The chamber was dark, lit only by the eerie, greenish glow of a massive, magical map of the Dragonspin Mountains spread across a polished obsidian table. Cities, fortresses, and dragon nests were marked with shimmering points of light. One of them, a large red light in the heart of the mountains, had just flickered and died.
A figure stood over the map, their form lost in the deep shadows of the room. Only a pale, slender hand was visible, its long fingers tipped with sharp, black lacquered nails, tapping a silent, impatient rhythm on the table's surface.
A man, clad in the dark leathers of a Heart-Eater scout, knelt at the edge of the table, his head bowed. He did not dare to look up.
"The operation in the Spine has... failed, my lord," the scout reported, his voice trembling slightly. "The Chief is dead. The arena is lost. The prisoners have escaped."
The tapping stopped. The silence that followed was far more terrifying than any shout.
"Dead?" The voice that emerged from the shadows was smooth as polished obsidian and just as cold. It was neither male nor female, yet carried an undeniable authority. "How... disappointing. The Chief was a creature of simple appetites. I expected him to fall, but not so... messily."
"It was a prince from Aethelgard, my lord," the scout stammered. "Prince Aiden. He and his... retinue. They fought with unexpected skill."
"A prince," the voice mused, a hint of what might have been amusement in its tone. "How quaint. The Chief always focused on the wrong prize. He sought heartstones... a fool's errand for superstitious brutes. He never understood the true value of the Spine."
The pale hand gestured gracefully over the map, tracing the outlines of the old Sky-Fallen territories.
"The Sky-Fallen Clan were not just keepers of a pass," the voice continued, a low, conspiratorial whisper. "They were keepers of a secret. A secret that cannot be allowed to survive. The Chief's death is an inconvenience. The survival of that secret is a catastrophe."
The scout swallowed hard, sensing an opportunity to redeem himself. "My lord, our intelligence network... it's not completely gone. Before the... incident, we received fragmented reports. Whispers. Rumors that a trace of the old bloodline remained."
The hand froze. "Where?"
The scout hesitated, knowing this next piece of information was the most dangerous. "The trail was faint, my lord. It led west, out of the mountains. And then... it went cold. But one of our deep-cover agents sent a final, coded message before he went silent. He believed a Sky-Fallen survivor had found refuge."
The figure in the shadows leaned forward slightly, the air in the room growing colder.
"Where?" the voice repeated, now sharp as a shard of ice.
"In the Kingdom of Aethelgard itself, my lord."
A long, drawn-out silence filled the chamber. Then, a soft, chilling laugh echoed in the dark.
"Aethelgard," the voice purred. "The prince's own kingdom... How poetic. He brings the last ember of a failed house into his own hearth, unaware he is sheltering a flame that will burn his kingdom to the ground."
The pale hand moved, a single, sharp fingernail tapping decisively on the location of Aethelgard on the glowing map.
"Find them," the voice commanded, all traces of amusement gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute finality. "Find this last ember of the Sky-Fallen Clan. And learn everything about the prince who protects them. I want to know what he eats, what he reads, and who he loves. Do not make a move. Do not engage. Just watch. And wait for my command."
"As you command, my lord," the scout said, relief flooding through him as he bowed lower and scrambled backward out of the room.
The figure remained standing over the map, the single fingernail still pressing down on Aethelgard. In the darkness of the chamber, a new, more dangerous hunt had just begun.
The library was Seraphine's sanctuary. The silence, the scent of aging paper and leather, it was the closest thing to peace she'd found in this boisterous, chaotic castle. With a final, graceful flick of her feather duster, she finished her duties. The shelves gleamed in the afternoon light. But the work had left her feeling... dry. A familiar, persistent thirst began to prickle at the back of her throat.
She needed a bath. And a drink.
As she turned to leave, a sudden chill washed over her. It was not the natural coolness of the stone castle, but a sudden, unnatural drop in temperature. She froze, her preternatural senses on high alert. She was being watched. The feeling was intense, focused, and utterly devoid of emotion. It was the gaze of a predator.
She spun around, her violet eyes scanning the shadows between the bookshelves. Nothing.
And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. The temperature returned to normal. The feeling of being observed vanished.
Interesting, she thought, a flicker of curiosity in her ancient heart. She filed the sensation away and glided out of the library towards the royal bathhouse.
The steam-filled air was a welcome embrace. The bathhouse was a marvel of marble and mosaics, with a large, sunken pool filled with steaming, scented water. A servant, seeing her approach, silently offered a tray with a tall glass of deep red liquid and a pitcher of water. Tomato juice, with a hint of iron. A poor substitute, but it would have to do.
She sank into the hot water with a sigh of contentment, sipping the juice. The heat soothed her, but the thirst remained a dull ache.
The door opened again, and Talia walked in, her movements stiff with exhaustion. She carried her own change of clothes and a small, worn whetstone.
"The Prince has you polishing silverware now?" Talia asked, a hint of a smirk on her face as she noticed Seraphine's glass.
"And the King has you scrubbing training dummies?" Seraphine retorted smoothly. "We all have our burdens."
Talia snorted, sitting on a bench near the pool and beginning to sharpen a small dagger she kept hidden in her boot. "This job is harder than fighting a dragon. At least with a dragon, you know where you stand. Here... it's all politics and pleasantries. I'd rather take a sword to the gut."
"Try doing it for three centuries," Seraphine said, her voice a low, silken purr. "The novelty of polishing silverware wears off rather quickly. The thirst, however, does not."
For a moment, a flicker of understanding passed between them. Two warriors from different worlds, both struggling to adapt.
And then, Seraphine felt it again.
The chill. The feeling of being watched. It was stronger this time, more invasive. Her hand tightened on her glass.
"Do you feel that?" she asked, her voice now sharp.
Talia stopped sharpening her dagger, her head cocked. Her warrior instincts, honed by years of survival, instantly kicked in. She gave a slow, sharp nod. Her eyes scanned the high, arched windows of the bathhouse.
Without a word, Talia held up a hand, a silent signal. Then, in a burst of motion, she was on her feet, her dagger in hand, running silently towards the source of the sensation—a small, antechamber connected to the main bathing room.
Seraphine rose from the water, wrapping a silk robe around herself, her senses on high alert. She heard Talia let out an exasperated sigh.
"Rina! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
Seraphine followed the sound. In the antechamber, Rina was standing over Lyra, who was sitting on a bench, a towel wrapped around her hair. Rina was gently combing through Lyra's long, dark hair with a wooden comb, her movements soft and careful. Lyra's eyes were closed, a look of pure contentment on her face.
"We were just getting ready," Rina stammered, looking at Talia's dagger with wide eyes. "Lyra's hair gets all tangled when it's wet."
Talia lowered her dagger, shaking her head. "Don't sneak around like that. I thought you were an intruder."
But Seraphine wasn't looking at them. She was looking at the spot where Rina had been standing. The feeling was still there, a faint, lingering trace, like the scent of ozone after a lightning strike. It felt... wrong. The presence had been there, and Rina's sudden appearance had simply masked its retreat. It was too convenient.
She dismissed the thought with a small shake of her head. Perhaps she was just on edge. "It's nothing," she said, her voice returning to its usual, calm tone. "Just the castle settling."
She turned and walked back to the main pool, rejoining Talia, who was muttering about clumsy maids. But in the back of her mind, a seed of unease had been planted.
Outside, high on the castle ramparts, a figure cloaked in shadows lowered a small, scrying glass. The image of the bathhouse faded. The observer had seen enough. They had seen the fiery-haired one, the dragon rider, react with the speed of a trained warrior. They had followed her.
And when she had burst into the antechamber, her tunic had ridden up for just a moment.
There, on the side of her stomach, peeking out from above her leggings, was a glimpse of it. A complex, interwoven pattern of sharp, angular lines and draconic script, coiling around a single, stylized teardrop.
The tattoo of the Sky-Fallen Clan.
The observer smiled, a cold, thin-lipped expression in the darkness.
The last ember had been found.