(Part 1 of 2)
The dawn that followed was too bright.
Twin suns burned through high clouds, painting the obsidian streets of Obsidia Sanctum in gold and scarlet. Every spire wore streamers of molten cloth; every balcony spilled incense that smelled of iron and crushed roses. From the palace roof to the lowest market square, people prepared for the Festival of Blood and Flame—the day dragons and vampires set aside rivalry to honor the ancient pact that founded the Dominion.
For seventeen years Balerion had watched it from the margins.
Now, as he stepped from the citadel gates, cloak hooded against the wind, he realized something was…different. The air tasted sharper, every color a shade more alive. The hum of mana under the pavement beat in rhythm with his pulse. Somewhere inside his chest, the faint glow he had seen in the shattered library still pulsed like a secret heartbeat.
He drew a slow breath. It didn't hurt. For the first time in his memory, breathing didn't hurt.
Maybe I finally broke, he thought. Or maybe the world did.
Crowds thickened along the avenue. Dragon-blooded soldiers in scaled armor marched beside vampires in ceremonial black; human merchants hawked talismans; beast-kin dancers wove between them with ribbons of flame trailing their tails. Music—half roar, half hymn—rolled from the central plaza where the Sky-Forge Bell waited to be struck at noon.
Children pointed when they saw him. "That's the half-blood prince!" someone whispered. Another voice added, "The one who fainted during his last trial."
He ignored them and kept walking. The stone beneath his boots was warm, resonant. When his hand brushed a vendor's stall, sparks leapt from his fingertips—tiny, harmless, but bright enough to make the vendor gasp.
"Apologies," Balerion said quickly, pulling back.
The old dwarf blinked at his hand. "No apology needed, lad. That was power—raw, hungry power. You sure you're supposed to walk about without a seal on?"
"I'm sure." He wasn't.
At the plaza's heart, a grand dais of onyx awaited the royal families. Velvet banners bearing the crests of Drakmor and Vantheus rippled above thrones of flame and shadow. His mother would descend from the skies at noon; his father would rise from the catacombs with his retinue of blood-knights. Between them, the heir was expected to kneel and swear unity before the realm.
He was supposed to stand there as ornament—weak but symbolic.
"Lord Balerion!"
He turned. Selene Valeria strode toward him through the crowd, sunlight turning her silver hair almost white. She wore the academy's dueling uniform: dark crimson trimmed in silver, rapier at her hip, expression sharper than the blade. A small smile softened her mouth when she reached him.
"You look alive for someone buried under a library explosion," she said.
"You heard."
"I was there. Your attendants wouldn't let me through." Her eyes narrowed. "You're different. I can feel it. Your aura—before, it flickered. Now it's…layered."
Balerion stiffened. "Keep your voice down."
Selene tilted her head, unbothered. "I keep secrets better than most priests keep their faith. Are you hurt?"
"No." He glanced toward the dais. "Just expected."
"To kneel?"
He almost smiled. "To endure."
A trumpet sounded from the northern tower, deep enough to shake the air. The crowd fell to its knees as the first shadow crossed the sun: Azura Drakmor, the Eternal Flame Queen, descending in her dragon form. Her wings spanned the plaza; molten scales shed embers that dissolved before they touched stone. She landed beside the dais, shrinking into her human guise—a tall woman with scarlet hair and eyes like burning citrine.
Moments later, the air chilled. From beneath the plaza, obsidian tiles slid apart, revealing a staircase of mist. Velkan Vantheus emerged, flanked by crimson-cloaked vampires. His presence bled color from the world, the daylight dimming until torches reignited themselves.
The crowd thundered as both rulers faced one another across the dais.
"Citizens of Ebonflame," Velkan's voice boomed, smooth and cold. "Today we honor unity forged in blood and flame. Yet unity is fragile. It must be renewed."
Azura lifted her hand; the magma channels around the plaza flared. "Let the heirs of fire and night remember that their strength flows from harmony."
All eyes turned to Balerion.
He stepped forward, heart hammering. The new heartbeat in his chest echoed louder with every stride, matching the rhythm of the bell overhead. Each step felt too light, as though gravity hesitated to claim him. When he reached the dais, he sank to one knee as tradition demanded.
The Sky-Forge Bell began to toll. Once. Twice. At the third strike, a shudder rippled through the plaza—the stone vibrating, banners snapping. Gasps spread like wildfire.
The bell kept ringing on its own.
Azura's gaze snapped upward; Velkan's aura surged in response. The air warped between them, flame and shadow lashing like twin storms. In the center of that tempest, Balerion knelt, frozen, pain stabbing behind his ribs. The glow under his skin flared through his cloak.
Not here. Not now.
He clenched his teeth, forcing breath through the agony, but the energy refused to quiet. The crimson sun dimmed. The silver one flared white. Between them, for a heartbeat, a third light—dark, pulsating—appeared high above, invisible to all but those attuned to mana.
Selene saw it. Her pupils tightened to slits.
"Balerion…" she whispered.