The morning mist had begun to lift when the elven servant returned, soft-footed and silent as ever, her presence marked only by the faint shift in air and the gentle chime of the wind bells as she slid open the latticed doors.
"If you are ready," she said with a small bow, "the Queen has permitted you to visit the open gardens."
I rose from the alcove, brushing away a petal that had clung to the hem of my robe. Popu stood beside me, half-asleep from basking in the warmth of the courtyard, rubbing her eyes and still humming some tuneless melody.
Together, we followed the servant through a corridor of carved stone and ivy-veiled arches. The hallway gradually gave way to an expanse of open sky, framed by flowering trees with silver-pink blossoms that glowed faintly under the morning light.
The open garden stretched far beyond the palace walls, woven seamlessly with the forest that surrounded it. Streams laced through soft mossy paths, and towering wildflowers reached toward the sun. It was unlike any place I had seen… and yet I felt a strange familiarity in the air.
Popu gasped first.
"There!" she said, tugging at my sleeve. "Look!"
At the far end of the clearing, near a shallow stream shaded by a fan of large moonpetal trees, lay the winged wolf.
It was larger than I remembered.
Its dark mane shone with a metallic sheen beneath the light. Its wings, folded now, still gave off the aura of something ancient, something divine. Eyes—those same impossibly pale, knowing eyes—met mine across the space between us.
And yet there was no threat.
Only recognition.
It stood, slowly, stretching out its limbs like a creature that had just risen from a long slumber. Its wings remained furled, but the wind picked up gently around us as it took a single step forward.
Popu, for all her chatter, suddenly quieted and clung lightly to the edge of my robe.
"You've returned," I said softly, stepping forward alone.
The wolf did not speak, but I could feel something—a brush of thought, not in words, but in memory. A pulse in the air. The faint scent of fire and salt. Of blood once spilled. Of a vow once kept.
I knelt down near the edge of the stone path, careful, measured.
It padded closer, silent.
Then, as if it had known me all along, the winged beast pressed its forehead lightly against mine.
There was no growl. No flicker of fangs.
Just… warmth.
And sorrow.
A sorrow that did not belong to me—but I understood it. I bore the same weight.
Popu exhaled beside me. "He's not scary at all…"
"No," I whispered, resting a hand gently against the creature's fur. "He's not."
Behind us, the flowers stirred. The garden seemed to breathe.
Somewhere deeper within the palace grounds, I knew eyes were watching—perhaps even the Queen herself. But for now, beneath the boughs of silver bloom, in the company of a child and a forgotten guardian, I allowed myself a moment of stillness.
And the winged wolf stayed.
The scent of ink and old parchment lingered heavily in the air. My quarters—normally filled with serene floral tones and the soft cadence of harps—were now cluttered with rolled scrolls, scouted maps, coded transcripts, and hand-painted reports collected from every border watch and hidden informant I'd dispatched.
I stood before the grand mirror, but I wasn't looking at myself.
My gaze was fixed on the painting pinned to its frame: a ruin.
Once the towering kingdom of Nivellan.
Now, nothing but charred bone and stone, its once-golden streets buried beneath ash and blood.
"A kingdom that stood for centuries was then buried into ashes?" I murmured aloud, my voice laced with suspicion.
I crossed the chamber, long robes trailing behind me like flowing moonlight, and began skimming through the overlapping dossiers and scrawled reports.
Each word told the same thing—devastation swift and unnatural.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
"What could even be the motive?" I whispered, running my fingers across one of the newly delivered pieces—a landscape sketch done in haste, but with enough detail to send a shiver down my spine.
The depiction showed it clearly: a dragon.
Young, by size and proportion, perhaps just on the cusp of adolescence.
And yet even in death, its wings were spread across a field of scorched bodies—vampires, soldiers, even children. The blood painted into the soil wasn't just red… it was a deep, viscous hue—closer to black than crimson.
"A young dragon may tear through outposts, raze villages," I said as I stepped away, eyes narrowed. "But not a capital of that scale. Not alone."
Unless… someone—or something—was aiding it.
I returned to my desk and thumbed through the vampire lineage dossier.
If the Crimson Vampires had been involved, they would have killed the dragon. Their strength, passed down directly from the First Progenitor, is second to none.
But…
If they were distracted?
If they were not just fighting a dragon—but others?
It began to make sense.
The Moonveil Clan? Unlikely. Their pacifist traditions bound them tightly to the Treaty of Eternal Night.
Cryoblood? No—they remain secluded in the northern glaciers, rarely emerging beyond the Icebound Sanctums.
The Febelez? Ethereal and nature-bound. Their kin walk in forests and light, not fire and blood.
That left only one.
The White Royals.
An impure line—vampires born not from the blood of the Progenitor, but from its discarded remnants. Castaways made flesh. They've long kept their ambitions hidden in the cracks of history.
They could be responsible.
A coordinated attack… using the dragon not as a beast of war, but as a puppet.
Still, one fact haunted me:
"The White Royals are strong… but not that cunning," I said quietly, pacing back to the mirror, eyes scanning my own reflection this time.
"To bind a dragon—willingly or not—requires more than strength. It requires dominion."
And dominion like that…
...is not vampire-made.
It reeks of something older. Something crueler.
A god?
No.
Not anymore.
An ancient spirit, perhaps.
Or a child… whose fate was rewritten.
My fingers curled into a fist as I turned toward the balcony, the winds sweeping my silvery hair behind me.
If the fall of Nivellan was a message… then I needed to know for whom it was written.
And what storm was coming next.
I continued to retrace every detail I remembered—and then I saw it.
Etched faintly, half-swallowed by moss and stone.
A rune.
Ancient, older than the elven dialects, older than even the sacred trees of the First Bloom. And yet… it wasn't one I recognized. Not of the Queen's Circle. Not even of the forbidden texts kept sealed beneath the Rootvaults.
"This is why that youngling seeks the Great Sage…" I whispered, the realization chilling me to my marrow.
Of course. The Great Sage — the only one left in this era capable of deciphering such runes, whose understanding of the arcane script had long transcended even our highest scholars. And yet… she was elusive. She always had been. She vanished into storms, into forests, into the dying breath of time itself.
The only time she ever emerged was during the Coronation of the Mourning King, and that was still years away — at least three, unless the current king died prematurely or completed his twilight pilgrimage.
We could not wait that long.
The dragon that razed Nivellan was a mere youngling, yet controlled with ease like a puppet. That should terrify even the oldest of us. If a wyrmling could be tamed through a rune... what of an Ancient?
What if one of them were stirred from their deep slumber?
The very thought darkened the air around me.
A war with dragons would be worse than any calamity. Our last encounter with them nearly shattered the veil between realms. And now? Now we may face a repeat of that blood-drenched history.
"I cannot allow that. Not again..." I muttered, steeling myself.
I turned to the scribe beside me. "Aside from the Great Sage... is there anyone else with knowledge of the runes?"
The young scribe hesitated before bowing low. "Your Grace… there are few — and even fewer alive."
I already knew the answer, yet I asked anyway. Because asking it meant accepting what came next.
My gaze shifted to the portrait hung on the far wall — a woman painted in gentle strokes, adorned in white and silver. A crown of lilies. A gaze that could calm storms and command gods.
Xeshia.
"You've always lingered in my thoughts," I whispered, walking toward her. "And even now, you guide me when I am most uncertain."
She had held the world together during its breaking. She had kept the races from tearing each other apart. She had made promises — not only to her people, but to all.
"I wish you were here now," I said softly. "We need someone like you again."
I bowed my head for a moment before moving to the sealed chest hidden beneath her portrait.
With a touch of starlight and the whisper of a true name, the lock unraveled.
Inside was a scroll — bound in black thread, sealed with molten gold and dragonbone wax. A remnant from a time before mine. Before even hers.
I pulled it free, its presence like a coiled serpent in my palm.
As I unrolled it, the air grew heavier.
And there — in the final passages, marked in blood-rust ink — was a name never spoken aloud in my court. One known only to monarchs and monsters. A being neither legend nor man, but hunger given form.
I did not speak it.
Not even now.
But my eyes narrowed.
"So, even in death... your reach persists," I muttered.
He had carved runes from living flesh. Bargained with beasts that crawled through voids between stars. A man who devoured everything — knowledge, loyalty, even nations — and smiled.
"The greedy bastard," I said with cold reverence.
Still nameless. Still feared.
I turned away, sealing the scroll once more and locking the chest.
"Find the Dustbound Cartographers," I ordered the scribe. "Send word to Myrrun Vale. Discreetly. If that place still echoes with his breath, I want it buried before the wind carries his name again."
The scribe nodded and vanished.
Alone again, I looked once more at Xeshia's portrait.
"Your light held the world together," I whispered. "I fear it will begin to crack without you."
Outside, the wind rustled the leaves with unease.
Something was stirring.
And the world would soon remember what it had long buried.