The Council Hall buzzed with activity beneath its towering stained-glass ceiling, where sunlight filtered through ancient draconic crests in radiant hues of crimson and gold. The nine councilors of Drakareth had convened once more, seated in a half-moon array that overlooked the expansive sky-mirror floor.
But today, their focus wasn't on laws or land disputes.
It was on a name.
"Soryn… Vael'Zarion," murmured High Councilor Maedris, tapping the end of his golden quill against his notes. "Trains like the Sovereign. Speaks like him. Commands like him. But shares your family name, Vael."
Beside him, the senior war councilor leaned forward. "He's taken full authority in the Dragoon camp. The recruits obey him as though he were the Draconian Prime himself."
Draven, standing off to the side, gave a small but respectful nod. "I've observed him. He's no imposter. He moves like a war-sculpted shadow. And when he speaks… you listen."
There was silence.
Until a younger councilor leaned back and said bluntly, "So, who is he? And more importantly… why does he bear the royal name?"
The question floated into the air like smoke.
And while the council wrestled with its implications, in the royal palace far above, all hell was breaking loose.
Aetherflame Palace – The Royal Solar
"You WHAT?" Queen Elanra's voice cracked like a thunderclap.
King Vael'Zarion froze mid-sip of his tea, blinking over the rim of his porcelain cup. "I beg your pardon?"
"You had a son?!" Princess Alyxthia gasped, nearly knocking over the fruit bowl as she stood from her seat. "That's why he looks so composed! So royal! It all makes sense now!"
"Traitor," muttered Prince Ryvar under his breath, eyes narrowing at his father. "I always knew you had a wandering eye."
"Don't drag me into your imagination," the king huffed. "I've never seen this 'Soryn' before in my life!"
"He bears our last name, Vael'Zarion," the Queen snapped, pacing. "Do you expect me to believe that's coincidence?"
"It could be symbolic," offered Prince Kaelen, always the diplomat, raising a cautious hand. "Or political… perhaps someone trying to forge a link to the throne."
"Or it's real," Ryvar said, squinting. "He does walk like Father when he's giving speeches."
"He has your nose," Alyxthia added helpfully. "And your stupid raised eyebrow thing."
King Vael'Zarion looked genuinely offended. "No one has my eyebrow thing."
"He had it," said Ryvar.
"Oh, he definitely had it," Alyxthia confirmed, nodding at the Queen.
The Queen turned on her husband, arms folded, sapphire robes billowing. "You will tell me the truth."
"I don't know him!" the King shouted, standing up and slamming the teacup down. "By the bones of the First Dragon, I have no illegitimate children running around!"
A moment passed.
Princess Alyxthia raised an eyebrow. "...That you know of?"
"I KNOW WHERE MY SEED HAS BEEN, CHILD!" the king barked, scandalized.
Everyone went quiet.
One of the maids outside the chamber dropped a tray.
Kaelen coughed into his sleeve. "I… suppose we could investigate this Soryn diplomatically."
"Too late for that," Ryvar muttered. "He's already commanding soldiers. Might as well send him a crown and invite him to dinner."
"Don't you dare give him a throne, Vael," the Queen warned, voice icy.
The king looked up to the heavens as though begging the dragons themselves for patience. "He's not mine. He's not mine."
Then a court messenger entered, hesitating.
The Queen whirled on him. "Is it about the royal bastard?"
"N-No, Your Majesty. I mean—maybe. It's about Soryn Vael'Zarion. He's begun issuing combat drills based on sovereign dragon movements. Recruits say he can vanish into light and leave afterimages like the Sovereign did."
"Of course he can," Ryvar mumbled.
"And… he's now personally leading all Dragoon tactical field exams. The troops revere him."
Alyxthia blinked. "So he's a prince and a warlord?"
"HE IS NOT A PRINCE!" the king roared.
Everyone paused.
The Queen gave him a long, penetrating look.
"...We'll see."
The king slumped back into his chair.
Back in the Council Hall, whispers were spreading like wildfire.
Some believed Soryn was a divine extension of the Sovereign. Others claimed he was a hidden scion, birthed in secrecy to carry on the Vael'Zarion line should the true royal family fall.
Whatever the truth, the question ignited every corner of Drakareth's upper echelon:
Who was Soryn Vael'Zarion?
And why did he carry himself like the fireborn heir of dragonkind?
The sky above roiled with low thunder as Alter soared across the mountainous ridges of central Drakareth, high above fields streaked with gold and ash. Riding upon Ignivar's back, the flames trailing from the dragon's wings flickered like banners of living light. Below, the terrain shifted from forested highlands to a scorched basin of obsidian ravines and smoking fissures—a place forgotten by time.
It was there, nestled between collapsed magma spires and ancient faultlines, that the next shrine waited.
A circle of towering dragon statues stood like silent sentinels, each scorched black by centuries of heat but untouched by time's erosion. At the center was a broad obsidian altar sunk into a volcanic caldera, its stone covered in fractured runes barely visible to the naked eye. The Shrine of Emberwind.
Ignivar circled once before descending into a spiral, flames licking outward in bursts as his massive form landed beside the altar. Molten dust flared up from the ground. Alter dismounted in a single fluid motion, his cloak of scaled silver-blue fluttering behind him, his armor gleaming faintly under the ash-stained sun.
He stepped forward. The heat in the air intensified—not just from the surrounding fissures, but from something older… something coiled deep beneath the earth.
A hum pulsed through the altar stone.
Alter placed his hand upon it.
The runes ignited instantly, threads of glowing red racing across the stone like fire veins awakening from dormancy. The temperature rose sharply—enough to melt steel—yet his expression remained calm.
A voice echoed within the wind.
<"Another bearer comes… yet this one… roars with sovereign flame.">
Another voice followed.
<"He walks with the essence of the Flameborn… the Pyreblood Trial echoes within him.">
Then, in unison, the shrine spoke:
<"You are known to us. Draconian Prime. Sovereign of the Flame and Sky.">
The statues shuddered. Molten light flared in their eyes. From beneath the altar, a low rumble began—a deep, ancient purring growl that wasn't sound, but force. The mountain stirred.
Alter stepped back and lowered himself to one knee.
"I seek the flame that once danced with the dragons of this land. I offer my fire to wake yours."
At his words, the altar split open down the center, revealing a spiraling stairway descending into molten twilight. The stairwell pulsed with rhythmic heat, like the breath of something ancient stirring beneath.
Ignivar, standing guard behind him, bowed his head respectfully. Even he—born of the Pyreborn Cradle—felt the weight of what lay below.
Alter took one last look at the sky before beginning his descent.
Each step forward drew him deeper into a corridor of flickering flame-light. The air shimmered with residual heat, the very walls alive with spectral fire that curled into shapes of sleeping dragons before fading.
He passed under a series of etched archways, each depicting a different epoch of the Drakareth dragon clans: The Flamewrought Accord, the Ember Covenant, the Age of Ash Rain.
But at the lowest point of the corridor, the path abruptly ended.
A single wall stood before him—its surface flat, smooth… and glowing with a sigil.
Not just a dragonic symbol, but his. The same emblem that blazed upon his forehead—the mark of the Draconian Prime.
Alter raised his right hand and touched the symbol.
A surge of heat exploded outward. Flame burst through the seams of the wall like a dragon awakening with a scream of rage.
And the wall dissolved into fire.
Beyond it—was a chamber pulsing with emberlight, where sleeping flames curled and twisted in midair, alive yet dormant.
The final test of the shrine awaited.
The fire parted like breath, and Alter stepped into a vast, domed chamber filled with an ambient roar—not of sound, but pressure. It was as if the flames themselves were speaking, whispering, exhaling.
The walls of the chamber were carved with ancient glyphs that spiraled like dragon tails, each one resonating with warmth rather than light. Ember motes floated freely in the air, rising and falling like glowing feathers. The floor was a mosaic of draconic crests—faded, fractured, but still pulsing with slumbering power. At the center of it all stood a towering brazier, cold and unlit, but surrounded by scorched claw marks gouged into the blackstone floor. It had not been touched in centuries.
The moment Alter entered, the entire chamber responded.
A heartbeat.
A second heartbeat.
Then—a third.
Flames erupted across the floor in a circular motion, racing outward like fire lines tracing the old sigils. The brazier burst to life, a geyser of golden fire spiraling upward toward the ceiling. Within it—something began to take shape.
A voice formed first. It reverberated through the walls like molten bells:
<"We are the Flamebound, last remnants of the Ember Pact. You walk with our kin's fire in your soul… and yet… you carry more than flame.">
A figure emerged from the heart of the fire. Towering. Wreathed in gold and scarlet flames. A dragon spirit, yet not one bound to flesh. This was an ancient ember—what remained of a once-great Wyrm who gave his heart to keep the flame alive.
It spoke again.
<"Will you reignite the pact? Will you bear our wrath and warmth both, and bind your sovereign flame to the last rites of the Pyrekind?">
Alter did not hesitate.
"I already do."
With that, he stepped into the flame.
The chamber exploded in light.
But the fire did not burn him. Instead, it flowed into him—like threads of memory and fury, of warmth and destruction. He felt the roars of a thousand dragons who once burned across the skies of Drakareth. He saw their triumphs, their deaths, their sacred rituals of rebirth.
And then he saw the truth.
The Flamebound Pact had been more than a legacy—it was a vow. A covenant made to protect the Worldspire, the source of elemental equilibrium, should it ever falter. And now, as the realms trembled and the skies cracked with demonic pulses, the flames stirred once more.
Alter's body lifted from the ground, the runes on his armor igniting. Starsever burned in its sheath without being drawn. His eyes turned molten gold, and the mark on his forehead blazed like a sun.
Flame spirits danced around him, laughing, weeping, screaming.
Then a new voice joined them—not a dragon's, but one ancient and feminine, layered with both motherly grace and searing command.
<"You are the bearer of all aspects now… but we, the Flamebound, give you our Pact anew. Let your flame reignite the sky, Sovereign.">
The fire condensed suddenly, surging into his core. And then—it vanished.
The chamber dimmed.
Alter stood alone. The brazier cold once more. But around him, the walls now glowed faintly with renewed warmth—like the breath of life returning after a long slumber.
He exhaled.
The pact was sealed.
Flames curled from his fingertips as he stepped back through the chamber, ascending toward the surface with quiet reverence.
At the shrine's mouth, Ignivar waited, sensing the change. He lifted his head, eyes narrowing.
"You've returned."
Alter nodded, stepping into the open.
Ignivar sniffed the air and rumbled, "The Pact is burning in you. The Flamebound remember."
Alter smirked. "They do. And they're ready."
He climbed onto Ignivar's back, his gaze cast westward. "One shrine remains. But first… we return."
With a beat of molten wings, Ignivar lifted off the caldera, soaring high into the clouds that now shimmered with the echo of reawakened fire.
Smoke hadn't even faded from the skies above the Flamebound shrine when its echoes stirred waves across Drakareth.
In the Council Hall at Veyr'Zhalar, the chamber lights flickered—lantern flames briefly bowing toward the east. At first, the councilors didn't notice. But the ambient heat shifted. The old marble beneath their seats pulsed faintly, as if warming with memory. Elder Veydras, the most senior of the council mages, paused mid-sentence. His gnarled hands trembled.
"The second pulse…" he muttered.
From his side, Councilor Lirenn, master of court administration, looked up. "What did you say?"
But he wasn't listening anymore. Veydras had gone pale, sweat beading on his temple. He turned toward the large draconic mural behind them—the one that had been lifeless for over a century. Its veins—fine lines of gemstone inlaid through the stone—were glowing softly now. Crimson. Alive.
Councilor Maelin, who handled civil strategy, leaned in. "That's the second shrine, isn't it?"
Lirenn nodded grimly. "The Flamebound. It's been dormant since the last Age."
Council murmurs erupted like dry leaves catching fire. Some were excited. Others afraid.
And then—someone whispered what everyone was thinking.
"…It's not just the shrines."
They all fell silent.
Because outside the sealed hall, even the capital city itself felt it. Throughout the volcano-rimmed sprawl of Veyr'Zhalar, torches flared too brightly. Blacksmith forges erupted in spontaneous flame. Children born with dragon heritage felt heat on their palms. And in the royal vault, a dormant scale from a Firelord Wyrm cracked—just a hairline fracture, but enough to make the warding priests sound the alarm.
The land was awakening.
And all eyes were turning toward the man called Kael'Zhyrion… and the Dragoons he had begun to forge.
Meanwhile, deeper in the capital, in a rose-gold chamber lined with cushions, tapestries, and at least three shattered tea cups, the royal family's mood was far less composed.
King Vael'Zarion sat in the center of the room at a low table, his expression blank as his wife, Queen Elanra, stood with arms crossed and divine pressure pooling faintly around her form. She was a vision of grace, but right now—she looked like a goddess scorned.
"You're sure he's not yours?" she asked again, for what must've been the sixth time.
The king exhaled. "For the last time, Elanra. I don't even know who Soryn is. He just appeared with the captain and Kael'Zhyrion."
Princess Alyxthia, seated nearby, scribbled furiously in her journal. "His hair's the same color as yours," she noted helpfully, not looking up.
"You're not helping," the king muttered.
Prince Ryvar leaned against a pillar with arms crossed. "I'm just saying, if he is your bastard child, that would explain the royal aura. The resemblance. The way he trains like a war god. Also, kind of hotheaded."
"Excuse me?" the king barked.
"I said he's hotheaded."
"That's not what I heard."
Alyxthia looked up suddenly. "He used the sword style of a sovereign. I saw it in my dream. And the dragons in the dream bowed."
Queen Elanra turned sharply. "You dreamed of him?"
"Of a figure with his presence. It might've been symbolic."
The king groaned and rubbed his temples. "Symbolic dreams, flaming shrines, possible royal bastards—can I not have one dinner without it turning into an opera?"
Just then, a steward knocked lightly on the door, cleared his throat, and stepped inside.
"Apologies, Your Majesty. Word from the council—another shrine has awakened. The second outer shrine. The Flamebound."
A moment of silence.
Then the Queen muttered darkly, "He's definitely your son."
Vael'Zarion's eye twitched. "Elanra—"
"I'm just saying! The timing! The name! He even has the family cheekbones!"
Elsewhere in the city, the public's imagination was catching fire in its own way.
In the taverns:
"I heard he trained by fighting actual dragons blindfolded!"
"No, no—he is a dragon, just in human form."
"I saw his sword. It split the training yard. With one swing!"
At the baker's square:
"I baked extra today. What if he walks by again?"
"You think the Sovereign eats regular rolls?"
"Well, he should try my Sovereign Rye."
In the military garrisons:
"The Dragoons aren't normal soldiers anymore. They train like they're preparing to fight gods."
"Wouldn't surprise me. Have you seen that guy called Soryn? Moves like fire wrapped in steel."
Among the youth and noble aspirants:
"I want to join the Dragoons."
"Don't be stupid! You can't even climb the terrace wall without wheezing."
"Shut up, once I learn to punch through a dummy, I'm going to apply."
Rumors spread like wildfire. Respect bled into awe. And awe into something deeper.
Hope.
At the Dragoon field, Soryn stood at the center, watching over synchronized drills.
He didn't speak much. But his eyes missed nothing. His form, his presence, his style—so close to Alter's that even the veterans began to whisper.
And on a nearby cliff—far above—hidden from view, a lone shrine dragon stirred from its perch, curling its tail beneath it.
The wind smelled of fire.
The Sovereign was moving again.
Smoke hadn't even faded from the skies above the Flamebound shrine when its echoes stirred waves across Drakareth.
In the Council Hall at Veyr'Zhalar, the chamber lights flickered—lantern flames briefly bowing toward the east. At first, the councilors didn't notice. But the ambient heat shifted. The old marble beneath their seats pulsed faintly, as if warming with memory. Elder Veydras, the most senior of the council mages, paused mid-sentence. His gnarled hands trembled.
"The second pulse…" he muttered.
From his side, Councilor Lirenn, master of court administration, looked up. "What did you say?"
But he wasn't listening anymore. Veydras had gone pale, sweat beading on his temple. He turned toward the large draconic mural behind them—the one that had been lifeless for over a century. Its veins—fine lines of gemstone inlaid through the stone—were glowing softly now. Crimson. Alive.
Councilor Maelin, who handled civil strategy, leaned in. "That's the second shrine, isn't it?"
Lirenn nodded grimly. "The Flamebound. It's been dormant since the last Age."
Council murmurs erupted like dry leaves catching fire. Some were excited. Others afraid.
And then—someone whispered what everyone was thinking.
"…It's not just the shrines."
They all fell silent.
Because outside the sealed hall, even the capital city itself felt it. Throughout the volcano-rimmed sprawl of Veyr'Zhalar, torches flared too brightly. Blacksmith forges erupted in spontaneous flame. Children born with dragon heritage felt heat on their palms. And in the royal vault, a dormant scale from a Firelord Wyrm cracked—just a hairline fracture, but enough to make the warding priests sound the alarm.
The land was awakening.
And all eyes were turning toward the man called Kael'Zhyrion… and the Dragoons he had begun to forge.
Meanwhile, deeper in the capital, in a rose-gold chamber lined with cushions, tapestries, and at least three shattered tea cups, the royal family's mood was far less composed.
King Vael'Zarion sat in the center of the room at a low table, his expression blank as his wife, Queen Elanra, stood with arms crossed and divine pressure pooling faintly around her form. She was a vision of grace, but right now—she looked like a goddess scorned.
"You're sure he's not yours?" she asked again, for what must've been the sixth time.
The king exhaled. "For the last time, Elanra. I don't even know who Soryn is. He just appeared with the captain and Kael'Zhyrion."
Princess Alyxthia, seated nearby, scribbled furiously in her journal. "His hair's the same color as yours," she noted helpfully, not looking up.
"You're not helping," the king muttered.
Prince Ryvar leaned against a pillar with arms crossed. "I'm just saying, if he is your bastard child, that would explain the royal aura. The resemblance. The way he trains like a war god. Also, kind of hotheaded."
"Excuse me?" the king barked.
"I said he's hotheaded."
"That's not what I heard."
Alyxthia looked up suddenly. "He used the sword style of a sovereign. I saw it in my dream. And the dragons in the dream bowed."
Queen Elanra turned sharply. "You dreamed of him?"
"Of a figure with his presence. It might've been symbolic."
The king groaned and rubbed his temples. "Symbolic dreams, flaming shrines, possible royal bastards—can I not have one dinner without it turning into an opera?"
Just then, a steward knocked lightly on the door, cleared his throat, and stepped inside.
"Apologies, Your Majesty. Word from the council—another shrine has awakened. The second outer shrine. The Flamebound."
A moment of silence.
Then the Queen muttered darkly, "He's definitely your son."
Vael'Zarion's eye twitched. "Elanra—"
"I'm just saying! The timing! The name! He even has the family cheekbones!"
Elsewhere in the city, the public's imagination was catching fire in its own way.
In the taverns:
"I heard he trained by fighting actual dragons blindfolded!"
"No, no—he is a dragon, just in human form."
"I saw his sword. It split the training yard. With one swing!"
At the baker's square:
"I baked extra today. What if he walks by again?"
"You think the Sovereign eats regular rolls?"
"Well, he should try my Sovereign Rye."
In the military garrisons:
"The Dragoons aren't normal soldiers anymore. They train like they're preparing to fight gods."
"Wouldn't surprise me. Have you seen that guy called Soryn? Moves like fire wrapped in steel."
Among the youth and noble aspirants:
"I want to join the Dragoons."
"Don't be stupid! You can't even climb the terrace wall without wheezing."
"Shut up, once I learn to punch through a dummy, I'm going to apply."
Rumors spread like wildfire. Respect bled into awe. And awe into something deeper.
Hope.
At the Dragoon field, Soryn stood at the center, watching over synchronized drills.
He didn't speak much. But his eyes missed nothing. His form, his presence, his style—so close to Alter's that even the veterans began to whisper.
And on a nearby cliff—far above—hidden from view, a lone shrine dragon stirred from its perch, curling its tail beneath it.
The wind smelled of fire.
The Sovereign was moving again.
The morning sun spilled over the volcanic cliffs of Veyr'Zhalar, draping molten light across the Dragoon training field like a forge's breath. The air shimmered with heat, not from fire—but from exertion, determination, and the silent pressure of the one who stood at its center.
Soryn Vael'Zarion.
Draped in reinforced martial robes lined with subtle draconic sigils, Soryn stood still as stone, arms crossed as his gaze swept over the field. His hair, bound in a high ponytail, flicked slightly in the wind, and his eyes—sharp, intelligent, and unreadable—watched every movement with surgical precision. He hadn't spoken a single word of praise in two days. And yet… the Dragoons were improving.
Massively.
Across the training field, the recruits moved in rotating quadrants. Each quadrant was drilling the three forms of Sky Piercer, perfected under Alter's teachings and now mercilessly refined under Soryn's gaze.
One group trained Sky Piercer: Celestial Thrust—thrusting through moving dummies on platforms set at increasing speeds. They aimed not just to pierce, but to do so with deadly precision in rapid succession. If they missed even once, they had to restart the sequence.
Another quadrant drilled Heavenfall Rend, launching themselves up ramps and through air rings while unleashing upward spirals of wind-laced lightning thrusts. Soryn had them wear weighted greaves. More than one Dragoon landed face-first in the grass, groaning.
The third and most brutal quadrant? Practicing Zero Distance—in enclosed mock chambers where their only option was to strike from within. They had to reach their target, deliver a close-quarters burst thrust, and evacuate before the internal explosion spell triggered. Three recruits got singed. All three got back up. No complaints.
Soryn paced slowly through them all, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Again," he said, to one struggling group. His voice was calm, quiet—yet sharper than a blade.
"But we—"
"Again."
They obeyed.
Soryn was not cruel. He was precise. And that precision seeped into the Dragoon ranks like tempered steel into molten ore.
Those who had been hesitant with swordwork now moved with fluid intent. Those who fumbled their internal force channels now snapped through sequences with growing clarity. The elemental runic markers, once scattered like reckless flares, were now placed mid-combat with deliberate ferocity—on strikes, on feints, even during dives and rolls.
He halted beside one Dragoon—a broad-shouldered recruit named Vellmar. The man had power, but lacked control. His Zero Distance training had resulted in a crater six meters wide… and missed the target by one.
Soryn knelt beside him.
"Too much force, not enough focus," he said quietly. "You're swinging your soul like a hammer when this requires a needle. Reset your breath. Read the line. Try again."
Vellmar nodded with reverence and trembling fingers.
Nearby, Talia Fenreith and Selin Varrow were tag-teaming a Sky Piercer relay, calling out footwork patterns mid-dash. Rhed Velgroth roared across the air rings, leaving a trail of crackling air pressure with every leaping thrust. Elira Mistshade, calm as winter mist, began stacking dual markers before her Heavenfall Rend.
The tempo was rising.
And all across the field, murmurs passed between squads.
"He watches everything."
"How is he so quiet but terrifying?"
"He doesn't even have to yell."
"Is he really not Alter in disguise?"
"Who cares? He trains like the Sovereign himself."
Above them, perched like a sentinel on the upper terrace, a small draconic spirit—one of the shrine-bound observer whelps—tilted its head as it watched. Its eyes glowed faintly with resonance. The Sovereign's will echoed here. Even if the form had changed.
Soryn halted again. His gaze turned skyward for a moment, where a wisp of wind stirred the clouds, curling eastward—toward the next shrine Alter now approached.
He exhaled softly. Then turned back to the field.
"Pair drills. Mark placements mid-strike. Sword stance transitions on the third beat."
He clapped his hands once.
The entire field reacted like it was struck by lightning.
Blades flashed. Wind howled. The training resumed, more furious and refined than ever.
And Soryn watched—not with pride, but with purpose.
They were no longer just elite recruits.
They were becoming Sovereign-forged warriors.
The first Dragoons of the new era.
The sky was bruised with morning stormlight—clouds shifting like dark-bellied beasts over the training grounds carved just outside Veyr'Zhalar's cliffs. Thunder grumbled faintly in the distance, as if even the heavens were watching in anticipation.
The Dragoons stood in formation, armored, breath steady, weapons in hand. Their faces were lined with sweat, tension, and fierce anticipation. Today was no normal drill.
It was their first Gauntlet Trial.
Soryn stood atop a raised obsidian platform to the side of the field, flanked by two silent officiators from the Council. His arms were crossed, eyes calm and unreadable. Behind him, the obstacle course stretched like a living battlefield—one designed to break, challenge, and expose every weakness.
And every strength.
Before them loomed a shifting terrain: high-speed rune gates, aerial platforms wrapped in wind glyphs, dummy constructs laced with elemental traps, moving target zones, mirrored walls for disorientation, and at the very end—a sealed war golem cloaked in corrupted dragon energy.
It was a course designed not for failure, but for revelation.
Soryn raised one hand. "You have three minutes."
Murmurs rippled through the ranks.
"Begin."
The first five launched into motion.
Talia Fenreith dashed ahead like a crimson streak, her wind-marker-fused steps allowing her to phase-flip over the first spire. She marked a dummy mid-air, using Heavenfall Rend to shatter it with a vertical spiral. She landed in a crouch, flipped into a spin, and laid a fire rune onto the terrain mid-roll—perfect execution.
Behind her, Selin Varrow glided low, blade held reversed. She vanished between two platforms, used Ghost Step to fake her location, and reappeared behind a construct. Her Zero Distance Sky Piercer was so clean it left a silent bloom of wind where the dummy had been. No explosion. Just erasure.
They were followed by four more.
Then five more.
And then it began—the cascade of chaos.
Rhed Velgroth tore through his start like a berserker on fire—powerful, fearless, but far too aggressive. He slammed into a rune wall he failed to see. Groaning, he rolled up and kept moving—but misjudged the wind pillar. He crashed into a side ramp. Laughing, he spat dirt and shouted, "I'm alive!"
Not everyone laughed.
Others stumbled at the mirrored maze—striking phantoms instead of targets. Some got caught between poorly-timed mark placements. One Dragoon overloaded a fire marker and had to dive to avoid blowing up a quarter of the course.
It was glorious chaos. Failure sang across the field like steel on stone.
But no one was broken.
And when the last squad went, the entire formation fell silent.
Because what followed was power.
Three recruits—Jaris Tenvahl, Elira Mistshade, and Vellmar, the once-unfocused juggernaut—moved like sharpened storms.
Jaris marked during a single sprinting motion—three markers in three different elements before discharging them into a directional detonation that cleared half a path ahead.
Elira vanished into the mirrored zone—and didn't reappear until the final chamber, dragging the shadows behind her, eyes glowing faintly. She dropped into a flickering double marker stance and executed Sky Piercer: Celestial Thrust into the war golem with such precision it froze mid-step.
Then came Vellmar.
His Zero Distance technique detonated not just through the final golem—but left a compressed crater in its place. The shockwave knocked some watching recruits backward.
When the smoke cleared, he stood there, one knee down, panting. But smiling.
The field was silent.
Then cheers erupted.
Some clapped. Some roared. Some dropped to the ground in laughter and exhaustion. A few hugged. Others simply stared into the sky, as if unsure whether they had survived or dreamed the whole thing.
Soryn stepped down from the platform.
He walked the field without speaking. He checked on the injured, nodded once at the triumphant, and offered no criticism—only a rare sentence that passed his lips with clarity:
"You have tasted the first edge of the sovereign path."
He let it hang there.
Then: "Rest. Tomorrow, we begin again."
The Dragoons collapsed where they stood, grinning, bleeding, changed.
And across the cliffs of Veyr'Zhalar, the pulse of their rise echoed into the land.
The testing ground still steamed from the last elemental discharge when news of the Dragoon recruits' trial spread like wildfire. Soryn stood at the edge of the proving field, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with thoughtful pride. He said little, but the results spoke volumes. Several recruits had executed near-perfect combinations of runic markers, aerial strikes, and synchronized Starfall Sword Style assaults—clearly drawing from the techniques of a certain sovereign no longer visibly present.
It didn't take long for word to ripple outward.
In the Council Tower, murmurs erupted before the reports even arrived. One councilor leaned forward, fingers laced together.
"They performed what during a field test?"
"Explosive marker detonations," another answered, flipping through a parchment. "Timed mid-air. Inverted wind manipulation. One of them—Talia Fenreith—used Sky Piercer: Heavenfall Rend on a moving drone. Cracked it mid-rotation and still landed upright."
A long pause followed.
"And this Soryn was overseeing the training?"
Heads turned toward the elevated seats, where the High Councilor adjusted his robe. "We need to determine his origins—immediately. No bloodline on record should be capable of producing such results without divine inheritance."
But deep down, none could deny the results. The Dragoons were evolving—and they were evolving fast.
Meanwhile, in the heart of Aetherflame Palace, tension bubbled over not from military concerns—but from a far more volatile courtly storm.
Queen Elanra stood at the head of the dining table, one hand planted firmly on her hip, the other waving a scroll at her husband.
"This... Soryn," she said, enunciating each syllable with royal fire, "shares our bloodline name, exhibits draconic aura resonance, and has the discipline of a royal-taught heir."
"I have never seen him in my life," King Vael'Zarion said for the fifth time that hour, his silver brows twitching. "He is not my bastard."
"I don't know," chimed in Prince Ryvar, leaning on the table with a suspicious squint. "The resemblance is there... especially the part where he doesn't listen to anyone."
Princess Alyxthia nodded solemnly. "And he talks like he's ancient. It's kind of endearing. Which is suspicious."
"I can't believe this is happening," the king muttered under his breath, taking a long sip from his goblet. "This is treason by rumor."
Even Prince Kaelen, ever the rational one, admitted, "I'm drafting a bloodline verification protocol, Your Majesty. Just to settle this matter once and for all."
The king sighed. "At this point, I may need one myself."
Back at the Dragon Army's 6th Division Command, General Kyroth of the Iron Spear stood before a lineup of elite captains, reviewing the latest footage sent via mana lens from Skyharbor's Dragoon proving field. The room was heavy with silence as they watched Vellmar smash through a reinforced obstacle using a perfectly executed Sky Piercer: Zero Distance, while Selin Varrow vanished from sight entirely—reappearing only to place five runic markers mid-sprint and trigger a collapsing field effect.
"This isn't... normal military progression," one captain finally muttered.
"No," Kyroth agreed. "It's sovereign-sculpted. And whoever trained them—Soryn or not—they're creating a battalion that can challenge the divine."
Someone else whispered, "Or replace the gods entirely."
Kyroth didn't deny it.
He simply said, "Double surveillance on every Dragoon squad. We need to know what's coming before it gets here."
And far above, as if the skies themselves were watching, one shrine dragon stirred in its slumber.
The Dragoons were no longer trainees.
They were becoming a force destined to shake the pillars of Drakareth.
And everyone—councilor, crown, or commander—could feel it.
The sun dipped low over the Dragoon training grounds, casting long golden rays across the worn earth, where hundreds of warriors stood at attention, their bodies slick with the sweat of endless days of discipline. At the edge of the field stood Alter, arms crossed behind his back, his golden eyes calm but charged with silent intensity. Beside him, Soryn mirrored his stance, though his expression carried the weight of pride and anticipation.
Alter exhaled slowly. "They've grown."
Soryn nodded once. "It's time."
At the end of the day's training, Alter raised a hand, and without a single word, the field quieted. The thunder of footsteps, clashing of blades, and bursts of elemental force all faded into stillness. Recruits gathered in rows, breath still heavy from exertion, some barely able to stand upright but refusing to falter.
Alter stepped forward. His voice was calm, steady—but it carried like a storm breaking over still water.
"Today marks a new chapter in your journey. You have endured eleven days of training unlike anything this continent has ever seen. And yet… this is only the beginning."
The recruits held their breath.
"I will now name those who have shown exemplary progress—individuals whose talent, instinct, and potential have marked them for something greater."
A pause.
Then—
"Rhed Velgroth."
The tall, brash warrior blinked in disbelief. "Wh–what?"
"Step forward."
He obeyed, swallowing hard.
"Talia Fenreith."
A loud gasp erupted from the wild-haired woman. She nearly bounced in place before pushing her way to the front with a grin wider than her blade's edge.
"Selin Varrow."
No words, no change in expression. Just a silent glide from the shadows, like her name had simply been expected.
"Vellmar."
The juggernaut looked stunned, mouth slightly ajar. "Me? For real?"
"Now."
He marched forward quickly, fists clenched to suppress his joy.
"Elira Mistshade."
The quietest of the group melted out of the line like a wisp of shadow, eyes wide but sharp. She moved with silent grace, gaze flicking to Alter only once.
"Jaris Tenvahl."
From the rear lines came a voice that whispered, "...I didn't think he'd noticed." But the focused recruit stepped forward, composed and steady.
Alter looked upon them with a gaze of weight and measure. "You six will be my personal disciples. From this moment onward, you are also my Dragoon Commanders."
Gasps rippled through the crowd like lightning through dry grass. Murmurs started to stir—shock, envy, awe, and more than a little disappointment.
Alter raised his hand again.
"But let me be clear."
Silence returned instantly.
"All of you… will become my disciples in time. This is not exclusion. This is acknowledgment of your current phase. A spark that others will follow. Do not mistake this moment as the end of your path—it is a beacon for your own rise."
And just like that, the mood shifted. Where jealousy once threatened to take root, new fire kindled in the hearts of the Dragoons. Heads lifted. Shoulders straightened.
"You will now be divided into rotating squads," Alter continued. "Each day, your team will focus on one discipline: elemental runic marker combat, synchronized movement techniques, divine sword style execution, or internal martial cultivation. The next day, you will rotate to the next."
He stepped down from the platform, walking before them now as his voice grew quieter—but no less commanding.
"I will return when I can. Each time, I will bring more. New techniques. New insights. You will all rise."
Then he stopped and turned. "Train. Rest. Prepare."
He waved his hand.
"Dragoons—dismissed."
As the formation broke, the chosen six stood in a stunned half-circle, still processing their elevation. Rhed let out a booming laugh and clapped Vellmar on the back. Talia spun in a wild pirouette of pure joy. Selin nodded once to Elira, who gave her a rare, almost-smile. Jaris stood still, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed the whirlwind inside.
Soryn watched all of them.
And somewhere far in the distance, another shrine stirred. But for now, the flame of the Dragoons had only just begun to blaze.
The sun had barely crested the horizon, a gentle golden light stretching across the training fields as mist clung low to the grass. The Dragoons stood assembled in their squads, breath visible in the morning chill, weapons in hand and nerves tight with anticipation.
Alter stood at the center of the field, Starsever already unsheathed and glinting with celestial sheen. His presence, as always, drew their gazes like moths to a flame—but today, the flame burned differently.
"Today," he said, his voice calm but edged with momentum, "you will learn the third form of the Divine Heavenly Sword Style."
Gasps, murmurs, eyes wide.
"Starfall. Sky Piercer. And now—" He raised the blade, turning his body sideways in a stance that echoed divine flow and battlefield precision. "This… is Life Sever."
With a single slash, a burst of golden light erupted from the blade, arcing through the air and vanishing before it touched the earth. But the ground rumbled with aftershock. The air vibrated.
He moved slowly at first, guiding them through the stances. The weight distribution. The subtle pivot of the hips. The draw-in of internal force before the strike.
"It is not a style meant for suppression. It is meant for ending." He looked over them. "In time, you'll learn the real meaning behind its name."
He went through it once more, slower, then sheathed Starsever with finality.
"Practice. Let it become your own. Soryn will observe."
And with that, the atmosphere shifted.
A blast of heat rippled across the field as a massive presence descended from the sky like a meteor of molten glory. Ignivar landed behind Alter—his wings spread like banners of flame, his eyes burning like twin suns.
The ground shook beneath his claws.
Recruits froze. Jaws dropped. Words failed.
Ignivar let out a low rumble that vibrated through their very bones, not aggressive—but ancient. Sovereign. A reminder of the pact they followed.
Alter placed one foot into the fiery stirrup along the side of Ignivar's plated flank and swung up in one fluid motion. He turned briefly to look down at the recruits.
"Train with purpose," he called. "I will return."
Then, with a single beat of Ignivar's wings, the sky exploded with light and heat as they soared into the heavens. A comet of fire, vanishing into the blue horizon.
For a solid ten seconds, no one moved.
Then—
"…Whoa," someone whispered.
"Did you feel that heat?"
"Did you see that dragon's eyes?"
"My legs don't work anymore."
A slap echoed through the air.
Soryn stood at the front of the formation, his hand lowering from his forehead after delivering the snap that broke their trance.
"Back in formation," he said firmly, though even he had the trace of a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "We have a third form to master."
And just like that, awe turned back to resolve.
The Dragoons fell into motion.
The courtyard at the Mythral Dawn estate basked in the amber glow of twilight, its stone pathways still warm from the day's heat. A soft breeze rustled the ivy that crept up the marble pillars, and lanterns flickered like fireflies against the deepening sky. The training fields stood empty now, the clang of blades and bursts of magic faded to memory as the 14 Commanders gathered under the central pavilion, sweat-slicked and silent in their end-of-day fatigue.
Selene Virellia leaned on her glaive, eyes narrowed toward the distant horizon. "That draconic pulse… I can still feel it humming in my bones."
Revyn Mistclaw nodded, his fingers tapping a silent rhythm against the pommel of his daggers. "It wasn't just a pulse. It was a presence. Ancient. Sovereign."
Garran Flamecoil exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. "Made my flames go wild for hours. Took me three full suppressions to get them under control."
Finn Whiteshadow stood near Mira, arms crossed, silent but listening. Mira's eyes, as sharp as ever, scanned the others. "And none of us have a clue what it was?"
All eyes flicked to Takayoshi.
The master stood near the estate's edge, arms folded behind his back, looking toward the mountains beyond. He said nothing. Not even a twitch of acknowledgment.
Selene tilted her head. "Takayoshi…? You of all people—"
"I said nothing," he replied flatly. "And I mean it."
A weight settled over the group. The kind that meant end of discussion. Eventually, the 14 bowed out one by one, departing toward their quarters, minds uneasy, feet heavy.
The moon rose high. Silver. Gentle.
And in the estate's tranquil garden, where wild roses danced along the walls and a small fountain whispered in the quiet, Mira waited beneath the boughs of a blooming tree. Finn stepped softly behind her, his hair tied back, sweat-washed and changed from training. She turned at the sound of his footsteps and smiled faintly.
"You're late."
"You're early."
She rolled her eyes. "I needed peace."
Finn stepped beside her, brushing her hand with his. "Then I guess I'm in the right place."
They sat together on the stone bench near the pond. The air felt still, the kind that invited closeness. Mira leaned into him slowly, their faces inches apart, breaths mingling—until—
A loud, obvious cough shattered the moment.
Both froze.
Turning their heads in unison, they found Takayoshi standing six feet away, arms crossed, expression neutral.
"It's late," he said calmly. "Get to bed."
Like two students caught cheating during a test, Finn and Mira scrambled to their feet and hurried off with muttered apologies.
The next night, it happened again.
This time, they'd chosen the library balcony. A perfect view of the stars, secluded and quiet.
Until a vase mysteriously toppled off a ledge behind them.
Takayoshi appeared moments later, sipping tea.
"You two are out late again. Need help finding your way back?"
"NO," they said in unison, red-faced and furious.
Another night, another garden. This time, they brought blankets and sat beneath a crystal-lit tree. As they held hands and finally leaned in, an entire row of hedges exploded into glittery pink light.
A floating sign appeared:
"NO KISSING ON TRAINING NIGHTS."
Mira snapped. "That's IT. WHO keeps—"
No one. Silence. No Takayoshi.
Finn dragged a hand down his face. "I think he's leveling up his pranks."
Another night. Another try.
This time, a rooftop above the estate.
No signs. No crashes. No coughs.
Just stars. The sound of wind brushing past.
Mira nestled against Finn's shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. "Do you think we'll ever be alone?"
He placed a hand over hers. "As long as you're here, I'm fine."
She smiled, her eyes closing gently.
Unseen, far below in the shadow of a tree, Takayoshi leaned against the bark with his arms crossed.
"I should at least let them hug," he murmured.
Then vanished into the night wind.
Far above the clouds, where even the cries of dragons faded into windless silence, Alter soared on Ignivar's back—his mythic fire dragon steed cutting a path through the sky like a streak of molten dawn. The skies were calm here, unnaturally so. The pressure shifted.
The final shrine loomed ahead.
A solitary structure suspended above a jagged mesa cloaked in eternal shadow. It looked less like a temple and more like a fragment of something ancient and forgotten—its foundation cracked, floating on broken stone platforms that orbited slowly, endlessly.
The seventh outer shrine.
Unlike the others, this one bore no emblems. No flame torches. No light at all. Just the black spiral crest etched into the platform's heart—an ancient sigil of void, silence, and forgotten dominion.
Ignivar rumbled in his throat, a deep growl echoing through the clouds.
"This place... does not welcome dragons."
Alter nodded once, calm and resolute. "It doesn't welcome anyone."
He stood, then stepped off Ignivar's back midair. For a heartbeat, he hovered—surrounded by the soft glow of the Draconian Prime's aura. Then he descended slowly, boots landing with a faint echo against the cold stone.
Ignivar flared his wings and retreated, hovering distantly like a guardian unwilling to interfere.
Alter walked forward. Every footstep felt heavy here—not physically, but metaphysically. The shrine exhaled stillness. It was like the world itself paused in this place.
He passed weathered dragon statues shattered and tilted in unnatural directions. None faced forward. All were twisted toward the edges of the platform, as if fleeing what sat at the center.
The spiral crest pulsed once as he approached. Soft, deep hums echoed below his feet, not heard—but felt through his bones.
"Show me," Alter said, voice calm.
The wind died completely.
Then—a crack.
The spiral flared.
The sky turned black as midnight, blotting out the sun above. A wave of pressure surged across the platform like a breath from a forgotten god. Alter didn't move, but his armor hummed with latent energy, responding instinctively to the shift.
A gate formed at the center of the crest, shaped like a jagged, mirror-shard halo. Within it churned a maelstrom of black, violet, and silver mist.
This shrine… was not just for awakening.
It was a door.
And something on the other side stirred.
A whisper tickled Alter's senses, something vast and old pressing its presence toward him—but not with malevolence.
With expectation.
"This is where the veil thins," Alter whispered. "Where the world of dragons ends… and the roots of chaos begin."
He stepped forward, crossing the threshold.
The seventh and final shrine opened.
And the storm behind silence awakened.
Darkness folded around Alter the moment he crossed the gate.
Not a darkness born of mere absence of light—but the kind shaped from stillness, weight, and primordial entropy. It pressed inward, not to harm, but to know him. Time scattered. Sound unraveled. The laws that tethered reality outside were absent here.
Yet he walked forward.
Each step was echoed not by stone or dust—but by memory. His own voice, distorted and ancient, whispered fragments he didn't remember speaking. His victories. His regrets. His laughter. His screams. All blurred together in the air like ash swirling in windless space.
Then, it stopped.
He stood at the center of a vast void chamber, suspended over an abyss. No walls. No ceiling. Just an endless expanse of glass beneath his feet, reflecting not himself… but a different form.
His reflection moved on its own.
The reflection's armor pulsed with chaotic energy—spiked, unrefined, alive. Its face bore no features, only a maw of writhing shadow with burning golden eyes. And when it raised its weapon… it wasn't Starsever.
It was Voidsever, forged from absence and entropy.
Alter took a breath and drew his own blade. "So this is it. My final echo."
The reflection cocked its head. It spoke with his voice—calm, amused.
"You thought awakening was conquest. It was surrender."
It lunged.
Alter met the blow midair. Their blades clashed, and the entire abyss shuddered. Fractures of light and void burst outward in radial patterns. The speed—unreal. Each strike cracked the dimension further, their duel carving runes into the very fabric of the abyss.
Starfall collided with Starfall. Dimensional Slash met Void Rend. Clone versus clone. But this opponent anticipated everything. It was him. Without restraint. Without compassion. A weapon perfected by chaos.
The reflection roared, splitting into six forms—each holding a warped version of his techniques.
Alter stood still as they circled.
Then he whispered: "You're not chaos. You're just fear unclaimed."
He closed his eyes. And his aura shifted.
The seven Draconian Aspects surged within him—storm, flame, earth, wind, ice, light, and shadow—each one illuminating his veins in pulses. His breath calmed. Starsever lit with golden resonance.
"I am the sovereign of dragons," he said.
"And even my fear kneels."
He vanished.
In that moment, time folded.
What followed was not a battle—but an ascension. Alter unleashed the Demon God Killing Martial Arts in full sequence. Each strike unspooled the chaos around him like threads snapped from a loom.
Fist of Ruin.
Heaven-Piercer Step.
Void Fang Rend.
Soulbreaker Dive.
Graviton Sever.
Hellpulse Eruption—
All in a chain, without pause, each movement cracking the very idea of limitation.
The reflection began to falter. It couldn't keep up.
And then—strike seventeen: Sovereign Fang Collapse.
Alter rose high into the abyss sky, divine flame and lightning crackling from his limbs.
He descended like a meteor, crashing down on the last reflection with such force that the void itself screamed.
Silence.
The broken fragments of the reflection hovered, then drifted away like ash into the stars.
Then came the final pulse.
The spiral crest of the shrine ignited beneath him—filling the abyss with radiant, prismatic light. The shrine responded to his presence… not with reverence, but with recognition.
He had not merely awakened the shrine.
He had claimed it.
Chains of golden flame wrapped the void core, sealing it under his will. The sigil of chaos inverted, forming a crown-shaped glyph beneath his feet.
Alter hovered above it, suspended in stillness.
And in that timeless silence, a voice ancient and deep echoed through the chamber—not from the shrine, but from the very breath of dragonkind.
"You are now… Draconian Prime."
Alter opened his eyes.
They burned with eternal fire and endless sky.
He stepped forward—no longer just a warrior of dragons…
…but the sovereign of them all.
The sky cracked as Alter soared from the abyss, Ignivar's form blazing beneath him like a comet of living flame.
The world beneath was quiet, unaware of what had just changed.
But the heavens were not.
The moment Alter emerged from the sealed rift—winds shifted across Drakareth. The clouds above the capital swirled without storm, a pulse of ancient resonance echoing from peak to plain. Every dragon, awake or sleeping, stirred in unspoken unison. The shrines—all of them—lit in synchronized response, their wards flickering with golden light.
And deep beneath the land… something ancient stirred. Watching.
Ignivar's wings roared through the sky as he banked eastward, gliding over highlands and rivers, his scales glowing with internal flame.
Alter remained silent atop the saddle, eyes scanning the distant horizon.
Every shrine was now awakened.
Every elemental pulse harmonized.
He could feel it—Drakareth was changing. Responding. As if the land itself waited to see what he would become next.
He reached down, placing his palm on Ignivar's neck. The fire dragon grunted in affirmation, then spoke with his deep, resonant voice.
"You carry their will now. All of them. Are you ready?"
Alter closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted to the Dragoon recruits. To the shrines. To the fractured world he had returned to.
To those who waited for him.
"…Not yet," he murmured. "But soon."
Ignivar rumbled in approval. The fire wrapped around his wings intensified.
Together, they descended.
Their destination: the Dragoon camp.
But their path would not be quiet. The world was beginning to notice. Soryn had played his part. The Dragoons were growing stronger. Whispers of the sovereign's presence were already spreading.
And somewhere—beyond the reach of mortal eyes—a gate shivered open.
A new presence loomed.
But for now, the sky belonged to them.
The moment the last shrine awakened, a golden tremor rippled across the leyline network of Drakareth. Shrines—once dormant, sealed, or hidden—flared in unison with the harmonic pulse. Ancient glyphs carved into their stone facades radiated divine resonance, resonating like bells struck in perfect unity.
High in the marble halls of the Council Spire, the atmosphere fractured into stunned silence.
Elder Maldrin's hands trembled as he rose to his feet, leaning forward on his cane with unblinking eyes.
"…It's done," he whispered. "All seven…"
Councilor Theralda stood beside him, her voice barely a breath. "The last shrine… it answered him. All the ancestral seals, reawakened. This hasn't happened since the Wyrm Reign of the Fourth Cycle…"
Another councilor, Lord Serik, turned toward the crystalline map of Drakareth that floated above the central table. The locations of all outer shrines now pulsed with golden light—synchronized like stars in perfect orbit.
"The sovereign bloodline... It truly lives on," he muttered.
Elder Maldrin's voice regained strength. "Inform the palace. The cycle has shifted. The Dragoon unit must be accelerated. Ready the emissaries to Veyr'Zhalar."
In the Royal Citadel of Veyr'Zhalar, pandemonium erupted.
A wave of divine pressure hit the palace like a thunderclap. The sapphire scrying mirrors flickered, then pulsed with dragon-glyphs. Magic wards ignited across the throne room—ancient spells reacting to the shift in spiritual balance.
Queen Elanra stood at the window, her eyes wide, one hand clutching her robes. Her sapphire veil drifted in the magic-charged air.
"He's done it," she breathed. "The seventh shrine has returned to light."
Prince Kaelen stormed in moments later, scrolls clutched in hand. "Reports confirm the final shrine surged just past the dawn hour. The barrier across the southern border shimmered with golden hue. The people are already gathering at temples to pray."
Prince Ryvar skidded in behind him, breathless and wild-eyed. "I felt it! From my damn bed! Is that normal?! The entire city glowed for a second! I thought the dragons were waking up to start a war!"
The Queen turned slowly toward the throne, where King Vael'Zarion stood still—one hand pressed against the dragon-emblazoned seal carved into the obsidian wall.
"…All seven," the king said, voice like stone. "Then it has truly begun."
Kaelen looked over. "Father?"
But the king did not answer. Not yet.
Instead, he turned his head toward the balcony that faced the southern skies—where a lone shimmer of light still flickered like a falling star.
"It means our role in this age has changed," he finally said. "Prepare for the ceremonial assembly. The bloodline will move. Whether fate bends or shatters… we must be ready."
Princess Alyxthia, watching from the side with quiet eyes, murmured under her breath.
"They will rise. The shrines remember their sovereign."
And beneath her feet… the very foundation of the palace hummed in response.