The sun hung high above the capital, pouring molten gold over the crowded market streets.
Voices crashed in a constant, living tide—merchants bellowing prices over sizzling grills, customers haggling with sharp gestures, horses snorting as laden carts rattled across uneven cobblestones. Spices hung thick in the air, mingling with hot metal from the smithies, fresh-baked bread, and the faint metallic tang of sweat and coin. Life moved loudly, chaotically. Normally.
At the kingdom's grand entrance gates—flanked by towering stone dragons whose eyes gleamed with embedded mana crystals—Lysera stood still.
Two years.
Two years since she had passed through these gates under the banner of patronage, a girl carrying the weight of expectations.
Her gaze swept the city—unchanged in its clamor, yet somehow distant, muted. The noise slid off her like rain on oiled leather. The crowd parted around her without conscious thought; some ancient instinct made merchants falter mid-shout, children step back, guards straighten. She walked forward, cloak bearing the crimson-and-black sigil of House Dravenir rippling behind her like spilled blood.
Each step carried her deeper into familiar streets. Vendors paused mid-sentence as she passed. A few older faces recognized the crest, the sharp features, the quiet menace in her stride. Fewer dared meet her eyes—those molten-amber irises that now held a faint, perpetual glow, like embers banked beneath ash.
The castle rose ahead: obsidian spires piercing the sky, banners snapping in the high wind, walls etched with faint protective runes that shimmered when the light hit just right.
High above, on a slanted rooftop overlooking the outer bailey, Erik sat on the edge, one knee raised, armor glinting in the afternoon heat. His eyes lazily scanned the horizon—
Then locked.
A figure moved through the market with calm, unwavering strides—purposeful, unhurried, radiating quiet authority.
His posture snapped straight.
"Lady Lysera…" he muttered.
He pushed to his feet to rush inside and inform the Patriarch—but a hand settled on his shoulder before he could move.
The pressure wasn't heavy.
It didn't need to be.
Erik froze.
"I will announce my return myself."
Her voice was steady, low, carrying the faint crackle of restrained heat.
Erik slowly turned his head.
She stood behind him—close enough that he felt the subtle warmth radiating from her skin, like standing near a forge left untended.
Up close, the difference was undeniable. Her aura was sharper, denser; the air around her shimmered faintly, as if heated by unseen flames. Mana coiled tighter, more controlled, more lethal.
She has grown stronger these past two years, he thought, a faint smirk touching his lips despite himself.
"As you wish, young mistress," he said. "Allow me to escort you to the Patriarch."
She gave a small nod.
Together they descended into the castle halls.
Servants lowered their heads as she passed, trays trembling slightly. Guards straightened instinctively, hands tightening on spear hafts.
The massive doors to the throne room groaned open.
Lysera stepped inside.
Nobles lining the hall instinctively lowered their gazes, murmurs dying like snuffed candles.
At the far end, upon the obsidian throne carved with the coiling-dragon sigil of House Dravenir, Seraphiel watched in silence—posture rigid, eyes unreadable.
Lysera halted several steps below the dais, boots silent on the polished black marble.
"I have returned home, Father."
Her voice was calm, even.
"Did the mission proceed as expected?" Seraphiel asked, tone measured.
"Yes, Father." No hesitation. "The Ashveil Drake has been eliminated."
Seraphiel inclined his head once.
"Well done."
Lysera returned the gesture with a slight bow before straightening.
"If you would excuse me," she said, "I wish to see Mother."
A faint pause.
"You are dismissed."
She turned without lingering and walked from the throne room. The great doors closed behind her with a resonant thud that echoed through the hall.
Silence lingered in her wake.
"Erik."
The captain stepped forward at once and bowed.
"Yes, my lord."
Seraphiel's gaze did not leave the doors.
"You sensed it as well."
A faint smirk touched Erik's lips.
"I did, my lord. The young mistress's mana has grown considerably. Her current output…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It is comparable to a Black Squad Vice Captain."
A beat.
"Perhaps even higher."
Seraphiel's fingers tapped once against the arm of the throne—slow, deliberate.
No one in the hall dared breathe too loudly.
House Dravenir's eldest daughter had returned.
Lysera moved through the corridor at an unhurried pace.
The inner garden opened before her—sunlight spilling across manicured hedges, pale stone paths, and blooming nightshade flowers that released a faint, sweet-spicy scent on the breeze.
Aldric sat at a low table beneath a flowering cherry tree, a plate of sliced fruit between him and Kaira. The dragon lay curled beside him, one massive silver wing stretched lazily along the grass like a living blanket. An apple rested near her claw, half-eaten.
Lysera stopped a few steps away.
Mana gathered at her fingertip—crimson light flaring bright.
"Flame Arrow."
The spell shot forward in a hissing streak.
Aldric didn't look back.
Just as the flame reached him, Kaira lifted her wing with casual grace, blocking it. The fire dispersed against her scales in a shower of harmless sparks, like embers hitting wet stone.
Something flicked through the air from behind that same wing.
Lysera caught it one-handed.
An apple.
Kaira lowered her wing again, golden eyes half-lidded, unbothered.
Aldric smiled faintly.
"Bold of you to think your flame would reach me while Kaira is with me."
Lysera took a bite, juice crisp and sweet.
"Greetings, Uncle."
"I didn't expect you back so soon."
"I had to."
The lightness thinned.
"So," Aldric said, setting the plate aside, "you heard."
"Yes." A pause. "Where is Mother?"
"In Vlad's room."
Silence stretched between them—thick, heavy.
"Tell me what really happened," she said.
Aldric met her eyes.
And began.
After the brief exchange in the garden, Lysera turned toward the inner corridor.
"I'll go see Mother then," she said lightly. "Enjoy your little picnic."
Aldric waved lazily. When he tried to lift Kaira's claw to make her wave as well, her tail smacked him across the back—hard enough to send him face-first into the grass with a muffled thud.
Lysera did not look back.
She stopped before Vlad's chamber door.
For a moment, she simply stood there, hand hovering over the handle.
Then she knocked softly.
"Mother… are you inside?"
From within, a soft voice answered.
"Yes. Come in."
Lysera pushed the door open.
Elarys sat beside the bed, embroidery resting forgotten in her lap. Vlad lay unmoving beneath pale sheets, his skin still too pale, breathing shallow and even. The room smelled faintly of healing herbs and old parchment.
"Welcome home, dear," Elarys said gently.
Lysera stepped closer to the bed.
"How is he?"
Elarys's fingers tightened slightly around the fabric.
"It's been three days," she said quietly. "He hasn't woken up yet."
Her voice trembled with bone-deep exhaustion.
Lysera glanced at the untouched tray near the window—food long cold.
"Have you eaten, Mother?"
Elarys did not answer.
"Go," Lysera said softly. "Eat something. I'll stay with him."
"I can—"
"I insist."
After a brief hesitation, Elarys finally rose. She brushed Vlad's hair back once more—gentle, lingering—before leaving the room.
When the door closed, silence settled like dust.
Lysera stood still for a few seconds.
Then she knelt beside the bed.
She took Vlad's small hand carefully and pressed it against her cheek—cool skin against her warmth.
"You promised," she whispered, voice no longer steady. "You said when I become Matriarch, you would stand beside me and protect me."
Her fingers tightened around his.
"So don't you dare leave me now. Stay safe… little brother."
She remained there until the door opened again.
Elarys returned, and they spoke softly for a few minutes—quiet reassurances, shared worry.
Eventually, Lysera stood.
"I'll come back later, Mother."
"Make sure you eat as well," she added quietly.
Elarys smiled faintly.
"Thank you for worrying about me, dear."
Lysera left the room.
As she walked down the corridor, voices echoed faintly from the corner ahead—low, mocking.
She slowed.
Cassian's voice.
"Do you think that wimp will open his eyes anytime soon, Maelis?" he said with a mocking chuckle.
Maelis did not respond.
A shadow fell over them.
Cassian turned—
Lysera's hand closed around his throat and lifted him off the ground in one smooth, effortless motion.
His feet kicked uselessly; eyes widened in shock.
She leaned closer, voice low and cold against his ear—each word edged like heated steel.
"You better pray my little brother opens his eyes."
Her grip tightened slightly—just enough to make his face redden.
"Because if he doesn't… I will make your life in this castle a living hell."
She released him.
Cassian slammed into the wall and dropped to the floor, coughing violently, hands clutching his throat.
Maelis remained silent, eyes lowered, body rigid.
Lysera walked away without another word.
Night fell over the capital.
In the quiet room, Elarys lay beside Vlad, holding him close as if he were still a small child—arms wrapped protectively, breathing soft against his hair.
Hours passed in gentle darkness.
Vlad's fingers twitched.
His breathing grew heavier—ragged, uneven.
A faint voice reached him.
"Hey… are you waking up?"
His eyelids fluttered.
"Mother… is that you?" he whispered weakly.
Light flooded his vision as his eyes slowly opened—
White.
Clouds drifted lazily above him.
And water rippled endlessly beneath his body—cool, still, reflecting an empty sky.
A familiar place.
The voice came again.
But it was not his mother's.
A presence sat beside him—form shimmering, edges soft like memory made solid.
"Oh, you finally woke up," the figure said, smiling.
"Welcome back."