I stood beside Vaelith at the base of the raised platform. The room was quiet—not silent, but reverent.
Three ancients sat above. Two in visage form. The third wasn't.
Sythriss.
I fought to control my breathing. I couldn't breathe, my heart beginning to beat faster and faster.
Don't look away.
Don't run.
She didn't move. Just watched. Her body coiled like frostbound stone. No breath, no blink. Just presence.
How is she louder when she's still than anything else I've met?
The robe clung tighter across my ribs. My heart beat too fast—each thud a warning. My fingers twitched against the fabric, itching to pull the thing off.
At least the second heartbeat was silent.
Coward, a part of me thought. Another thought, I want to live!
Vaelith didn't look at me, but her voice came low, just above a whisper.
"Don't talk. Not unless they speak to you first."
I remember.
Sythriss turned her head—slow and smooth—until her gaze found me.
Every instinct screamed to lower mine. I didn't.
She made me. Let her look.
Her eyes held me a moment longer. For some reason, I got the impression she approved. Then she turned, speaking to the other two.
"She stands."
The male's voice was calm, like water beneath ice. He studied me without blinking. "Unexpected."
"You've hidden her well, Sythriss," the female murmured. "Even we thought the Hatchery lay dormant."
Sythriss didn't turn her head. "She was not ready."
"And now she is?"
A pause.
"She will learn."
Those words weren't reassurance. They were a statement of fact.
"It's unlike you to keep blood so quiet." The male tilted his head, watching me more intently. "I had heard whispers, but not this."
Sythriss's wings shifted—barely. "She carries my scent. My blood. She is mine."
No one questioned it. Not out loud.
Frost crept along the edges of the dais beneath her claws. Silence stretched.
"She has presence," the female finally offered. "Rough, but... not without promise."
"The rest can be shaped," the male said. Then his gaze flicked to mine, and for the first time, he spoke directly.
"Welcome, daughter of Sythriss. You enter under heavy eyes."
"But not hostile ones," the female added. "Be seen. Be measured."
Their tones weren't warm. But they weren't cruel either.
Just old.
Vaelith stepped forward and bowed, arms spread wide with smooth precision.
I mirrored the gesture—not perfectly. A beat late. My hands felt awkward, the movement too stiff.
But I did it.
When I rose, none of them were looking at me anymore.
Not even Sythriss.
Mother
No, not Mother
Sythriss nodded her head slightly.
With that Vaelith turned and walked toward the crowd of dragons as I followed. Her presence prodding me to follow.
I followed Vaelith through the shifting tide of bodies and voices, my steps steady but unsure.
She moved like the floor belonged to her. Like the air bent a little when she passed. Her braid caught the light, silver-white against layers of deep frost-blue fabric. Each dragon she approached bowed their head just enough. The bare minimum. Nothing wasted.
She gave names. I nodded.
Sometimes she spoke for me. Other times she didn't.
When one older dragon offered me a sharp nod, Vaelith glanced at me sideways. Then bumped her elbow into mine.
I blinked.
Then it clicked.
Oh. Right. I should Bow.
I dipped low—not a perfect gesture, just stiff enough to feel wrong in my limbs. The front of the robe shifted, loosening over the chest. Not enough to expose, but enough to make me tense. I felt too soft in it. Too visible.
The dragon gave the faintest twitch of a smile but said nothing.
I straightened, heat prickling along the back of my neck.
The last time I bowed like that was to some puffed-up merchant lord who thought "sellsword" meant "servant."
This feels the same.
I glanced at the crowd around us—visage forms polished like porcelain, each one gliding through the room like they'd rehearsed the scene a thousand times.
I watched as Dragons pretended to be people. Elves. Nobles.
Is that where human court came from? Did we learn it from them? Or did they just copy us and make it look better?
I adjusted the sash again, not for comfort—but to stop myself from feeling the curve beneath it. As if that would make it vanish.
Still tight. Still unfamiliar.
The robe clung like it belonged here more than I did.
Vaelith moved on without a word. I followed.
We barely made it past another group when a smooth, too-sharp voice sliced through the air like a knife wrapped in silk.
"Vaelith."
She stopped cold. Her shoulders twitched, just enough to be noticed.
A woman stood a few paces ahead, flanked by attendants in crystalline silver. Her smile was curved just slightly, like a crescent blade. Nothing friendly about it.
"Lady Seraithe," Vaelith said, her voice all frost and civility.
"I hadn't realized you'd finally returned," Seraithe replied, eyes drifting lazily to me and then back, "or that you'd brought such... interesting company."
I sighed. I see where this is going.
Vaelith's lips twitched—too much teeth for a real smile. "I don't recall sending word to the help."
Seraithe's brow lifted, amused. "Ah. Still as sharp. Though it's rude to leave your guest unattended."
"She can manage," Vaelith said. Then to me, quiet but clipped: "Stay here. Don't wander."
Then she was gone—stepping into Seraithe's gravity like it was some old, worn-out game they both still played.
I stood there, alone.
Well... not alone.
Dragons moved all around me. Beautiful. Tall. Perfect.
None of them looked like they bled.
None of them looked like me.
I tried not to shift on my feet, tried not to pick at the fabric around my stomach. But the sash still dug in too tight, and the air still smelled like frost and polished egos.
It's just a room.
Just a room full of people who could kill me with a thought.
My hands stayed at my sides, clenched. I focused on the carvings in the wall. Runes. Inlaid patterns older than most kingdoms. The whole palace was like that—like someone took pride in making it beautiful, but colder for it.
I hate this.
Everything about this.
The stares. The weight of the air.
The way the robe clung to a body I still didn't know how to carry.
I breathed slow, steady. Tried to slow the feeling of a rising tension.
Ten years. Ten years in that fortress. Alone except for Frostbite and Lirian. No voices but theirs. No mirrors.
No eyes on me.
And now? I was paraded in front of ancients. Introduced like some rare artifact dragged up from the deep. Told to bow. To wear this. To act like I belonged.
I felt my frustration growing along with hers. For once we are in agreement. I don't belong.
I was Elias. A sellsword. I bled for coin and moved on before names stuck. I wasn't soft. I wasn't proper. I wasn't…
This.
My hands itched again. I fought the urge to pull at the sash, to tear the robe off and walk out bare.
Now how would Sythriss explain that one away. Mother.
I looked over my shoulder. Vaelith and Seraithe were still circling each other with words sharp enough to draw blood. It didn't seem like it would end soon.
My shoulders sagged. I'd rather be back in the fortress carving my runes, even listening to Lirian drone on about some lesson I had failed to learn.
I turned back toward the door we had entered from. She said to stay but will anyone really stop me if I don't?
I began crossing the room careful not to make eye contact. I didn't want attention. I just wanted—
"You don't look like you want to be here."
Tsk!
The voice wasn't sharp. It was given in an open manner, requesting banter.
I turned slightly, enough to see my conversation partner.
He stood just far enough not to crowd me, but close enough that it was clearly intentional. A young dragon, or young compared to the others at least—visage form held perfectly, golden-brown hair tied back in a loose knot, A green and gold robe with features striking in that effortless way that didn't feel rehearsed.
Handsome.
Stunned by my thought I didn't answer.
He didn't seem offended.
"Teryn," he said after a pause. "Son of Halvren."
"Who?" I blurted out without thinking.
His brow lifted slightly. "Lord Halvren," he said, unoffended. "One of the ancients on the dais. The one who spoke first"
Right.
The calm one. The one who looked at me like a cracked blade someone still considered worth sharpening.
"I—" I cleared my throat. "Apologies. I wasn't… properly introduced."
He smiled at that, not mocking. "No offense taken."
Okay. Good. Still alive.
He offered a slight bow of his own. Giving a formal introduction. "Teryn. Son of Halvren."
I straightened a little. Tried to mimic the polite tones I'd heard other dragons using. "It's… an honor to meet you, Lord Teryn. I am—" I hesitated, the words twisting. "I am honored to stand in your presence."
His head tilted just enough to make it obvious he caught it. The effort. The stiffness.
"You don't have to do that."
"Do what?"
"That." He waved a hand gently in my direction. "The voice. The posture. I've heard it enough times tonight, and frankly, you're bad at it."
I blinked.
Then frowned. "I'm trying."
"I noticed," he said, still easy. "Didn't say it was a bad thing. Just unnecessary."
I looked away, jaw tightening. Unnecessary. Maybe to you.
But what else was I supposed to do? Everyone here walked like they were carved from crystal and moonlight. Every step, every gesture, perfect. Practiced.
And then there was me. A weapon dulled at the edges and wrapped in silk.
"I don't belong here," I muttered.
"Neither do half the ones pretending they do," Teryn replied, leaning casually against the nearest column like he hadn't just said something treasonous. "At least you're not pretending well."
I gave him a look. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"
He shrugged. "It's honest."
I studied him more closely now. He didn't stand like the others. Didn't pose. There was polish in his movement, but not the kind that came from hours in front of mirrors. His smile was lopsided. A little too real.
What's his angle?
"Are you always this forward?" I asked.
He grinned. "Only when someone looks like they're about to rip their own clothes off and bolt."
Heat rushed up my neck. "I wasn't"
"Weren't you?" His eyes flicked briefly to my hand still gripping the sash, then back up to my face. "Looked like it from here."
I forced my hand to drop. "It doesn't fit."
"The robe?"
I didn't answer.
Because it wasn't just the robe. It was everything.
This body. This name. This room.
It reminded me of a time I crashed a victory celebration I had been dragged to with Alaric. He had insisted I attend as his guest.
A smile crept out on my lips despite myself. Yet he still invited me to another, a good friend.
"I don't do court," I said after a moment.
"Clearly," he said with a soft laugh.
Then, after a beat, "Still. It's refreshing to meet a princess from your line who doesn't act like she owns the mountain."
"…Princess?"
The word caught in my throat. Came out smaller than I meant it to. Like I was testing the shape of it on my tongue.
Teryn grinned. "You really didn't know?"
I didn't answer.
I wasn't sure I could.
He followed my gaze as it drifted to the dais. To the three coiled figures above the crowd.
Dragons, not in disguise.
Sythriss, carved in frost and shadow. Unmoving. Watching.
My Mother.
The others, still. Terrible in scale. Regal in a way that had nothing to do with robes or titles.
"They all saw it," Teryn said quietly. "She claimed you. Here. In front of all of us."
Then, softer: "And that makes you Drak'vethir."
A word I didn't recognize. But something in me did. Like a thread pulling tight in my chest.
I turned my head, just enough to look at him.
He didn't smirk this time.
"She was Consort to the Last Emperor," he said, nodding toward Sythriss. "Which makes you—"
"Don't," I muttered.
"—a princess," he finished anyway, lips twitching.