The fire crackled in Kaelira's home as Myrelion sharpened the blade she left him—silent, methodical, focused. But his heart was elsewhere. Questions burned brighter than the steel: Why had his father sent Kaelira? Why had assassins targeted her? And why now?
That's when he felt it—a subtle shift in the wind. A presence.
He moved before the shadow stepped fully into the room, blade drawn and pressed to the figure's throat.
"Drop the cloak," Myrelion growled.
The figure obeyed, revealing a slender man in obsidian robes with a silver hawk sigil stitched over his chest—the mark of House Brackwood's Shadow Wardens.
"My name is Vaeren," the man said calmly. "Your father's eyes in the slums."
Myrelion's gaze darkened. "Did you send the assassins?"
"No. But I knew they would come. Kaelira wasn't the only one tasked with watching over you."
"Then you failed," Myrelion hissed. "She's dead."
"I know. And I mourn her as you do. But I came to tell you the truth—before the Empire buries it beneath a mountain of lies."
Myrelion lowered the blade slightly, but his stance remained tense.
Vaeren continued. "Your mother… was not just a tavern wench. Her name was Saelira Velgaeron—a direct descendant of the imperial bloodline. The dragonriders of House Velgaeron."
Myrelion's heart stopped.
"She was a sister to the Second Queen," Vaeren added. "Hidden away when a prophecy claimed her child would shatter the fate of the Empire."