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In the heart of Mount Crimson, where volcanic rivers flowed like molten rubies, the warm world of Dragon Land basked in the glow of fire-breathing dragons. Every dragon, from the hatchlings to the elders, could unleash a fiery torrent, except for Ember, the prince. Though his scales shimmered with the same regal sheen as his kin, Ember's attempts at fire resulted in wispy smoke rings and sputters.   His parents, the King and Queen, were consumed by worry. In Dragon Land, fire wasn't just a weapon; it was the bedrock of their society, the symbol of their power and pride. How could a dragon who couldn't breathe fire rule a kingdom built on flames?   They bombarded Ember with spicy foods, fiery potions, and even hired Master Dragon Ashmore, renowned for his fire-breathing techniques. But Ember remained a sparkless ember, with frustration gnawing at him with each failed attempt.   Finally, he was sent to the Molten Rock Academy, with the hope that peer pressure wo

High atop a windswept cliff, far from the cozy communal nests of other birds in the valley below, resided Aethel the mountain hawk-eagle. Aethel was a large, bulky eagle of forested hills. Her small head rested above immensely broad wings, and a large, fanned-out tail. A thin upright crest crowned her regal form. Solitary and focused, she fiercely guarded her nest; overlooking flocks of pigeons below. They huddled together in their soft, feathery nests, with their young ones squawking for scraps scavenged from the town square. Unlike them, her eaglets, Soar and Rye, had a different upbringing. She believed in pushing them beyond their comfort zones. Their nest, woven from coarse branches, lacked the softness of feathers or straw that other birds would usually line their nests with, offering a comfortable abode to their young ones. As weeks rolled by, Aethel deliberately introduced prickly thorns in the bed of the nest. This added to the discomfort of the eaglets and they flapped th