The Drakaryx Imperial Capital did not know how to breathe that morning.
Mist crawled low across black stone avenues, coiling around dragon-carved pillars and ancestral banners heavy with rain. The sky hung in layered greys, not storm-dark, not dawn-light—an indecisive firmament mirroring the uncertainty gripping the empire.
Whispers traveled faster than couriers.
Heaven had hesitated.
The Registry had flickered.
A name had refused correction.
And at the center of it all—
—the Third Prince.
Azrael Drakaryx — POV
I was awake long before the bells rang.
Not because I needed to be.
Because the world wouldn't let me sleep.
Every breath dragged fate with it. Threads brushed my skin like spider silk—some warm, some frayed, some screaming as they burned away. I lay on my side atop layered silk cushions, one leg draped lazily over the edge of the couch, black hair loose and unbound, spilling like ink across jade.
Anyone peeking in would see what they always saw.
A prince too indolent to sit properly.
Eyes half-lidded.
Posture careless.
A body that looked breakable.
They never looked long enough to notice how the air leaned toward me.
[Abyssal Sovereign Fate Devourer]
— Name Authority: Stable
— Dragon Law: Partial Override Successful
— Warning: Heaven has initiated Passive Observation
Passive.
I smiled faintly.
That was Heaven's word for panic they refused to admit.
The courtyard beyond my balcony rippled as rain struck stone. Servants hurried through with lowered heads. Guards stood straighter than usual—too straight—hands tense on spear hafts.
Fear had seeped into routine.
Good.
Fear made people predictable.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the carved ceiling above—ancient dragons entwined in eternal struggle, their eyes inlaid with gemstones dulled by centuries. One of them… looked almost familiar.
"Lazy already?"
The voice was cool, controlled, edged with something sharper beneath.
I didn't turn my head. "You're late."
Seraphina Vale — POV
He was infuriating.
Azrael Drakaryx looked as though the weight of the empire could collapse on him and he would simply sigh and ask someone to clean up the mess. His robes—dark violet trimmed with silver—were half-open at the collar, sleeves loose, posture entirely improper.
And yet…
The moment I stepped closer, my instincts screamed.
His eyes were different.
Not brighter.
Deeper.
A faint ring of gold circled the crimson in his pupils, like molten metal cooled just enough to endure. It wasn't always there. It flickered in and out, restrained by some internal decision.
"You collapsed," I said again, quieter this time.
Rain drummed against the eaves.
Azrael finally turned his head to look at me, one brow lifting lazily. "Collapsed implies weakness."
"You stopped existing," I corrected. "For nearly a minute."
I took another step forward. The air thickened. My skin prickled.
"Doctors couldn't explain it. Cultivators couldn't sense you. Even the imperial array went… blind."
Silence.
Then, slowly, Azrael sat up.
The shift was subtle—but the room recognized it. His spine straightened just enough. His shoulders aligned. The indolent sprawl condensed into coiled stillness.
A predator choosing not to move yet.
"They tried to rewrite me," he said softly.
My breath caught. "Heaven."
"Yes."
The word fell like a stone dropped into deep water.
"Heaven does not like inconsistencies," Azrael continued. "It prefers stories with obedient protagonists and convenient villains."
I swallowed. "And you broke the narrative."
His smile sharpened—not wide, not cruel.
Certain.
"When a dragon remembers his true name," he said, "the world hesitates."
Interlude — The Heavenly Registry
A slab of luminous law trembled.
Runes carved by pre-celestial beings flared and dimmed, attempting to stabilize a single inscription. Gold bled into crimson. Corrections overwrote themselves. Historical records warped retroactively—scribes of Heaven blinking in confusion as memories rearranged.
ERROR: Name Authority Conflict
SUBJECT: Azrael Drakaryx
STATUS: NON-COMPLIANT
Vaelis stood unmoving before the fracture, form indistinct, voice devoid of emotion.
"This name," it intoned, "predates assigned fate."
Heaven did not like things older than itself.
Kael Veyl — POV
I woke choking.
Air tore into my lungs like I had been drowning, my chest burning with a pain that had no physical source. Sweat soaked my clothes. My hands trembled.
"Kael!"
My mother's voice—tight with panic—cut through the haze as she rushed to my side, pressing a palm to my forehead.
"You fainted," she said. "The blessing—your mark—it flickered."
I reached inward instinctively.
The warmth that had always been there—the quiet certainty that things would work out—was thinner. Not gone.
But… hollow.
As if something had been scooped out, leaving a void that echoed.
"Mother," I whispered, "what is the Third Prince's name?"
She froze.
"…Azrael Drakaryx."
The name struck like a hammer.
Something inside me recoiled.
Something else… resented.
Imperial Inner Palace — Valeria Drakaryx
The ancestral mirror had not glowed in decades.
Empress Valeria stood before it, posture immaculate, platinum-gold hair braided in the imperial style, violet eyes cold as winter stars. Ministers waited behind her, tense and silent.
Behind her reflection—
—the dragon sigil burned.
Not violently.
Regally.
"Heaven has requested clarification," one minister said carefully. "Regarding… a discrepancy."
Valeria did not turn.
"They may request," she said coolly. "They may not command."
Her gaze shifted, instinctively, toward the direction of the Third Prince's residence.
A mother's pride stirred.
So did unease.
"My son," she murmured, unheard by all but the mirror,
"what have you dared to awaken?"