There's a certain type of silence that only happens after a fire — not peaceful, not calm, just the kind that feels like everything is holding its breath, waiting to see what rises from the ash.
Cairen sat in it.
Back to the stone wall, sword laid across his lap — still faintly glowing, as if annoyed it wasn't cutting something. The rune on his arm pulsed in time with his heartbeat, red and rhythmic, like a second pulse under his skin.
He hadn't slept.
Not because of fear, or pain. But because every time he closed his eyes, the dragon inside him stirred.
"You are still weak."
"Thanks," he muttered aloud, "Real motivational speech, Firebrain."
"You bear my mark. My blade. My name. And yet you hesitate."
"I hesitate because I like not being dead. And because I don't trust mysterious ancient beings who possess teenagers and talk in riddles."
"Wise. And yet here we are."
It never answered questions directly. It just offered riddles, threats, and occasionally a burning sensation that felt a lot like indigestion. Cairen had tried to name it something casual — "Smokey," maybe, or "Blazey" — but every attempt ended with a burst of magical feedback that nearly singed his eyebrows.
So he settled on "the voice."
Or when he was mad: "Hot Jerkface."
Footsteps approached. Light, deliberate, almost musical. He tensed.
Tessia?
No. These were… smoother.
A new figure rounded the alleyway corner, silhouetted by early morning light. Cloaked. Curved. And definitely not Tessia.
The woman pulled her hood back, revealing black hair braided with gold beads, skin like sunlit bronze, and eyes that gleamed a little too sharply to be normal. Her smile was curved, dangerous, and entirely too pleased with itself.
"Found you," she said.
Cairen stood slowly, gripping the sword tighter. "Let me guess — you're here to kill me, seduce me, or both?"
"Why not all three?" she purred.
Tessia's voice echoed from behind, "I vote we kill her first."
She appeared from the shadows, blades already in her hands, posture tense.
The woman didn't flinch. "You must be the firecracker."
"And you must be the creepy stalker who smells like expensive perfume and bad decisions."
Cairen raised a hand. "Okay, everyone take a breath. Let's not stab each other in the first five minutes."
The woman sighed dramatically. "Very well. I am Lyrix. Agent of the Ash Council. And — currently — your best chance at not getting vivisected by the Mage Court."
Tessia snorted. "Right. And I'm the Queen of Velmora."
"No," Lyrix said, smirking, "but I could make you feel like one."
Cairen coughed into his fist. "Okay. Calm the flirting. What's the Ash Council?"
Lyrix's expression changed subtly — playful still, but with a flicker of seriousness.
"They are… what remains of those who remember the dragons. The real dragons. Not the fairy tale monsters or magic battery cores the mages sell. We remember their names. Their power. And we remember what they were bound to protect."
"Me?" Cairen asked, half-joking.
She looked at him evenly. "Possibly. Or destroy. The line is thin."
Hours Later…
They moved through a hidden door beneath the city — stone shifting under Lyrix's hand as if the wall knew her. Inside, it was cool, silent, and massive.
A hall of statues — dragons, knights, runes, and… something else. Half-breed shapes. Human faces with scale patterns. Clawed hands holding swords.
"Pact-bearers," Lyrix said softly. "Every one of them."
Cairen paused at a statue that looked too much like him to ignore. Sword raised. Flame at his back. Fear in his eyes.
"This happened before?" he asked.
"More times than history admits," she said. "Bloodmarked appear when the world tilts toward war. When balance breaks. The pact calls to the desperate. The dying. The forgotten."
"Then it called the right idiot," Tessia muttered behind him.
He turned. "You still here?"
"Someone has to make sure you don't join a cult."
Lyrix shrugged. "We're not a cult. We're just better than the Mage Court."
"That's exactly what a cult would say."
Cairen touched the statue. Something thrummed through his bones — recognition. Not memory, but echo. His hand burned faintly. The sword at his back hummed in response.
"You are not the first. But you may be the last."
"Why me?" he asked aloud. "Why not someone strong? Or smart? Or… actually trained in swordplay?"
Tessia moved beside him. "Because those people don't break rules. Or bleed on forbidden walls."
Lyrix nodded. "The pacts choose based on potential. And desperation. Not polish."
Cairen stared ahead.
The path was no longer vague.
He was Bloodmarked. Dragon-bound. Hunted. And now, somehow, part of a war buried in time.
And somewhere, in a chamber deep below the city, someone had seen his face.
And they were smiling.