different ages—one nearly ancient, one in their prime, one newly matured, and one wyrmling. So there will always be a claw ready that understands the stage of each who follows.” Vaelion’s pupils narrowed, then eased. “I accept.” Lightning danced along the ridge of his spine. Rakonath knew the elder was putting on a show, but he’d earned it. Vaelion glanced back over the crowd. “I already have thoughts.” “I know.” Rakonath’s smirk turned fond. “You always have thoughts. Speak one. Now.” Vaelion’s gaze slid to the back, where a red spark of movement quivered near the shadow of the obelisk’s base. A wyrmling—more hatchling than anything—scales like a ruby, wings still awkward. She was pouncing on her own tail, missing, tumbling, popping back up with a little snort of smoke. “Shale Spark,” Vaelion said. “She burns bright. And…” He hesitated, a rare thing. “I have seen her with… the little half-elf. Miranna.” Rakonath’s chest hummed. “Max and Tanila’s child,” he murmured. “You think—?” “I think,” Vaelion said carefully, “that the human—” “Half-elf,” Rakonath corrected automatically. “—the child sees more than most. And Shale Spark feels her. Not hunger. Not prey. Something… like wind finding a valley, it fits.” Rakonath’s eyes narrowed, then softened. Miranna with a dragon bond? The image warmed him. Graceful little thing, stubborn as a rooted oak. He could see Max pretending he didn’t worry and Tanila pretending she didn’t encourage it. “We do not decide bonds,” Rakonath said. “But we can set paths that cross more often.” He lifted his head. “Vaelion, craft your list. Bring it to me before moonrise. We will give sparks before the night ends.” Vaelion inclined his head. “As you will.” Rakonath shifted, wings twitching. “All of you,” he called, addressing the ring of dragons. “Hear me. Hear why we rise above the world.” A silence fell as each dragon waited for his words. “We fly above not to look down on those below, but to watch over . We are the barrier between sky and storm.” He gestured with his muzzle toward the eastern horizon, where the ocean lay. “Across that sea, storms brood. Not just wind and rain, but hunger wearing the faces of gods. When the gale comes, who stands between clawless folk and ruin?” His tail lashed, scoring a line in the stone. “We do. We will.” A chorus of growls vibrated in answer. “Loyalty,” Rakonath continued, letting the word settle. “To each other. Honor, when tempted to take an easy meal from frightened hands or gold that was not earned by our claws. Legacy—because we are long-lived, and what we do echoes longer than our wings beat.” He glanced at a cluster of younger drakes, their eyes wide, jaws slightly ajar. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. “You are not hoard - goblins,” he snarled, and several elders chuckled. “You are not beasts to be tamed. You are dragons. Your hoard is not just gold, but the lives you shelter, the skies you keep clear, and children who sleep because your shadow spreads wide.” The obelisk pulsed again, as if somehow the stone approved. He turned, letting his flank brush the monolith. Power slid over his scales—a sensation like warm rain, like memory. Not just his obelisk’s power, but the others as well. The dragons shifted, each feeling it. A subtle gift layered by gods who’d chosen trust over hoarding. “Each of you,” Rakonath said, “receives strength from seven stones, not one. Because we chose to grow together. Because a forest, a forge, a tower, a warren, a nest, and a city,” he snorted, “they all weather storms better when their roots are tangled.” A low murmur seemed to radiate from all those gathered. Rakonath felt the moment settle. His speech was finished, and the formalities that had to be observed were completed. Now came the part he liked least: ceremony. Words were one thing; rituals mattered to mortals, but dragons… dragons preferred roars and broken mountains. Cordellia had told him that traditions built a legacy. He knew what he needed to do. I owe Ophelius… bah, Jazzjak, for showing me this. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novel·fire.net He lifted a claw, slicing it across the air. A ripple of golden light unfolded, forming a circle above the dais. The simplest of system windows appeared, visible to all who were gathered. [ Establish Flight Hierarchy? ] ‎ [ Broadcast: All Registered Dragons ] He didn’t want to hide the pop-up. They needed to see and understand the mechanics of the system that controlled their lives. It was more important to let them know this wasn’t hidden rulership. This was something he had chosen. Light cascaded, forming runes in the air. “Vaelion,” Rakonath boomed, words echoing. “Alpha. My bloodline is now yours!” Lightning arced from the obelisk’s peak to Vaelion’s chest. The dragon jerked, then bowed, electricity dancing over his horns. “First Pillar,” Rakonath continued, “will be Elder Marhys , an ancient to counsel.” A white dragon, the size of a barn, lifted its head, snorting approval that fogged the air. “Second Pillar, in their prime is Kezrak the Verdant.” A jade-green male thumped his tail. “Third Pillar, reaching a new state of maturity is Iress of the Twin Flames.” A bi-colored drake, gold and scarlet, flapped her wings twice. “The Fourth Pillar is the wyrmling Shale Spark. May we never forget where we started and the path we desire to take as we grow.” Vaelion bowed in agreement. Formality done, Rakonath exhaled. He let his bulk relax, lowering his head until his muzzle nearly touched the monolith’s base. He could feel the hum of DP within, the way Jazzjak had promised them all it was worth the cost. The daily trickle had already climbed. Faith, crafting, quests, and fighting all contributed to the number he so desperately needed to protect those he loved. He looked up. Vaelion stood close. “May I speak plainly?” Vaelion asked quietly. Rakonath snorted. “You always do. Speak.” “Some of the elders…” Vaelion’s gaze flicked to the back lines. “They will follow, but they feel… unheard. They have hoards, but also stories . The dreams we share and know fill our minds. Let them tell those stories our father has told you. Let the young know why we do not raid, why we watch the sea. Not just because you say, but because they remember when no one did.” Rakonath tilted his head. He hadn’t expected that . He had forgotten how important the dreams Aerthen had shared with him as a wyrmling were. “Arrange it,” he said. “Gather them in roost - circles. Record them. We’ll carve some of the important ones into the obelisk’s inner face if we must.” Vaelion’s eyes brightened. “It will be done.” Rakonath flicked a wingtip. “And Shale Spark and the other wyrmlings?” Vaelion sighed. “Her clutch still listens, barely. But she will wander. Already she sneaks to watch the child. The half-elf, Miranna.” Rakonath’s lip curled fondly. “She’s going to give Max ulcers.” Vaelion’s teeth flashed. “Good. He will share how I feel every time I see her head that way.” Rakonath laughed. “I am certain someday Miranna and Shale Spark will dance together in the sky. Moments ago, I saw Cordellia and her people dancing. It would appear the whole world is celebrating. Even us.” “We dance in the air,” Vaelion replied. “I shall make sure the younger ones learn the moves to how we celebrate.” Rakonath thumped him with his tail. “Go then. Bring the dragons I spoke of to me, and then I will pass on the sparks to each. For now, we feast. I hear Batrire’s new brew… foams.” Vaelion winced. “More like it foams like acid.” “Like victory ,” Rakonath corrected, spreading his wings. Vaelion bowed and leapt, lightning appearing off as the new alpha took flight. Rakonath stayed a moment longer, watching Shale Spark chase her tail, then paused, head cocking as if she heard something he couldn’t. Her little nostrils flared. Somewhere far off, he imagined Miranna laughing, that bright sound that seemed to light up a room. The wyrmling’s wings fluttered a second later. Legacy, Rakonath thought, not for the first time. It isn’t gold. It’s who remembers you after you’re ash, and what they do with that memory. He turned to the dragons still near him again. “Flights dismissed! Eat. Tell stories. Teach the young how to ride a thermal without crashing into a mountain!” A wave of draconic amusement of thrums washed over the area. Wings flapped as bodies took to the sky in staggered lifts, the air filling with downdraft. Some stayed, curling near the obelisk to bask in its pulses. Others lumbered toward the roasting pits Fowl had built big enough to feed a dragon’s belly. Silly dwarf, bragging about how big he could make it. Rakonath moved carefully to the obelisk’s base, lowering his head until his nose pressed the cool stone. It hummed against his scales. Beneath the hum, he swore he heard voices—Cordellia’s speech, Tanila’s prayers, Sog’s bombastic vow to punch the universe. Threads woven together. Loyalty. Honor. Legacy. He cracked an eye. A tiny shape stood in the corner of the platform—Shale Spark. She blinked up at him, pupils huge, smoke snorting from her nostrils. She scuffed a claw. “Is it… allowed to sit? By the stone?” “It is if you do not chew it,” he replied. “Come sit by it and feel it. This is what we are . Not just fire and flight. We are… here for them.” He tilted his head toward the villages beyond. “For us. For each other.” She nodded, solemn as only a child could be, and curled her body against the Obelisk, little sides rising and falling. After a moment, she pressed her cheek to the stone. “It feels like… family,” she whispered. Rakonath’s throat tightened. “Yes,” he rumbled. “Exactly that.” He left the quiet wyrmling there. She sat, wings folded, tail coiled around the black stone. The sun slid lower, painting the world in a beauty few things would ever match. Somewhere, music struck—dwarven anvils ringing out. Elven flutes and drums were singing to hearts. Max would most likely be stuffing his face with baked treats. Tanila would be pretending not to watch Miranna laugh and play. Cordellia would be trying not to cry at every second person who thanked her. The pulse from the obelisk synced with his heart. “Good soil,” he murmured, stealing Cordellia’s metaphor because dragons were known for being makers of good lines. “Better guardians.” He rose, shook once, and launched into the air. There were names to hear, sparks to give, a feast to crash, and a world to watch over. The storms would come. That was what storms did. His Flight would be ready to fly against them.