The sun rose wide and golden over the domes of Albareen, its light bleeding softly through the latticework windows of the guest chambers. Silken drapes swayed in the breeze, and the scent of foreign incense clung to the corners of the room. It was a noblewoman's chamber by all appearances, gifted by the city's merchant elite — the kind of hospitality laced with quiet expectations.
Elarya reclined on a cushioned divan wrapped in flowing eastern robes, their colors rich and warm: rust, gold, vermilion. Her silver-white hair was drawn back in a series of elegant braids, and her expression was unreadable — calm, but never soft. In her arms, Sulien squirmed against her chest, tiny fists flailing, legs kicking as he resisted the act of being breastfed.
"Already rebellious," she muttered, half-smiling. "What am I going to do with you, little flame?"
The two handmaidens — both Volkheren, sharp-eyed and loyal — busied themselves in silence. Yasri, the younger of the two, cast a fond glance toward the infant Shanor, while the older handmaiden continued to tidy the room, her movements precise and practiced. They exchanged quiet smiles.
A knock echoed from beyond the chamber door.
Elarya glanced up. "See who it is."
Yasri bowed her head and moved to obey. Elarya, without urgency, adjusted her robes to cover herself properly. When the door creaked open, Ser Kael stood behind it — armored, as always, though his face showed no signs of alarm.
"Everything well?" he asked, stepping inside.
"What is it?" Elarya replied, cool as morning steel.
Kael took a few paces forward. "One of the merchant lords has requested your presence in private. A matter of business, he claims. I thought it best you weren't left alone."
Elarya considered him for a moment, then nodded. Before she could rise, Kael's eyes drifted toward Sulien. He stopped.
The boy was heavier now, his limbs filling Elarya's arms in a way they hadn't just days ago. Not long ago, he had been a newborn — frail, barely breathing, swaddled in fire and soot. Now, scarcely a few weeks later, he already bore the look of a proper infant: fuller cheeks, stronger grip, an uncanny awareness in his eyes. His body had filled out with alarming speed, as though time itself bent to his blood.
Kael frowned. "He was an infant not long ago. Now he looks... months older." His gaze lingered on Sulien, troubled and searching.
Elarya passed Sulien gently into Yasri's arms. The handmaiden held the child with practiced grace.
"He's just well-fed," Elarya said with deliberate nonchalance.
Kael didn't blink. "Elarya. That child was born from flame only a few weeks ago. He has a horn budding from his skull, scales beneath his ribs, and a tail — an actual tail. And now he's outgrowing infants twice his age."
His voice, though steady, carried a weight beneath it — a lingering unease. Kael had seen many things throughout his life, but nothing like Sulien. And yet, despite the child's strangeness, he couldn't bring himself to see a threat.
Elarya raised an eyebrow. "So he's a bit unusual. Shall I keep a ledger of it?"
His lips pressed together. "He's unnatural."
A flicker of something — concern, defiance, sorrow — crossed Elarya's face. "He is my son, Kael." Her voice faltered, just for a beat. "I gave birth to him cold and still — no breath, no cry, nothing. My child was dead before he even opened his eyes."
She paused, her jaw tightening. Her gaze shifted briefly to Sulien, then back to Kael. The silence between words felt like a boundary drawn in blood.
"And now—now he lives. He cries like any child, he warms to my touch, and yes, he has been changed. But no matter what he's become, he is mine. And I won't let the world tell him he shouldn't be loved for it."
She turned to her handmaidens. "Stay with the children. Don't open this door unless it's to me or Ser Kael."
The dragons — two fledgling beasts, silver and dark-scaled — crawled lazily at the foot of her bed. They chirped as if understanding.
"Yes, Shakareen," Yasri said, bowing her head. The other handmaiden mirrored her gesture, both lowering themselves in perfect unison — heads bowed, postures graceful, the rhythm of practiced loyalty.
Without further delay, Elarya swept past Kael, pausing just once to glance back at her son. Her voice was calm, but there was steel behind it. "Let's not keep our merchant friend waiting. And Ser Kael—don't speak like that about my child again. Not to me, and not where he can hear it."
Kael hesitated, eyes lingering on Sulien, before following her and shutting the door behind them.
The room fell quiet.
Sulien, now in Yasri's arms, stared up with disinterest — or rather, the soul within him did.
" Did he really call me unnatural?" the thought came, wry and sharp. "Well, I suppose horns and a tail don't exactly scream divine intervention."
Yasri fussed over him, cooing at his wings — tiny nubs, leathery and warm. When she touched them, he jolted slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Okay — not a fan of that," Sulien thought, annoyance flaring. "Maybe ask next time before you go fondling my wings."
Across the room, the other handmaiden — a touch older than Yasri, with faint lines at the corners of her eyes — cradled the two dragons. The silver-scaled one nipped at her braid. "Do you think our little Shanor will ever fly with them someday?" she asked.
Yasri chuckled. "If he does, he'll lead more than just his siblings into the skies. Our people would follow. Perhaps the whole world would."
Sulien rolled his eyes internally. "Gods, they chatter like it's a cradle song." He watched them with growing impatience. "When does the first red flag wave? I'd rather not die in someone else's lullaby."
Then—
He felt it. Something shifted in the room.
His gaze flicked behind Yasri.
A robed figure stood just inside the threshold. Silent. Motionless.
Panic surged through him. His infant body twitched. He let out a sharp, garbled cry, tugging hard at Yasri's sleeve. "Turn around," he screamed internally. "Turn around, turn around—run, run now!" The dragons hissed. Their bodies stiffened.
Yasri blinked in confusion, rocking Sulien, whispering calming words.
But the older handmaiden — eyes widening in horror — saw the figure behind them first. With no time to shout, she seized Yasri's sleeve and tugged with full force, pulling her back just as the robed shape loomed behind.
Yasri stumbled and fell, curling instinctively to protect Sulien's head, shielding the dragons with her arms. Her breath caught as she hit the floor, wide-eyed and confused.
Sulien wailed in her grasp, and the dragons scrambled in panic.
The older handmaiden had already drawn a knife from beneath her robes — a hidden blade strapped to her thigh. Her voice rang out in sharp Vol'kheren language, a desperate call for aid to any Rhazkaan guards still nearby, as she stepped forward and planted herself between the children and the intruder.
The figure didn't move — not yet. Instead, it reached behind its back and flung something to the floor. The sound was heavy and wet.
Two decapitated heads rolled at her feet — the Rhazkaan guards who had been stationed just outside.
The older handmaiden closed her eyes briefly. A breath. A mourning. Then she charged.
"Run!" she shouted in Vol'kheren, eyes on Yasri.
Yasri scrambled up, cradling Sulien and whispering calming words — lies she mouthed for the child's sake, though her heart beat with dread. The dragons clung to her shoulders, their wings trembling.
Yasri broke into a run, clutching Sulien against her chest as the dragons scrambled up her shoulders. Her sandals slapped against the tiled floor — fast, desperate.
But the hall was already blocked — three more robed figures stood there, waiting.
Yasri stopped short, chest heaving.
Sulien's breath hitched, but no sound came — only the rising pressure in his chest, the helpless fury of a mind trapped in a child's body.
" Wonderful. Decapitations before I've even grown a full spine."
Meanwhile, beyond the guest wing and down a winding stretch of shaded colonnades, Elarya and Ser Kael passed into the garden courts of Albareen — a quieter part of the compound where fountains murmured and flowering vines clung to arched trellise, Elarya walked with slow grace, her gown brushing softly over the stone tiles. Ser Kael moved beside her, silent and watchful.
She drew in the scent of the garden — sharp jasmine, honeyed rose, and a hint of something wilder. "This place reminds me of home," she murmured. "We had a garden like this. A little less polished, but the air smelled the same... before my father sold me east to the Vol'kherens — 'savages,' he called them."
Kael glanced at her. "You found something good there. With Shakvar Rogo."
Elarya gave a small, wistful smile that faded almost immediately. "I did. And now he's gone — burned to ash on a pyre."
They said no more as they followed the winding path toward a distant pavilion, its painted eaves peeking between trees like a beckoning hand. Elarya's sandals whispered softly over the patterned stone as they neared the pavilion, the sound barely breaking the garden's calm. A familiar figure emerged into view.
"Merakh," Elarya called gently. "I hope we haven't kept you waiting."
Merakh stood near the pavilion's edge, his back to them. Seated behind him, almost like a shadow stitched into the scenery, was a woman cloaked in crimson robes. Her hood obscured her face entirely. She made no move, no greeting.
As Elarya and Kael drew close, Merakh finally turned, smiling with guarded warmth. "Lady Elarya. I'm glad you came."
Something in his manner gave her pause — a hollowness, or hesitation, where confidence used to be. She studied him carefully, even as she returned his smile.
They took seats at the stone table. Kael remained behind her, arms folded, gaze ever watchful.
"You wished to speak," Elarya said. "I assume this isn't just about trade agreements."
"Not entirely," Merakh said, a faint smile curving his lips. "Though I will say, the silk merchants of Albareen are quite taken with your presence. You've stirred no shortage of talk — half of it economic, the other half... less so."
Elarya offered a dry smile. "They always talk. It's what merchants do when they have too much coin and not enough war."
He chuckled politely. "Still, I appreciate you meeting me. It's been long since we spoke without crowds or courtiers listening."
Her gaze wandered briefly to the fountain behind him. "It's good to speak plainly. If we still remember how."
There was a pause.
"And what of the child?" Merakh asked suddenly, his voice softer now — not accusing, but careful.
Elarya's smile faltered. Her brow furrowed faintly. "What child?"
Merakh held her gaze. "I've heard only fragments. A whisper in the halls. A remark made too freely in the market. A guard bragging where he shouldn't. You know how things slip."
Elarya's gaze sharpened. "That's gossip, nothing more."
"And yet people notice what's not seen just as sharply as what is."
She said nothing.
"I'm not here to judge," he added. "But Albareen watches everything. You know that. A child born so... rare... it won't go unnoticed. Not by men who dream of miracles, or profit."
Elarya's expression cooled, her tone clipped and dismissive, but a flicker of something passed behind her eyes — irritation, or perhaps unease. "I've borne no child worth whispering about, Merakh. And if there's talk, it's the merchants spinning tales, as they always do."
Merakh lowered his voice. "That's not what the others will say. Not once the rumors spread."
Elarya said stiffly, "Then I suppose I'll have to swat at shadows. One rumor at a time.""
"I believe you will." He glanced briefly at the woman in crimson. "But not everyone will wait."
She rose slightly, voice edged like drawn steel. "If you mean to threaten me, Merakh, you'd best choose your next words carefully."
"It's not," he said quickly, raising both hands slightly as if to placate her. "Not a threat — a warning, perhaps. A courtesy, before others speak more cruelly, and with far less care than I have."
Silence hung. The crimson-robed figure remained still.
Then — a voice, soft and low, but unmistakably female, unfurled from the shadows like silk soaked in blood. "You're right to be cautious, Shakareen."
The sound sliced through the garden's quiet. Elarya stiffened, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs. Her gaze snapped to the crimson figure.
Kael's hand flew to his sword hilt, eyes narrowing.
A coldness crept across the garden tiles, banishing the warmth of the morning sun. The breeze that once smelled of jasmine and rose now stilled — the flowers seemingly holding their breath. Elarya's fingers curled subtly around the edge of the table, the only sign of tension in her otherwise statuesque posture.
The woman in crimson had not moved, but the voice had come from her — hushed and bone-deep, like wind threading through stone.
Elarya remained still, expression unreadable. But her fingers curled slightly on the stone table.
The air in the garden no longer smelled like flowers.