The night air over the Arcanum was unusually still. The stars hung low and watchful, their light piercing through the tall windows of the ancient tower as if trying to bear witness to something long awaited. Inside the library's upper sanctum, the candles flickered, though no wind moved.
Rael sat beside Ilyara in silence, the silence that comes not from distance but from weight—of memory, of pain, of things unsaid. She had fallen asleep leaning against the shelves, head nestled into the crook of her arms over the table, her breath even. And yet...
She trembled.
Her fingers twitched, her brow furrowed.
Rael rose quietly, his senses sharpening.
"Ilyara," he whispered. "You're dreaming."
She stirred—and then gasped.
Her eyes flew open, not the usual stormy gray-blue of her cursed self, but glowing faintly violet. Her mouth parted, and in a voice layered with another's echo, she murmured:
> "Vaelreth... forgive me."
Rael froze. Every syllable shattered through his mind like crystal.
"Seraphyne?" he said, barely breathing.
But the light in her eyes faded quickly, and she slumped into his arms. The curse reasserted itself like a cloak of frost, concealing whatever fragment had surfaced.
Rael clutched her gently.
> "So you do still live in there," he whispered. "And perhaps... you remember."
(Set at midnight in Rael's quarters — the moon high, winds whispering ancient names through the stone.)
A knock — soft, deliberate — echoed against the thick oak of Rael's door. He opened it to find nothing but a folded letter upon the stone floor. Ink blacker than void, paper thick as dragonskin.
No name. No seal. Only a single symbol etched in shimmering crimson — a dragon eye inside a crown of thorns.
Rael's fingers tightened.
> "So it begins."
He lit no lamp. The moon was enough.
---
That night, deep beneath the Arcanum Magisterium — where the oldest halls whispered with the weight of pre-Imperial secrets — Rael stood within the circle.
The glyphs of origin glowed faintly now — the draconic sigil at the center pulsing with Rael's own resonance. Concentric rings of invocation surrounded him, each embedded with symbols of celestial alignment, divine covenant, and soul-forged memory. The air crackled with unspent magic.
Then came the footsteps — slow, measured, reverent.
Six men stepped forward, their cloaks heavy with time, each bearing the sigils of their house. They circled the ancient magic ring in silence.
Rael turned toward them. He said nothing.
Until the first stepped forward.
> "I, Lord Thandor Gormund of House Gormund, pledge our strength, our steel, and our blood to Rael Draconis — the Flame Returned. Let our loyalty be bound beyond oath, beyond death."
He stepped into the circle. The magic rippled.
A line of light surged outward, embedding his name into the ring.
Next came a shadowed figure, his cloak lined with judicial chains.
> "I, Lord Maevan Vyrmor of House Vyrmor, bind our judgment and our silence to the true heir of the Stormthrone. Let none sunder this pact."
Another light flared.
Then the silver-cloaked elder approached, a crimson thorn branch etched into his bracer.
> "I, Lord Aerem Thornehart of House Thornehart, offer the bloodline of blades to your cause. In war and shadow, we stand behind the flame."
Again, the ring responded.
Each patriarch came forward, one by one, invoking their blood, naming their house, declaring what they offered:
House Caerthyn, whose wisdom was once sought by kings.
House Serrowyn, whose lands housed ancient draconic relics.
House Eltanwyr, guardians of the skybound vaults.
Each name, each vow, was etched into the living magic circle — their voices binding threads into Rael's destiny.
At last, when the circle thrummed with unity, Rael stepped into the center. His mantle billowed as the runes climbed his boots, then his arms, then his chest — like serpents of flame.
> "Then let it be done."
He raised his palm. Flame and shadow met there, twining like living things.
The circle surged.
From its center rose a new sigil — an ouroboros of a dragon eating its own flame, crowned and pierced by thorns.
It hovered in the air above Rael — then burned itself into the skin over his heart.
The patriarchs bowed — not as nobles to a peer, but as ancient vassals kneeling to the return of their true king.