Everything aches. His muscles scream for release the same way they would had he just ran an uphill marathon, his lungs gasping as they fight for breath. Who knew magic could be so damn exhausting? His skinned knees sting as he desperately tries to clamber to his feet, but he can't, not without releasing the tether of magic that draws him to the wall he's created. So he flops limply back down, legs bent uncomfortably beneath him.

His pain isn't helped by the fact he can feel Vérzés' aches, too. The dragon had, after all, just flown full-tilt into a wall of solid rock, and he rouses himself from the ground with a disgruntled chirp. Bruises rupture beneath his crimson scales and his pain mingles with Volterra's, their interwoven minds a blur of agony. But the red is alive. If it weren't for the wall, the titanic colt would be suffering a far greater pain, as Vérzés would be naught but a bloody smear on the ground after flying directly into the searing flames. Now his adrenaline has worn off, the dragon seems rather sheepish, finally realising his bravery had in fact been little more than idiocy. He crawls across the ground, too sore to fly but needing to be close to Volterra, and rests his chin upon the fallen colt's neck.

The boy's flesh itches as feathers press against him, and he remembers Isopia. She presses close to him, urgently trying to rouse him - at first he's touched by her concern, until he realises she just wants him to use his magic to dissipate the fire from the inside. Charming. He fixes his crimson gaze on her, finding it hard to keep it level as dizziness threatens to overwhelm him. Now Vérzés is safe, though, he realises his wall is no longer needed; screwing up his forehead, he tries to draw his magic back towards him, sucking the wall back into the ground from whence it came. The structure crumbles with a heavy thud, and fragments of strength begin to crawl back into the colt's bones, enough for him to be able to unfurl his legs beneath him and rise delicately to his feet. He wobbles, a newborn all over again, blood trickling down his knees onto the burn-scars that tinge his white stockings, breath still coming in harsh gasps but no longer feeling like he's about to pass into the abyss.

His gaze, stronger now, continues to level on Isopia. "Oh sure, I'll just, you know, magic myself to death to stop some random forest beasties getting roasted." His voice drips with sarcasm. Why does she care so much about this damned fire? He only cared because his precious dragon was about to fly into it. The countless birds and mammals inside the forest? Their fate is sad, yes, but he sees no reason to concern himself over it. This is nature. It happens.

But nor does he wish to appear weak in front of Isopia. She is a demi-god; she has power beyond his very imagination, and a bloodline even richer than his own. He cannot appear feeble before her, not when he's finally discovered something unique about himself, some hidden power that makes him worthy of the future he has planned for himself. That is the essence of Volterra's very nature at this young age; he cares what others think, and he abhors weakness. He will drive himself into the ground to prove his strength. He will not back down on pain of death. He will magic up a structure for Isopia, even if it kills him, because the alternative is being branded a coward unwilling to risk discomfort, unwilling to push himself to the limit. No, the limit is where the black behemoth exists, and today will be no different.

He steels himself, and feels his dragon's claws as Vérzés clambers onto his hindquarters. The red one emits a small chirrup and Volterra feels the dragon lending him his strength, their minds melding closer together than ever before so their very essences become one. With his bonded's power behind him, the colt drags in a deep breath and reaches for the nub of magic he'd so accidentally discovered. Without the onslaught of emotion, it is surprisingly difficult to access the magic, and he knows that if he survives this he will have to practice in order to make this second nature to him. Finally, he unlocks the door to his power and sends tendrils of thought down into the ground, slithering under the fire until they reach the centre. The distance from Volterra to his would-be structure is yet another concern - he knows this is going to tire him out just as much as his wall, if not more. Coupled with the exhaustion that already plagues him...he casts a sidelong glance to Isopia. "If this kills me, you're getting your ass haunted for all eternity. Fair warning."

With those could-be last words, the colt allows his magic to explode out of him. In the centre of the fire rises a tower; not particularly high, because height isn't necessary for what Isopia has in mind. Instead he focuses on making it thick, strong, wide enough to make a difference to the hungry flames. It pushes the fire away from it, fragmenting it, lessening its power by virtue of making it into two smaller entities rather than one massive one; but the concentration saps what strength remains in the colt and he collapses back to the ground with a heavy thud, clinging onto consciousness by a thread. A small groan leaves him as fatigue claws at him like a hungry monster, death lurking in the shadows to claim him - it takes every ounce of strength he has to resist the pull of darkness, and he thanks his mother for her ardous training, because a weaker boy would have already succumbed. What little energy he has left goes into maintaining the rock structure for as long as it takes for Isopia to do whatever she intends to do, but he knows he won't be able to last much longer - death beckons, calls him, and if he continues expending his magic then he will soon enter its embrace.