Act 1: The Mask of Mortals
The city of Kaelridge, where steel towers rose like thorns into smoky skies, seemed like any other metropolis—at a glance.
Neon lights bled across glass towers. Laughter mixed with engine growls. Humanity danced in blissful ignorance—while ancient gods walked in their midst, wearing mortal skin. Mana rippling beneath their disguise.
But beneath the concrete, beneath the skin—dragons dreamed in silence, waiting for a world worth burning or worth saving. But until then, they blend into modern society, a decree from the royal dragon family. All who are wise bow to their royal decree. Or face death by the king.
Ethan adjusted the collar of his black jacket, the red lining catching firelight from the rising sun. To everyone at Wyrmwood High, he was just another weird goth kid with crimson-red eyes with vertical pupils. Everyone just thought they were contacts to give an edge to his gothic aesthetic. He unsettled people with his gaze. Ethan had long, flowing deep red and black hair that extends past his waist.
He looked too graceful when he walked, like gravity hadn't fully claimed him—but no one dared question it. Everyone knew the two black belt Wilders have been apart of the martial arts club since first year, both of them winning medals and trophies in kickboxing, jujitsu, Muai Thai and Karate. They've won countless championships for the school. When the brothers participated in these championships it looked like it was second nature, breezing through fights like a dance of pain and elegance.
Ethan walked through the halls, a mischievous smile on his face as he walked to first hour calculus
beside him Elijah walks with silent steps. He has intense storm blue-grey eyes—sharp and alert like lightning poised to strike. His long black hair is tied back and streaked with electric blue highlights,
Elijah didn't speak much. He didn't have to. His silence carried weight, and when his gaze locked onto someone, it felt like a storm poised to strike.
They were not ordinary boys.
Elijah and Ethan were born of royalty—of Queen Maureen the Flame Mother, and King Michael the Iron Wyrm. Dragons whose names were etched into the bones of mountains, whispered in the winds that danced across time. Once, their kind ruled freely, their wings blotting out suns, their fire shaping continents. But then came the great culling.
Human fear had grown too great. Technology had turned desperation into war. And so, the dragons fell into legend.
It was Maureen herself who had proposed the masquerade. That their children be born and raised among humans—not to dominate, but to understand them.
"We must know their weakness," she had said, "and their strength. Only then can we decide if they are worth saving… or burning."
And so the dragon princes were hidden away behind charm, secrecy, and mortal names.
But even the strongest masks can crack.
At school, Ethan and Elijah played the part well. They aced every test without seeming to try, always standing just far enough away from trouble to be admired—but not feared. Ethan charmed teachers and classmates alike. His warm laughter disarmed suspicion, his casual brilliance mistaken for gifted luck.
Elijah… was different.
He wasn't liked so much as respected. Or avoided. His silence made people uneasy. His presence thinned crowds. And yet, no one dared confront him. He moved like something watching from beneath the ice—still, until it wasn't.
When they moved, the air bent around them. Not visibly—but people stepped back. Instincts old as bone whispered, predator. Not human. Never human.
Ethan's true talent, however, was how he moved. In gym class, his agility defied explanation. In martial arts club, he flowed through ancient stances that looked mortal but carried the ghost of draconic war forms. His instructors called him a prodigy.
They didn't know he'd been trained by warlords whose names had been lost to time.
Elijah's gifts ran deeper. His magic simmered beneath the skin—lightning that crackled behind his eyes, water moved when he breathed. His elemental affinity was rare: stormborn. Once, a student tried to shove him in the locker room. The pipes burst a second later. Superheated water scalded the walls and they bastards who dared lay a finger on him, the boiling water permanently damaged, the students face, leaving him disfigured. The water never touched Elijah.
Only Ethan had seen his brother cry.
Only Ethan had heard him laugh.
In a world that felt foreign, Ethan was Elijah's anchor—his fire, his balance, the purpose within his storm.
They were fire and ice.
Blood of kings.
Children of apocalypse pretending to be boys.
And the mask of mortals… was starting to slip.