Chapter 17 : The Unnamed Bond
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Cenia did not say much this time; words were no longer necessary in front of the fools standing before her.
She raised her hand slightly, as if the air itself would finish what she intended to say. But another voice—unseen, inhuman—took over the explanation this time, not through her tongue, but through the shadow of an ancient knowledge granted only to those who stumble upon it by chance.
"Dragons…"
The voice whispered as though it rose from the cracks of the earth,
"…love children more than children love their own existence.
But love, to ancient beings, is not an emotion—it is a contract.
And every wound that touches a child's body leaves a deeper scar on the soul of a dragon watching over them."
Neither Rakael nor Yardemil understood anything, and that was not necessary.
The severity in their eyes did not change; they were not here to understand, only to guard.
And the same voice continued, more concise, more obscure:
"The elves preserve nature…
The dragons preserve life…
And humans preserve the secret—without knowing that they do so."
Cenia added no clarification.
The plants around her—the thin branches near the window, the small flowers beside the bed—moved lightly, as if translating on her behalf.
And when she bent down to examine Ayant's wound, the light bent with her.
She said in a low but steady voice,
"He will rise soon."
Then she left, neither harshly nor gently, but like a being who simply knows that her task is done.
She left behind a faint trace of the scent of wet grass, as though the room itself were exhaling with her.
And the two companions, Rakael and Yardemil, remained standing like statues of vigilance.
No words. No glances.
Only alertness.
— From the scene of the incident —
The rumors were not born from a single mouth, but from dozens.
"They saw a child with golden hair… covered in blood."
"His eyes were silver, they said they were open despite his unconsciousness."
"The one who carried him was an unknown figure… appeared and vanished by spatial teleportation."
"There is no one with these traits except the Marquis's son… Ayant Sayenar."
Then a more trembling voice,
"They say a white dragon… destroyed the Rashtha Empire within hours."
Another replied,
"It can't be a coincidence… the child, the dragon, and the empire."
And so the incident turned from news into a story, and from a story into an incomplete prophecy.
Until there was no one left who had not heard of it—
even though the common people did not truly understand what they were saying, those at the highest levels of power could not be ignorant of anything.
— Back to Ayant —
When he opened his eyes, he felt nothing.
No pain.
No fear.
No remnants of that moment in which he had bled everything out.
It was as if he had awakened inside a void that resembled him.
He slowly raised his hand and touched the bandage over his shoulder.
He did not remember the moment…
He remembered only a pale image, like a story someone had told about another person.
He whispered to himself, puzzled by a trace that did not belong to him,
"Strange… as if it happened to someone else."
But the cold wound beneath denied that every time he pressed on it lightly.
After a few minutes, the sensation faded, and he did not even bother to remember it.
He hastened to rise from his place and put on suitable clothes,
then returned with Cenia and Rakael to the palace, without commotion.
When he arrived and opened the door to the room, he saw Iswar lift his head immediately.
He was not angry… but he was not calm either.
Ayant said in a tone he tried to make natural,
"You seem well, Your Highness."
Iswar sighed and stared at him for a long moment before replying,
"Better than someone."
He took a step closer, but Cenia's gaze stopped him before he could do more.
She said in a completely professional tone,
"He needs rest… if he is injured again, he will not heal this quickly."
Iswar nodded without argument, though his eyes said something else he did not voice.
Even though Ayant did not truly rest,
during the following hours, many passed by his room…
no one entered.
The mana surrounding his body from Skyrl repelled everyone without exception—except Cenia.
So they settled for seeing him from afar and wishing him recovery.
Afterward came still moments, as if what was coming was merely a hollow storm.
The highest figures gathered: the Emperor, the two Dukes, and Marquis Alex.
Everyone knew that what had happened—the assassination, the injury, the appearance of a first-rank dragon, and the collapse of an empire—was not a chain of accidents.
It was a single thread, though no one yet knew exactly where it began.
And Cenia said, as she examined the newspaper Ayant was holding—the very subject of discussion,
"People think dragons protect the land out of mercy…
but protection has rules known only to those who live long enough to witness them."
She did not explain further.
She did not need to.
Everyone understood the implication—each according to their position and the extent of their power.
In the midst of this tense silence, Duke Elkraus, Raymond, spoke as he passed his gaze among the faces, breaking a silence that felt eternal for that day:
"It seems… we have among us a guest we did not invite."
Everyone turned.
But before anyone could speak, something in Ayant's features changed.
The childhood vanished.
And all warmth disappeared from his eyes.
His face became emotionless, cold to the point that the room itself felt a sudden constriction.
A faint killing intent spread—not with the aim of intimidation or murder,
but merely as a warning,
to make it understood that the one before you was not a small child,
nor a pampered one.
Alex whispered, irritated,
"I told you not to act like this!"
But Ayant did not turn to him.
He did not even consider him part of the scene.
He raised his gaze toward the empty space before him and commanded,
"Rakael, Yardemil… appear."
The two shadows at the edge of the room bowed, responding instantly.
And the air cut off for a moment.
This is it.