The first fragments of consciousness pierce the veil as the light shines down upon Elio Scarfell.

About three years ago, his mother made the executive decision to swap their rooms, giving him the perfect eastern-facing spot for the start of sunrise to rouse him from his sleep. Previously, it was up to her to drag him out of bed every morning - eventually she got older, she got tired, and most importantly, she realised she couldn’t keep babysitting a 15 year old as if he was still 8. It was a jarring change, switching rooms after fifteen or so years of taking the same route into the house and onto his bed. Even now, he sometimes ends up taking a turn into the wrong room, sleeping on the wrong bed after a long, tiring day. Regardless, disorienting as it may have been, it was definitely effective.

Elio hears before he sees. The chirping of the early morning birds is almost soothing enough to plunge him back into the darkness of sleep. The first fight of the day is typically the hardest because no matter how much he trains, sleep always seems to be a formidable opponent. Active effort allows him to crack open his eyes, the glare of the sun his ally in fighting drowsiness, its heat improving the speed of his engine's cold-start. Typically, his eyes seem a deep crimson, yet under the direct rays of the beaming sun they take on a more scarlet complexion; usually, his thin, lenticular pupils blend into the darkness of the puddle of red around it, but beneath the sun’s glow, it’s easily distinguishable. He grumbles like most assume a dragon would - a low, rumbling hum as he lifts his upper body to break the early morning miasma.

A moment of stillness fills the room. A sharp exhale breaks the silence. He brings his body to stand in one swift motion to truly begin his day.

The ground feels translucent, the air feels thick - he would presume that he was still in a dream if not for the slight stiffness of his stomach. As he’d assumed, in his sleep nature had done its work, stitching and suturing whatever damage had been done internally, leaving him good as new… That’s a bit misleading, actually - it was less nature taking the wheel to heal him itself and more so nature’s energy enhancing the rate at which his body naturally healed. If it were nature’s seeming omnipotence that had repaired his injuries, he wouldn’t be stuck with the slight soreness and stiffness that come with new flesh and repaired wounds. More importantly, if nature were to suddenly gain its own free will and start healing people, as much as he liked taking care of the world around him, he definitely wouldn’t be first on its list. He looked down at the bronze skin of his stomach, and on its muscular surface a slightly darker patch of bruising remained, a visual reminder of the damage he’d taken, or rather, the mistakes he’d made. So long as the wound was only superficial, he had no outstanding problems; to Elio, superficial was a broad term that meant ‘won’t kill me,’ but most of the time, his hunch was correct.

His brief walk to the bathroom works to clear the smog of tiredness once and for all.

He looks into the water bucket. No horns, no unusual scale placement. Same old him. Crimson eyes, caramel skin, chocolate hair, cinnamon beneath certain lighting. Not a true dragon yet, sadly, though he was more indifferent than pessimistic.

True Dragons, those who have evolved. In olden times, when truths were passed down as rumours rather than through research, it was said that when a dragon became truly in tune with their ancestry, they would grow into powerful beasts. Some would shake the whole island with a single stomp, others would fill the sky with crackling bolts of lightning, and all of them were known to bend reality to their will at their whim. They made for the perfect bedtime stories or drawings on the walls of caves but as more dragons chose to chase the path of strength, they needed actual answers. As time moved on, the dragons moved away from rumours and towards real research, revealing that, as archaic as the information of their predecessors may have been, it was not entirely untrue. What it was was underdeveloped.

“Attunement of the soul and mastery over nature energy. These in conjunction allow for the evolution of the body physically and for the soul's will to be brought into reality,” - Sole Auctoriotas, Draconic Scholar.

So long as you worked diligently and listened to the true desire of your soul, anyone could reach the next stage… One small issue, of course, being the fact that a soul doesn’t entirely speak directly to anyone. All it does is cause certain courses of action to resonate with them more than others in an unexplainable way. The other issue in regards to evolution is the idea of a ‘trigger’ that developed early on; an individual within a generation of dragons that reaches true dragonhood first and creates a domino effect causing other dragons to evolve afterwards.

Most of Elio’s generation, alongside the older dragons in charge of their development, had reached the reasonable conclusion that Gala Shadeheart was their ‘trigger’. When she evolves, everyone else will, in due time.

It’s audacious for Elio to look down into the water and expect a change - he’s essentially assigning the role of ‘trigger’ to himself, holding the hopes and dreams of his allies on his shoulders. A generous view would be that this was him hoping to alleviate the burden of expectations on his dear friend. A realistic view was that he was delusional enough to think he was the unexpected underdog, one that would cause a chain reaction in his wake, felt for years to come. Either way, it was only for a fleeting moment that he glanced at his appearance in the water before cupping it in his hands and lifting it towards his face, soaking his visage in the silvery water’s cool embrace.

He guides small amounts of water over stretches of his skin, allowing its chilled moisture to seemingly vitalise him and clear the smog of yesterday's activities. Once they’d split up for the holidays, he’d planned to take the opportunity to have a full bath to purify his body, so he’d have to make do with a light shower for now; the floor of the bathroom is lightly painted with residual water as he shakes off like some sort of wild animal. He looks back into the water again, raising his hands to his hair and slicking it back in one swift motion before smiling at his reflection. He couldn’t foresee how he would look with horns or scales across parts of his body, but he knew he looked damn good without them.

Next stop, the kitchen.

Years of experience in training have taught him the importance of a very specifically balanced meal in the morning… Maybe calling it a meal is giving it too much credit. When he gets home from training and gets to gorge himself on something packed to the brim with meat and sustenance, that is a meal. Fish soup, sand-bear ribs, grilled seagull, each accompanied by sauces and a side of vegetables, maybe even a fruit beverage to push it all down, that is a meal. Sitting at a table with all the time in the world to enjoy food that will make him weary with its weight alone, that is a meal. Right now, all he was doing was crawling around the kitchen looking for whatever small scraps could hold his stomach until it was time for lunch. That was no meal, just a glorified snack, even for a cockroach.

The sounds of pantries being opened and closed one by one fill the kitchen in a constant rhythm. One opens, gets checked for about five or so seconds, and then is closed. Another opens, gets a slight bit more time spent, but ends up closed again. Cutlery, seasonings, dried leaves, spices, dead worms (edible, but better used as bait than as a snack), food that was still marinating… He’s not spoilt for choice here; in fact, he doesn’t see himself as having a choice. A cabinet closer to the end is swung open with slight frustration, revealing the forbidden fruit - the whole hind leg of a sand-bear, covered in semiclear paper, coated in a caramel colour that makes it clear just how crispy its flesh is. He shuts his eyes so tight you may think the light of the sun itself was attempting to burn his cornea to ashes; he bites his lower lip tightly and draws in a deep breath to steel himself in the face of earthly temptation. The leg was for a special meal: the day after the warriors would break up for their brief summer break, his mother promised him that they would eat it together, a real lunch to celebrate him getting this far. It would also act as an opportunity for them to sit down and enjoy a real meal together without her son being weighed down by the fatigue of a day's training or rushing to get out of the house to train some more. There was one simple stipulation that he needed to abide by to get this reward - he wasn’t allowed to touch the meal a single time before the day they would have it; doing so meant his mother would eat what remained by herself, leaving Elio to simply watch, green with envy. Don’t touch it, simple enough…

“I’m so fucking hungry man…” Easier said than done, of course. A deep exhale fills the air alongside the creaking of the pantry door as Elio finds himself closing the cupboard; saliva subconsciously fills his mouth as if his body were preparing for him to forsake the future for the present. He’d been taught better than to allow that to happen, as much as he really, really, really, really, really, really, REALLY wanted to eat, like, right now.

If his mother wished to teach him discipline, this would be fine, but he already knew discipline, so this was just a cruel test.

The next pantry reveals what he would be snacking on that morning; a batch of fresh fruit lingers in front of him, mostly of the citrus variety, though a few wild pears and vegetables were options too. It was a second choice, but it was food nonetheless. Elio grabs a singular orange, nice and round, beginning to peel back its thick hide to reveal the sweet flesh below. Once he’d opened up a large enough hole, he sank his teeth into it with the fervour of a man who’d been starved for days. It’s slightly to be expected as yesterday’s ‘dinner’ (which was simply a fish he’d caught from the river, eaten raw) had been spilled onto the ground by Zephyr's punch before it could fully be digested. He doesn’t think back on that; rather, he focuses on savouring the fruit's sweetness, bite after bite, squelch after squelch, until it’s eventually reduced into nothing but a pulpy shell.

“I taught you to eat with more grace than that…”
“Don’t think being in a rush is an excuse to turn into a slob.”

He’s interrupted in the middle of wiping the remains of the fruit from the bottom of his lip in the kind of way you’d expect a vampire to react when interrupted mid-feed. He turns his head towards his mother with a smile spreading across his face that tells her all she needs to know about his guilt. It seemed he’d allowed himself to grow sloppy under the assumption that she’d be asleep at this early hour in the morning; by some stretch of misfortune, be it his loudness or random chance, she ended up standing by the doorway of the kitchen.

Freida Scarfell. Looking at her made it increasingly obvious where Elio’s looks came from - the same caramel skin, the same chocolate hair, the same change to cinnamon that the light of the early morning created, filtering through the windows. Beyond everything else, the same tempered flame, not flickering for weakness but rather for restraint, could be found in her gaze as she looked almost eye to eye with her son, crimson meeting scarlet. She continues to speak, arms crossed, gaze fierce.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself!?”

Elio reflexively finds his back straightening as her voice raises from stern questioning to ferocious commands; this was yet another battle he’d always found himself losing - in the face of his mothers authority he couldn’t help but bend the knee. A final gulp sends whatever remains of the orange into his stomach, allowing him to answer clearly, lest he be scolded again.

“I didn’t know you’d be awake is all…”
“I just needed a quick snack before heading ou-”

A few steps close the gap between the two by a considerable amount as Freida cuts off her son’s excuses, “Because you missed dinner yesterday.”

An unintelligible noise leaves the mouth of the boy. The one thing Elio had hoped for, beyond anything else, was for her not to notice that he hadn't arrived until much after the sun had set, and that he’d gone straight to bed the moment he reached home. He’d simply neglected the fact that when it came to her son, no matter how old Freida grew, her memory, instinct, and senses remained as sharp as any blade.

“Mom, liste-”

“Don’t ‘mom’ me, what happened?”

He exhales dejectedly; there’s an immediate understanding that no amount of attempts to smooth things over would work better than telling the truth, so he starts by doing so, in a roundabout way.

“I… got into a tiny, small bit of trouble.” As vague as he can possibly make it.

“You got into a fight.” Straight to the answer.

“Yee… Uh… Maybe?-” A foolish attempt to divert her gaze.

“You got into a fight.” A steadfast stance. A mother's instincts.

At this point, Elio had given up on trying to soften the blow of the truth, and with another sigh, this one more dejected than before, he began to actually, as quickly as he could, retell last night's tale.

“Okay we had to do a lap around the island before we were allowed to go home but once I reached the end I was really hungry so I caught a fish at the river and ate it and then Gala asked me to light her cigarette so I stayed behind to do it and-” A brief, yet somehow long, inhale, filling his lungs back up before he continues. “-Eventually her brother Zephyr came and started to give us shit because Gala needed to come home so we argued for a bit and he punched me in the stomach and I threw up the fish I ate and then we fought for a little bit and then he went home and then she went home and then I came home.”

Freida takes a moment, both to digest the story she’d just been given, and to scan her son's face for authenticity - she didn’t expect him to lie, but she was still very much in ‘bad cop’ mode. After a second or so her eyes shift, becoming kinder, though still retaining their stern ferocity. So long as he stood here, in front of her, without any sort of physical issue, the situation couldn’t have been too serious, and thus she could let her guard down.

“That serves you right for messing about.”
“Next time, you don’t eat random fish from the river, you don’t help your friends smoke and you don’t stay out late, do you hear me!?”

Elio sulks, not at being scolded… “But the fish tastes so good…” … He sulks at the prospect of not being allowed to indulge in the fruit of the land.

“It only tastes good because you’re tired and you spend so long catching it.”
“You know what would taste better? A home cooked meal, at home!”

Her hand raises to grab the cheek of her son, every drop of her frustration pouring into the pinching strength and causing Elio’s stance to lower and his eyes to water slightly under the stinging pain. She was right, a part of his enjoyment of the fish was up to sunk cost, though a lot of it could also be down to food tasting significantly better when you were the one to procure it (though others may disagree and believe that food tastes better when it’s not yours - this isn’t entirely incorrect, but in Elio’s case he’s a bigger fan of his own effort). What confused Elio in that moment was understanding what she wanted from him: she actively made changes that forced Elio to be more independent, yet punished him for seeking independence? He could never know whether a course of action would please her or not until he does it, in his eyes at least. The confusion leaves a sour look on his face as his mother lets go, shaking her head and returning her arms to their crossed position.

“What’s your schedule today?”

Elio takes a moment to bring himself back from concentrating on the stinging pain of his mother's pinch, hesitating to answer for a moment before he begins, “Uh… Early morning class. Meditation and Natural Studies. Then I’ll probably stay behind to spar for a bit.”

“So I can expect you back here long before sunset?”

A statement posed as a question. What she’d really meant was ‘you’re going to come home as soon as possible, and if you’re back after sunset then you’re in a world of trouble’, but making it a question allowed her to gauge whether he was actually interested in following her instructions. He straightens himself up and exhales dramatically before he offers her the answer she’s looking for.

“Yes ma’am…”

With a smirk, she wraps her arms around his torso. He winces slightly as the tender flesh on his stomach is disturbed once again. She missed when this was the most embarrassing part of his morning, especially the times she’d delay her goodbye hugs until his friends would come by their house so he’d be called ‘mommy’s boy’. Now he simply hugged her back: the feeling of her son's warmth in a tight embrace replacing that of him squirming beneath her vice grip. Boring… But satisfying in its own way…

Something wavers in her chest as the hug is broken and her only son swiftly exits through the front door. For the first time in a while, she’d noticed that he’d grown to be a whole head taller than her.

---

 

The grass in the school's courtyard area lacks the distinct rustle that is to be expected as it is stepped over, the sound much more damp as the morning dew is broken by the second student to arrive, Elio Scarfell. He didn't have a lot of distance to cover, seeing as both his home and the school were in the same general area, but he’d still broken a bit of a sweat attempting to fight the early morning chill with the warmth of his body. It didn’t help that he’d opted to wear a white short-sleeved t-shirt as opposed to a jumper, though this was him future-proofing his outfit in case any sort of physical activities became part of his agenda (by his own volition, of course). His outfit overall was more for flexibility and comfort whilst moving, rather than any sort of warmth retention: on his lower half, he wore a pair of black tracksuit bottoms, which had seen a lot of destruction and repairing, and his slippers, the best footwear for immediate discarding, if the time came where he needed his bare feet.

The first to arrive? Yes, it would make sense to put the highlight on the earliest bird.

That would be who Elio was acting as a worm for, after all.

A black splotch in a perfect landscape so vibrant with the colours of the early morning that it’s more akin to a picture than real life; an eyesore… Well, that would be quite mean of Elio to say, or even think, but it was by no means untrue that Morrigan Abraxas Blackmoore held a jarring contrast in comparison to the courtyard's scenery. Yes, his complexion was no different than the Shadehearts with his black hair and fair skin; what truly separated them was their presence. Gala, and even Zephyr by some measures, were full of life, for a lack of better description - you could see it at a simple glance in their direction: their mannerisms, the look in their eye, their inherent style, they all brought life to their presence without even a word being spoken. To say that the esteemed Number Two was lacking in life, style, or a certain look in his eye was wholly untrue - different he may have been to others, but he was still his own being, and a unique one at that. It’s simply the fact that he was probably one of the gloomiest-looking people you’ll ever see in your life. His presence transformed what should have been the silver glow of his eyes into a stagnant grey and what should have been the fair tone of his skin into a pure white, turning his visage monochrome and putting him at constant opposition with the island's colour.

“Heh, you never plan on slacking, do you, Number Two?”

There’s a certain charm to the strictness of monochrome. It’s like unsweetened coffee. An acquired taste, one that Elio has had years to grow accustomed to.

“Not with you on my tail, Scarfell. I don’t have the luxury.”

“Funny, last night Gala said the same thing.” Each step brings Elio closer to the bench Morrigan is sitting on, with Morrigan only breaking their eye contact to copy Gala’s signature eye-roll with a spiritual smirk on his face (meaning his face hadn’t changed, but Elio could tell exactly what face goes with his words and actions). A brow is raised by the seated man for a moment.

“Really now?”

“Yeah, complaining about how relentless you are.”
“Saying if she relaxes for even a moment you’ll threaten to overtake her.”

An uncharacteristically emotional sigh escapes Morrigan’s lips. It was long enough to portray the absurdity of the situation, and additionally, how pointless their Number One’s complaints were.

“Haaaaah… She can’t relax because I’m on her tail.”
“I can’t relax because you’re on my tail.”
“You can’t relax because Yelena is on your tail.”

His head leans back, his arms over the top of the bench's wooden backrest, looking directly towards the silky sky above. The gloom that many assumed enveloped him like a thick fog was most present at this moment, leaving Elio within its midst. He stood only a meter or so away from where he had sat in that dark cloud as Morrigan began to speak once again.

“Everyone is someone’s tail to chase and everyone is chasing someone else’s tail.”
“Except Gala, who somehow, without a tail to chase, just keeps speeding up.”
“Do you think that proves the push of being chased is stronger than that of chasing?”

A foot is planted on the bench, just by Morrigan's side, slightly shaking its structure as Elio drags him back to reality. The stomp immediately abates the smoke of gloom that seemed to surround the pair. The seated boy leans forward, lowering his gaze enough for the two of them to meet eye to eye once again; Elio’s gaze, and the face they’re set in, holds a look of smug ignorance that Morrigan’s eyes simply bore into.

“Your words are wasted, Big M, as much as the idea is interesting.”
“I’m not here to engage in thought debates, I’m here to get stronger.”

“You’re right. How foolish of me.” He says, a hint of frustration coating his voice as he rises to his feet. Elio is forced to take a step back to give him space, removing his foot from beside where he sat, mirroring the straightness of his classmate’s back as they exchange challenging looks. A ten or so centimeter difference in their heights means, in a fit of irony, that Elio needs to look up to meet the gaze of his superior - not by a significant amount, but by one that anyone, including the pair of them, would take notice of immediately. With a tilt of the head, Morrigan continues.

“How does a warmup sound, or do you plan on staring me down all morning?”

“Depends. Are you ready to lose to me while I’m injured?”

As Elio turns away from Morrigan, towards the grassy space of the courtyard, the latter raises a brow once again, following slightly behind. As far as he and everyone else present yesterday were concerned, Morrigan was roughed up a little by the bout, but not enough to where he should be ‘injured’. The stiff silence beckons Elio to answer, with proof rather than an explanation initially; a turn and a raise of his shirt reveals his bruised torso, a look of slight astonishment replacing the confusion on Number Two’s face. After that, the dots weren’t all that hard to connect - the only one who could injure him that heavily with what seemed to be a single strike would be a true dragon, and whilst he had no idea who it could have been, he was certain that Elio had somehow pissed them off.

It’s never on purpose that he pisses people off. It’s on purpose that he follows his gut no matter who’s in opposition to him. People getting pissed off is just an unfortunate consequence of being too real.

“You plan on facing me regardless of that?”

“Nothing too intense. Just a set of Dragon Tag. First to Five.”

That statement alone is enough to get a laugh out of Morrigan, a scoffing laugh that is in equal parts condescending and humoured, tainted enough to cause Elio’s face to slightly stiffen.

“An off the record match against you whilst you’re injured?”
“There’s no point in me even trying then if the result’ll mean nothing.”
“You’ll say it doesn’t count because there were no witnesses…”
“... Or you’ll say I beat you because you weren’t in peak condition.”

“Scared, Number Two?”

Blood pressure spikes, and a vein begins to bulge at the side of his forehead - not from hatred, but from annoyance. He doesn’t even need to look to his left to find out who’d just arrived at the perfect moment to ignite his will to fight; the roguish voice of someone concerned only with her own entertainment could never be confused with anyone else. A perfect assist, instigation in a moment that changes Morrigan’s demeanour entirely from apathy to determination. If they had an audience, the match could be treated as official, and having the best eyes in their cohort as their referee gave it that bit more pedigree as Gala stops a metre or so away from the pair. She begins, looking at both of their faces as if to be the judge of their condition.

“Because what I see, as an audience-in-waiting, is a challenge being issued...”
“... And as far as injuries go, based on what I can see, both of you are fit and healthy.”
“So are you declining or-”

“Fine. I accept your challenge, Elio Scarfell.”

They were already between the lines of warfare; their duel was bound to happen regardless of her interference, but Gala had given them that slight puff of air that turned a fading light into devouring flames. Each of them receives a final, challenging look, as if warning them not to disappoint her, before she moves to take a seat on the bench they’d come from. She wasn’t going to get through to either of them at this point, with them preparing for the duel and all - physically and mentally. Both took their sweet time placing their back feet on their point-lines, both took their sweet time deciding the stance they’d use and what style of play they’d follow, both used those moments, drawn out over seconds, to fill their mind with all the tools to reach the summit of victory. It’s in moments like these where the gloomy monochrome of Morrigan’s visage is dispelled, the sunlight coating him in a sheen that truly brings him to life. His vision stays affixed to his opponent, but his next few words are targeted at someone just outside of his gaze, one who he can feel the eyes of even as he filters away everything unimportant from his senses.

“Watch closely, number one.”
“Don’t take your eyes off us for even a moment.”

Was it a threat that Gala would be next after he defeated Elio? Was it a promise that she’d be thoroughly entertained by their duel? Was it a call for her to witness just how small the gap was between the three of them? Or was it just him telling her to take her position as a referee seriously? For her, it was all of these, and that only served to make her more excited to see the result of this match. Yes, it was only a set of Dragon Tag, a taste test essentially for everyone involved, but a glimpse at the full meal was enough to get her blood pumping already, let alone those about to actually fight.

A simultaneous exhale as Gala’s voice is raised above the sounds of the whistling wind.

“Elio, you’ll be the starter point-man as the challanger, okay?”
“The first to five victories will be announced the winner of the set.”

The silence is the only indicator of their acceptance, their stillness the only indicator of their preparation, their hands outstretched, their eyes locked, their wills petrified. There was nothing on the line but pride…

“Round One…”

Did they really need anything else?

“Begin.”