After what felt like a long hour, Ingrid finally bid farewell to Dante.
"Here, I packed you some extra for your travels," said Dante, handing over a bundle wrapped in cloth.
Ingrid took the packed food gently, her gloved fingers brushing against his.
"Human," she began, her eyes glinting in the candlelight, "you're different from the others in my time. You seem as though you don't care about my race nor my status. You treat me as if I were just a regular person. Why?"
Ingrid Von Balmung's voice carried both curiosity and fatigue.
"Because," Dante replied simply, meeting her gaze, "you're a normal person to me."
"Normal?" Ingrid repeated, her expression puzzled.
"I don't know," Dante said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You look like you're tired and need rest. Or maybe… it's because you look like someone who needs someone to lean on."
Silence filled the small cabin, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire.
Ingrid looked away for a moment, as if debating something within herself. Then she spoke softly, "My name is Sabine. Yours, if I may?"
"Maladeva," said Dante without hesitation. Both of them knew those names weren't their true ones, yet neither wished to risk revealing the truth.
"I bid you farewell, Maladeva," said Ingrid — or Sabine — as she turned away. Her cloak fluttered like a shadow in the moonlight, and in the next instant, she vanished into the night, leaving behind only the faint scent of lavender and steel.
Dante closed the door, exhaled, and threw himself onto the bed. "Hmm… I wonder how Zhurong is doing," he muttered, before sleep claimed him.
Back in the Dragon Realm, Zhurong was soaking in a steaming bath after a long day of intense training. Warm mist curled around her, beads of water gliding down her toned skin.
Her hourglass figure had developed beautifully — broad hips, a round, firm rear, and a chest that spoke of her maturing dragoness form. Despite being only sixteen, her body showed the marks of discipline and strength.
Her light muscles rippled slightly as she stretched, revealing the beginnings of a six-pack — the result of endless hours of sparring and mastering ancient dragon arts.
She had trained hard in both combat and wisdom, learning from her mentors and friends back in her academy days.
When she finished, Zhurong stepped out of the bath, drying her crimson hair before putting on her garments — a simple yet elegant dragonweave robe, embroidered with flame sigils.
The halls of the palace were silent as she made her way toward the library, her footsteps echoing against the marble floor.
But before she could reach the door, a figure stepped out from the shadows — tall, pale, and smirking.
"Well, well, well," he said, his tone dripping with arrogance. "If it isn't the beautiful Ms. Zhurong Bahemot."
It was Cifer Silvane — age twenty-five, heir to the Silver Dragon Tribe. His silver-white hair glimmered faintly under the torchlight, and his eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of pride and desire.
Each dragon had their own tribe, but under one ancient law, they all served the lineage of the First Clans — bound by rules older than time itself.
Zhurong's expression hardened. "What do you want, Cifer?" she asked coldly, her tone sharp and unamused.
"Oh, come now," he said, stepping closer, his smirk widening. "You know you're my bride once you turn eighteen. I can hardly wait. The thought of you—" he chuckled darkly, "—bearing my child excites me to no end."
Zhurong's golden eyes flashed with disgust. "Useless, perverted trash like you don't deserve women," she spat. "And besides, I'm bound by traditional law. You know it — if a female dragoness allows a male to touch her horns willingly, it marks engagement. Both must accept it. That's the law."
Cifer scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Tch. Please. Such laws are ancient and foolish. And besides…"
He raised his hand, his claws unsheathing with a sharp metallic sound. He moved closer, his fingers brushing dangerously near her horns.
"How about I remove those and claim you by force?" he whispered, pressing his fingers against her cheek and squeezing it with mock tenderness.
Zhurong's fists clenched, her tail twitching in anger — her aura flaring faintly like rising embers.
"Cifer," a stern voice thundered down the hall.
Cifer froze. Turning sharply, he saw his father, Vilax Silvane, standing at the end of the corridor. The elder dragon's silver eyes burned with controlled fury.
Cifer clicked his tongue in frustration, retracting his claws. "Hmph," he muttered, glaring at Zhurong before stepping aside.
Zhurong's gaze remained fixed on him, her jaw tight.
The tension in the air was thick — the kind that could only exist between predator and prey.
"I humbly ask forgiveness of you, Lady Zhurong, for my son's arrogance," said Vilax with a light bow.
Zhurong exhaled, the sound soft and controlled. She shifted her weight, the robe whispering against marble, and met Vilax's gaze without a flicker of warmth.
"Just take your son away from me," she said, each word clipped. "You know very well that we, the dragon clans, take our laws and traditions seriously, Sir Vilax."
Vilax inclined his head again, the silver of his scales catching torchlight. "I shall do what is required, Your Highness."
Zhurong stepped between them, her shoulder brushing past Cifer as she walked. Her footsteps were steady, echoing down the corridor, and she pushed open the heavy library door with a measured hand and entered.
Cifer snapped his gaze after her, jaw tight. He cracked a grin that never reached his eyes and called after his father.
"Father, why do you still put up with those Bahemot trash? The old laws are pointless by now. And those Humans are feeble and weak as well. We should just make tgem our slaves."
Vilax's expression remained composed, but his eyes hardened. He turned toward the tall windows and looked out at the night sky beyond the castle walls, where stars drifted like distant embers.
He placed a measured hand on his son's shoulder as if restraining more than just movement.
"Haste leads to downfall, son," Vilax said slowly. "And remember, there is a child rumored to carry the blood of the Aldermans."
Cifer pushed off the wall and folded his arms, preening with a dangerous curiosity. "Dante Ruthwilfer, the rumored Alderman bloodline, right? Shall I…?" His voice trailed like a blade unsheathed.
Vilax thought for a long heartbeat, watching the moonlight slant across the courtyard.
"Make sure our family name is not connected to this,"
he said finally.
"Do not forget, it has been several weeks since the Ruthwilfer trials began."
Cifer sneered and tossed his head back in mockery. "Ah yes," he said, drawing out the vowels. He strutted a step closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial hush.
"Once a Ruthwilfer child becomes sixteen, they must go out and explore the world under a false name. They return at eighteen with achievements tied to those false names. Only the top fifty will be ranked to fight for a seat at the throne."
Vilax nodded, the movement a blade of agreement. "Yes," he answered, then turned his head toward the corridor, eyes like quicksilver.
"Do what you think is necessary. An Alderman walking openly on this land is like me committing suicide three hundred times over."
"Very well, father," Cifer replied with a perfunctory bow, lips curling. "I shall see to it."
They left the library together, their footsteps measured and synchronized, leaving a whisper of ozone and court perfume behind. They did not notice the slight rustle of silk in the shadowed alcove.
Queen Xilang, Zhurong's mother, had been listening from a shaded corner, her form hidden by a tapestry. Her fingers had been pressed to her lips to stifle the gasp she almost betrayed.
She clenched a fist so tight the knuckles blanched beneath scaled skin. The muscles along her jaw tightened.
"Tch," she hissed under her breath. "Silvane bastards. Dare to threaten my future son-in-law Dante? We will see about that."
Xilang's eyes flashed like lightning. She drew a thin, humming thread of magic from her palm, a note shaped into a small spell that crackled with intent.
The air around her smelled faintly of ozone and old ink. Without a sound, she vanished from the alcove, slipping through the palace like a wisp of shadow and power.
In an instant she reappeared near the little hut where Dante sheltered, her presence arriving like the hush before a storm.
"DANTE!!!"
"JESUS!"
Dante jolted upright, startled from his sleep. His heart raced as he looked around the dimly lit hut — until his eyes caught the shimmering, holographic image of Queen Xilang forming in the air before him, her presence projected by ancient magic.
"Queen Xilang?" Dante said, rubbing his eyes, confused yet alert.
"Forgive me, boy," said Xilang, her voice echoing softly with regal grace. "But there is a matter at hand. Some dragons from another tribe are planning to assassinate you, I just dont know when but that's all I know. Be wary, son-in-law."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," said Dante, bowing deeply in respect.
"Don't bow to me, dear boy," Xilang said with a gentle wave of her hand, her expression softening. "After everything you've done — and for your loyalty to Zhurong — you are now like a son of our clan."
Dante straightened, humbled. The flickering image of the queen shimmered faintly, her golden eyes filled with quiet concern.
"It would be calming for Zhurong to hear from you," Xilang continued. "She misses you dearly. She's been pushing herself hard to be worthy of standing beside you. I worry it might drive her to—"
Dante raised a hand, stopping her gently. "Lady Xilang, please… give this to Zhurong."
He reached into his pocket and produced a ruby-colored pendant, glowing faintly with a soft crimson light. The queen looked at it, sensing the enchantment within.
"It's my gift to her," Dante said softly. "To let her know I'm safe… and that I still care for her. If she's ever in danger, tell her to crush the pendant. I'll come to her — in a blink of an eye. But only for emergencies."
Xilang smiled faintly, the kind of smile that held both pride and sorrow. She accepted the pendant, her spectral fingers brushing its surface before closing around it.
"I understand," she said. "I will deliver it to her personally."
Dante nodded. "Thank you, Queen Xilang."
The queen's form began to fade, her image distorting like ripples across water. "May the stars protect you, Dante Ruthwilfer," she said, her voice fading into the night.
And with a final flicker of light, she vanished completely, leaving the hut quiet once more.
Dante exhaled, leaning back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The room felt heavier — not from fear, but from longing.
He whispered to himself, "Stay safe, Zhurong…"
Outside, the wind howled softly through the forest, carrying the lingering shimmer of ancient magic.
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Chapter 36 — End.