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Chapter 27: When the Curtain Rises

The workshop still reeked of hot metal, cheap incense, and desperation disguised as luxury. Arcane embers danced along the ceiling from a dozen overworked enchantment arrays, their glow flickering off crates stacked to the rafters, each one sealed with a sigil that screamed “limited-time offer” in six different fonts.

Nelneras’ claws ached.

His whiskers twitched from the static air, and his wings drooped with exhaustion, but he refused to slump. He would not give Valcagor the satisfaction of seeing him wilt, even as the enchantments pulsed around him like gloating laughter.

On the far side of the chamber, the bloated shadow of the black dragon sprawled across his throne-couch hybrid, a gilded slab of sculpted obsidian and fur-lined cushions that creaked in protest every time he shifted.

“Oh! Oh! Remind me, how many dragon asses ya think we could fit into a single illusion suite before the spell complexity gets too much to bare? I reckon seven. Eighteen if we skip realism!”

Nelneras, elegantly silent, had spent most of the day suppressing the urge to jam a branding quill into his own eye socket.

“Beautiful!” Valcagor belched. “You’re a fuckin’ artist, Nel. Gonna make us both filthy rich. Well…me rich. You... emotionally fulfilled or whatever sappy bullshit you’re into.”

“If that’s all, I—” Nelneras started to turn away.

“Oh no you don’t.” The black dragon’s voice turned syrupy. He raised one paw as though bestowing a gift upon the lowly. “Got somethin’ you’ll piss yourself over.”

Turning back, the gold dragon levied a snarl, “Let me guess. You’ve invented a new currency based on bodily fluids.”

Valcagor cackled. “No, no—this is serious. Big deal. Holy shit kind of deal.”

He leaned in, breath like copper and old lust. “While you were off in Entis flirting with gryphons and fondling philosophy, we found a ruin.”

“A ruin?” Nelneras blinked.

“Not just any ruin.” Valcagor smirked, fangs gleaming in the lanternlight. “A Bahamut temple. Untouched. Full site. None of this ‘oh it’s just a broken altar and a soggy prayer scroll nonsense. We’re talkin’ full sanctum. Statues still lookin’ smug. Runes ain’t even flaked.”

The gold dragon went still.

“Oh, here it comes,” Valcagor muttered, licking a paw “Scholar erection incoming.”

Nelneras took a step forward, pupils dilating. “Where?”

“North of the lava crescent. Deep cut. Hidden behind a collapsed caldera shelf. My scouts nearly shit a scroll when they saw the starburst seal.”

“A radiant starburst? Then it’s pre-Draconic Concord. Maybe even Legacy Era…” Nelneras’ voice dropped to a whisper. “There were rumors of a sanctuary out there. One that Bahamut herself sanctified. Her claws would have pressed into the stone. The altar geometry, gods, it might follow the Emberline fractal script. If the pyre braziers are intact, we could confirm the worship dialect. Did they use the celestial trinary? Was the offering bowl split with blood channels?”

Valcagor rolled his eyes and flopped onto his back like an overstuffed amphiptere. “Gonna need a fuckin’ towel, Nel. Yer practically whimperin’. Bahamut this, Bahamut that. Stars above, I ain’t seen a dragon this worked up since Zezraya got stuck in the massage pit.”

Nelneras didn’t hear him. He was already calculating weight measurements of potential artifacts, mapping where he'd store scroll fragments, picturing the shrine layout in his mind.

“The Echo Chamber might still be sound-sealed… If the ceiling’s unbroken, it could still carry divine resonance. That would mean—”

“Yer doin’ it again,” Valcagor interrupted, wagging a paw at him. “Knew you’d cream yer little golden runes for this one. And because I’m such a generous cunt, I’m givin’ you dibs. First snout inside.”

That broke Nelneras’ train of thought. He blinked. “You’re… giving me first survey rights?”

“Look at me,” Valcagor said, shaking his head. “Generosity incarnate.”

“What's the catch?” Nelneras said flatly.

“No catch,” Valcagor purred. “Just a friendly little seventy-thirty split. You get your holy scribbles; I get the shiny bits that’ll make Veltheris scream and Zaelith’s tail curl.”

Nelneras exhaled, the quiet hiss of reluctant compromise. “You want me to catalogue a Bahamut ruin… and sell it back to you?”

Valcagor leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Course! Now, since I’m lettin’ you have first crack, cause I’m a generous cunt and yer my little golden legacy, yeah? You go sniffin’ round that ruin, bring back anything shiny or blessèd or magically moanin’, and we split it.”

There was a pause. Valcagor grinned wider. “You get thirty percent.”

“That’s generous?” Nelneras squinted.

“Oi, c’mon. Don’t pout. This is me doing you a favor. Again.” He jabbed a paw into Nel’s chest. “See? This is what family does. I give you the treasures of the past, you give me a reason to laugh at Zaelith and his scroll-lickin’ tower dick. Can’t wait to rub this one in his smug purple snout. ‘Oh, look at me, I regulate fireballs.’ Fuck off.”

Nelneras said nothing for a moment. Then, with gritted dignity, “Fine. But if I find her image desecrated—”

Valcagor waved him off. “Relax, she’s still got all her tits intact.”

Nelneras recoiled. “She doesn’t…she’s not even—!”

“Figure of speech,” Valcagor smirked. “Anyway, yer leavin’ at dawn. I already sent Zezraya to piss a territorial circle around the place.”

He rolled onto his side, digging for a half-scorched piece of cheese between floor cracks. “Now, I’d escort ya, but I’ve got a summons from Zaelith. Gunna be stuck in a room with that smug bastard and the Veltheris, the Ice Queen herself. Meanwhile, got a copper dragoness waitin’ for me with oils, ropes, and a mouth that could suck a kobold into another dimension. And I gotta skip it. For Zaelith.”

Nelneras rubbed his temples.

Valcagor just kept going. “Y’know what she calls me when she’s riled up? The Gold-Smasher.” He thumped his belly proudly. “Not your gold, course. The real kind. The loud kind. The 'oh fuck' kind.

“Charming.”

“I’m a fuckin’ romantic, Nel. Now go get some rest. Tomorrow, you get to do what you love, crawl through dead religion and act like it’s not foreplay.”

He turned to leave, moving toward his spa tunnel where muffled screams of kobold praise filtered up from the depths. “Oh, and if you find a shrine. Make sure you kiss the statue for me. Right on the divine clit.”

“VALCAGOR.”

“Just a joke ya stupid cunt.” he laughed deep in his throat. “But seriously, try not to get too hard when you see Bahamut’s altar, yeah? If you nut on it, it’s comin’ outta your cut!”

Laughter echoed through the cavern.

Nelneras stood perfectly still, the quiet storm of thought behind his turquoise eyes louder than any of Valcagor’s wretched joy.

He hated this place. Not for its grotesque greed, nor even its lewdness as he had endured worse. No, it was the casual mockery that scoured deeper than flame. The way reverence was trampled beneath laughter, how power was used not to uplift but to humiliate.

That such a creature held dominion here, that Endreross trusted him, even nominally, Nelneras inhaled once. Slowly. Like a blade sheathing itself.

And yet… he did not storm out. He did not hiss a final retort or vow vengeance in the grand old style. That would give Valcagor exactly what he wanted. Instead, Nelneras simply turned. One smooth movement. Head high. He walked away as though filth could not cling to him.

When the tunnel curved and he was at last alone in the corridor of gilded basalt, the stink of musk and ink-thick greed behind him, he exhaled fully, spine relaxing, wings folding close. There was a time he would have roared. Now? Now, there are better uses for his fire.

He reached the outer landing, the night wind kissing his scales. The horizon shimmered with stars and salt. Below, his family waited. Axton would be curled beside the fire, perhaps leafing through that old volume of hymn-runes they'd half-translated together, and one of the children would have spilled ink again.

The tour had already come and gone. So had Axton’s awe-struck smile, the one that would’ve bloomed as the valley unfurled in golden twilight, wonder etched across his gentle face. Missing that hurt more than Nelneras cared to admit. But night was still young, and his wings could carry him home. Soon, he’d be there, curled beside them all, warmed by firelight and the moon’s quiet blessing.

** * * * * * * * * **

Deep within the alabaster peaks of Drakhaldeir, where moonlight painted the stone like brushed silver, a quiet corridor curved through the mountainside like a sculptor’s caress. The walls bore no banners, no sigils, only the suggestion of wealth, of ancient care, of power that had nothing to prove. Along each edge, pale sconces flickered with cool firelights, the flames enchanted not to dance, but to stand still, steady, obedient, disciplined. Silence ruled here, broken only by the hushed steps of velvet-slippered servants.

At the end of the hall, the corridor unfurled into a chamber, neither court nor throne room, yet it carried the presence of both. The floor gleamed like polished pearl, unmarred by scuff or spill. Silver filigree traced quiet constellations across the domed ceiling above, their pattern matched precisely by the positions of stars outside. No two tiles were identical. No seam was visible.

Veltheris the Immaculate reclined at its heart, as if the space had been grown from her presence rather than shaped for her arrival. She lay across a platform of carved marble; the surface draped in cascading sheets of lavender silk so fine they shimmered like mist. Her wings curved outward, relaxed, a diadem of starlight coiling down her crest-frills like spun frost. Silver scales, flawless and gleaming, cascaded over her body in immaculate symmetry, each one reflecting the light like a polished mirror. No flaw marred their arrangement. No blemish dared exist beneath her obsessive gaze. From a distance, her form resembled a sculpture of moonlight given breath, until she shifted, and the smooth line of her spine unfurled like a mountain stretching after centuries of sleep.

Servants moved around her like dancers in a sacred rite. Humans, elves, and halflings, all clad in fitted uniforms of cream and violet, bore brushes, oils, towels. They spoke only in gestures, their discipline the result of long training under the gaze of her butler, Alastair Veyne.

The human the very image of devotion. His tailored coat was midnight black with subtle silver piping, matching the color of her wing veils, his posture a masterclass in restraint. Every button gleamed. Every seam was perfect. His silver-crushed hair was tied back in a single low cord, no strand out of place. In his gloved hands he held a small brass clipboard, utterly ceremonial, for he had memorized the evening’s sequence two days prior. He did not move unless she moved. He did not breathe unless the air around her permitted it. And yet… he was not invisible. Not to her.

“You trimmed your sleeves again.” Veltheris murmured without looking.

“I did, my lady.” Alastair replied smoothly. His voice was calm stone and crisp wine, low, smooth, and never in a hurry.

“You know how I detest excessive wrist.” she said, one eye flicking toward him like a jeweled dagger.

“And yet you always notice when I reveal it.” he replied. Not smiling but not apologizing either.

Veltheris let the silence stretch just long enough to imply approval. Her tail swayed in slow amusement.

She tilted her head just slightly, allowing one servant to finish buffing the left side of her jawline. Her tail curled in satisfaction at the rhythm of the strokes. She sighed, the sound almost too elegant to be natural. “They’ve improved,” she murmured, “I knew the third batch would take.” Her eyes flicked toward Alastair. The corner of her mouth curled. “Your methods, dear, always yield such... gratifying results.”

Before he could reply, a sound intruded, from beyond the marble columns…

BBBBRRRRRAAAAWWWWWWWWRRP. Wet, shameless, and echoing off the pearl-tiled ceiling like an oil drum being crushed under a boulder. Followed by the sound of something greasy slapping tile.

Alastair didn’t blink. He simply adjusted one gloved finger, “…Punctual.”

Valcagor was sprawled like a debauched god upon the obsidian dais meant for ceremonial announcements, his swollen bulk coiled and draped in unapologetic display. His wings sagged like soot-streaked banners, tail thudding lazily against the marble as he reached for another honey-glazed haunch of some unfortunate beast, perhaps goat, perhaps gryphon, perhaps worse. His paws gleamed only where the kobolds had just scrubbed; the rest of him was sticky with grease and sauce, crumbs clinging between the folds of his scales like barnacles on a shipwreck.

Around him, a small swarm of interns—kobolds in glitter-crusted sashes—darted frantically with brushes, spit-polish, and lacquered combs, scrubbing at his scales while dodging the rain of crumbs and half-chewed bits falling from his jowls. One was wiping down his tail spikes with a handkerchief labeled Property of Treasury, while another was valiantly trying to dislodge a chicken bone from between his back ridges.

A half-circle of mismatched trays ringed his bulk like tribute offerings, each one sagging under heaps of charred meat, sticky glaze, and spattered sauce. Steaming slabs of fire-roasted direboar dripped grease onto cracked stoneware. A honeyed brie stuffed with slivered manticore tongue and candied eyeballs. One tray overflowed with skewered sea serpents laced in pepper-jelly glaze, their heads still twitching. At his side stood a vat the size of a bathtub, brimming with a thick crimson liquor that steamed like fresh blood and smelled of clove and roasted beetle. He slurped from it through a battered ram’s horn, gnawed at the rim like a chew toy.

Resting on a rune-lit lectern beside the dais was a dog-eared copy of The Pearl-Clutcher’s Dilemma, a notorious romance novella banned in several refinement academies and beloved in brothels. Its cracked spine and bite marks suggested frequent re-readings. An enchantment loop, sloppy but effective, turned the pages with a wet flutter every thirty seconds, timed to the rhythm of his chewing. The parchment glowed faintly with illusion-enhanced illustrations, tail-lifts, tongue-tangles, that made nearby kobolds avert their eyes or peek with scandalized curiosity.

He sucked the marrow from a split haunch, licked his paw slowly, and turned a lazy eye toward Veltheris.

Across the room, Veltheris did not look up from her claw treatment. “If I wished to dine beside a corpse pile, Valcagor,” she growled, “I’d visit a battlefield. At least those don’t chew.”

Valcagor gave a wet chuckle, flicking a bit of charred serpent scale from his fang with a talon. “That battlefield ever feed you slow-roasted siren thigh, darling? Cause these moans when it hits the tongue.” He slurped from his ramhorn, letting the froth foam down his chin. “Tell me, Immaculate, ya ever swallowed somethin’ worth belching over?”

“Only bile, whenever you open your mouth.” The delicate frills along her neck contracted, as though trying to retreat from the air he’d soiled with his breath. “And please, use a napkin. Or die. Either would improve your manners.”

Valcagor gave a snort, spraying a gravy-marbled glob spit onto the floor beside his goblet. A nearby kobold silently wiped it up with a napkin embroidered with his own face.

“You wound me, Ice-Bitch Supreme,” he rumbled, licking bone marrow off his thumb with a slurp that could curdle holy water. “But if yer so desperate for class, maybe pull the stick outta your frozen cunt and use it as a napkin holder.”

One kobold dared to dab his chin. Valcagor belched so violently the kobold scrambled for cover. “Apologies,” he said, grinning with a mouthful of shredded meat. “Left a bit o’ thunder in the pipe.”

Veltheris’ paw twitched mid-buff. “You are filth wearing jewelry. A sewage spill in a crown.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all century,” he crooned. “Say it slower next time. Maybe lean in.”

“Lean in,” she echoed with the weariness of a sculptor contemplating a cracked vase, “and I’ll polish your windpipe with a stiletto.”

Valcagor laughed, a grating, bubbling sound, like fat frying on a rusted skillet. “Feisty. Bet you scream pretty when someone dents your ego.”

“I do not scream,” she said, voice cold as a glass blade. “I dismiss.”

Her eyes didn’t narrow. That would imply effort. But her tone dropped, soft and lovely as silk across a dagger’s edge. “Keep speaking, Valcagor. One day you’ll say something so astoundingly stupid, even your scales won’t protect you from the echo.”

Valcagor leaned his bulk sideways, letting one hind leg sprawl. The slab beneath him groaned in protest, “Y’know,” he said, “I’d always wondered what a frost statue looks like if it got scales and sass. Turns out, it’s got a pretty mouth and the soul of a locked wine cellar.”

She simply raised one silver-clad forepaw for inspection. Her frill rose ever so slightly, a sign Alastair immediately caught. He passed a silk cloth to the attending servant, giving a subtle shake of his head. Not yet. Let her eviscerate him herself.

“You are mistaken, Valcagor. Wine cellars have value. You, on the other hand, are an overflowing chamber pot.”

The black dragon barked a laugh, sharp and guttural, like gravel rolling through a throat. He leaned closer, muzzle just shy of her personal space. “Aw, c’mon, Vellie. Don’t pretend ya never thought about it. All that silver curled up next to a little tar-pit heat. I’d treat ya right, oils, incense, seven-course debauchery. Hell, I’d even wipe my snout first.”

One eye gleamed like the edge of a blade. The precise, practiced expression of a being who had stepped in something and intended to burn the entire path it came from. “The day I spread my wings for you, Valcagor, will be the day they start awarding beauty pageants to rotting walruses.”

He grinned wider, “So yer sayin’ there’s still a chance?”

“No. I’m saying that if you ever touched me, I’d have my scales flensed, my soul cleansed, and the entire mountain sanctified in dragonfire to prevent the memory from lingering.”

He let the silence settle for a moment, chewing loudly—obnoxiously—until the pop of bone echoed across the chamber like a snapped promise. “Shame. Bet under all that polish you’re starvin’ for somethin’ uncivilized.”

Her head didn't turn—yet—but her frill stiffened at the edges, that glacial pause of someone storing every syllable like knives on velvet shelves. She didn’t grace him with a response. Instead, she extended her foreleg again, not toward him, but toward Alastair. A flick of two silver claws summoned him without words.

He obeyed, of course silent, composed. A vial of citrus oil was already uncorked in his hand, its fragrance slicing through the room. He massaged her wrist delicately, as if polishing divinity itself. Veltheris closed her eyes.

“That’s it,” Valcagor cooed. “Go on, sweet thing. Rub her scales where she likes it. I’ll try not to stare, ’course, you make it hard, all dressed up like an obedient little—”

The sound that interrupted him was not loud. It was a click. One claw, tapping once against stone. Veltheris turned to face him fully. Her frill lifted like a crown in bloom, gleaming along the edges with enchanted silver dust.

“You are a disgrace draped in jewelry,” she said softly. “A blackened pustule in the shape of a dragon. If you ever speak of him again, even hint again, breathe implication again…”

She stepped forward, the slightest shift. But the air moved with her growing colder. “I will ensure your snout is ground into so many bloody chunks they’ll have to name the stains after you.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Valcagor rasped, slumping back against the mountain of pillows he called a throne. “Fine. I won’t mention your lover, Lady Immaculate. Queen says I gotta keep breathing, so I’ll keep the compliments to myself. For now. Enjoy your little degeneracy”

The chamber’s double doors parted not with force, but with precision, gliding open on silent, perfectly balanced hinges etched with glimmering sigils. A hush rippled through the servants as purple light spilled into the hall, cool and clinical. And then he entered.

Zaelith. The Arcane Sovereign.

Every step struck stone like a verdict. His scales gleamed with high-polished elegance, violet lacquered to a mirror’s shine, lavender wing membranes catching the room’s low lantern-glow like silk pulled taut across blades. One red eye, one blue, swept the chamber with imperial detachment, as if the room existed only once he looked at it.

Cassian followed, eyes sharp, talons tucked around a sheaf of ledgers and glowing scrolls. He looked like a storm feathered in cream and dusk-gray, walking proof that someone here still gave a damn about appearances that weren’t slathered in grease.

The kobolds entered last, moving with exaggerated care as they guided a floating silver crate along an enchanted platform etched in wards. Its corners sparked occasionally with flickers of violet, and the box itself was bound in layered sigils, not decorative filigree, but sealing marks carved with purpose and reinforced in blood-mixed ink. One of the kobolds twitched at every pulse of heat from the container, as though he could feel something inside watching them.

“You took your time,” Veltheris said coolly. “Do you intend to tell us what has earned such drama? Or are we to sit here bathing in Valcagor’s excretions a moment longer?”

Across the room, Valcagor snorted. “She’s mad I didn’t offer her a seat near my flank.”

Zaelith didn’t even look at him. Instead, the purple sovereign came to a stop beside the warded crate and gave a slight incline of his regal neck. His gaze didn’t linger. “Cassian.”

The gryphon had already moved to his side. “Of course.” came the quiet reply.

Cassian turned without further instruction, voice sharp and even. “Everyone out. Now. Leave the instruments, the tools, the polish. Take nothing with you.”

Veltheris’ head rose half an inch, her crest flaring ever so slightly. The frills along her cheeks stiffened with quiet distaste. “I trust you don’t mean everyone.”

His head turned slightly, enough to let one mismatched eye rest on her. “Even the most refined pearls must return to the velvet box, my lady.”

Her crest flared, elegant frills trembling. “Alastair is not some bauble. He is—”

“Unscaled,” Zaelith snorted, “And as such, he will not remain for this discussion.”

Valcagor wheezed. “Oh ho! You hear that, Silver? Even your boy-toy’s gettin’ the boot. What’re you gonna do, file a petition?”

She didn’t grace the black dragon with a glare. Her snout lowered, “You see, Alastair? Some creatures bite with wit.” She nuzzled just beneath Alastair’s chin to lift it. “You have my sincere gratitude, little one. Later, however, we may need to discuss the team you’ve assigned to my scale treatments. They’re diligent… but uninspired.”

“I’ll see they’re corrected,” he said, already preparing to withdraw. “Would this require an evening session?”

A low, purring hum. “Cancel your plans.”

He offered a mild sigh. “Very well. I shall inform the staff I’ll be preoccupied.”

“You shall do more than that.”

A strangled gag came. “By the gods,” Valcagor barked. “Will you two stop fuckin’ courtin’ each other? This is a meeting, not a brothel crawl.”

The dragoness’ crest twitched with amusement. “Complimenting one’s servant for excellence is hardly lewd. I consider my attention… positive reinforcement.”

“Now isn’t that just full of shit? We all have ways of climbin’ the scales, yeah? Yours just happen to come with satin sheets and a butler who moans ‘yes, my lady’ better than most cunts in a brothel.”

“You presume far too much about what Alastair says in private. And even more about what your own lovers are willing to fake.”

From beside the crate, Zaelith exhaled. “Charming,” he muttered. “Truly, I thank Bahamut each day for surrounding me with the pinnacle of our species.”

Cassian didn’t smile, but the gleam in his eye said enough.

The gryphon turned without flourish, voice low and crisp as polished steel.

“Servants. Out.”

He moved like a blade cutting through ceremony, not rushing, but allowing no space for disobedience. The chamber stirred. Murmurs stopped mid-throat. Manicured kobolds in tailored livery scrambled to gather their skirts, brushes, and silver tongs. Human attendants bowed, eyes averted. Even Veltheris’ pristine petal-groomers moved, stuttering apologies as they swept their trays of wing-oil and scale balm from the dais.

As the others made their way out, Cassian paused, one wing flaring slightly in farewell. “Try not to miss me too much, my lord.”

“As if I ever forget you.” Zaelith scoffed, thumping his tail.

The door sealed with a hiss of arcane pressure. Only dragons remained.

Zaelith extended a single claw toward the box. “Now. As to why you were summoned.”

With the grace of a surgeon and the disdain of a god wiping away filth, he pressed against the arcane latches. Metal clicked like breath held too long. The top split open.

Inside, a crimson letter rested atop black silk. No scroll. No parchment bound in ribbon. Just a single folded sheet, the paper thick and pulsing faintly beneath the glowstones. The wax seal glistened like blood in moonlight, stamped with a dragon’s snarling silhouette, rendered in silver that never tarnished.

Not one of them missed it.

Veltheris’ frills stiffened. Valcagor leaned forward, tongue clicking against the roof of his wide mouth. “That’s…,” he muttered, sitting up straighter. “That’s… that’s—hold up—”

“Ardanth.” Zaelith growled, swishing a paw to cause the letter to suspend itself in the air.

“The Oracle’s dog?” Veltheris’ wings twitched, nerves turning to ice at the name. The original owner of their land, a dragon they’d thought far gone.

Valcagor recoiled from the crate as if it had just belched smoke. “He’s dead. Fuck me twice with a gold bar, he’s been dead for a decade. Didn’t the Emerald Bitch fry herself trying to fight some ancient dragon or some horseshit?”

“There’s been no confirmation of his death,” Zaelith said, voice dry as forgotten parchment. “Nor hers. She vanished. He vanished. And now… this.” He gestured toward the letter with the mild distaste of someone referring to an infestation.

“You brought us here to read mail?” Veltheris’ eyes narrowed to slits.

“Not just any mail.” His head tilted ever so slightly. “A cursed letter. Delivered through flame-proof wards. Enchanted in at least four layers. And the kobold who first touched it—” He let the silence stretch.

“What, it bit him?” Valcagor grunted.

“The first fool who touched it screamed for approximately three seconds before his eyes grew fangs.”

Valcagor blinked. “Come again?”

“Teeth,” Zaelith clarified. “His eyeballs erupted into rows of silver molars. They burrowed inward.”

Veltheris recoiled, nostrils flaring. “Disgusting.”

The black dragon wheezed a low whistle. “Well, fuck me with a branding rod. That’s… inventive.” He scratched under his jaw. “Never seen a curse start from the inside out. Brutal. Kinda respect it.”

“You would.” Zaelith said.

“I didn’t say I liked it, I said it was efficient,” Valcagor grunted. “And I like efficiency.”

Veltheris’ claws curled into the velvet beneath her. “Well then. Let us see what poetry our little ghost has sent.”

Zaelith gave no fanfare. One talon moved with quiet purpose, tracing the air above the silver seal as the last of the wards dissolved in silence.

Valcagor shrieked, not a dignified sound, not even close, as he hurled his bulk behind the nearest pillar, wings splaying like a drunken wyvern trying to take flight. “The fuck’re you doing?! You don’t just open that! Who knows what’s inside? Traps! Hexes! Fuckin’ eye-munching curses round two!”

The Arcane Sovereign did not look up. “I am not a blathering fool, Valcagor.”

A click. The wax cracked beneath Zaelith’s claw like old bone. “I disarmed them.”

The black dragon peeked out from behind the pillar, one horn scraping stone, eyes narrowed to saucers. “Disarmed them,” he muttered. “Right. Sure. Of course ya did.” He took a step back toward his cushion.

The wax seal cracked with a brittle whisper. Silver flaked from the parchment like frost, falling in slow spirals toward the marble floor. For a moment, there was only silence.

Then the letter ignited. A silver effigy rose from the curling ash, coalescing into the phantom of a draconic face, long, elegant, cruelly amused. Pale horns swept back like a crown, and a monocle glinted just above one eye socket. The jaws did not open. The voice emerged anyway, soft, velvety, and far too intimate.

“Ahhh… my precious little landlords. How charming of you to gather.”

The visage hovered just above the crate, shifting subtly between smoke and shape, never quite settling. Its eyes gleamed without light.

“First, allow me to apologize for the poor soul who had terrible luck. I had intended a more… dignified entrance. A chuckle, low and warm, rolled through the air like velvet wrapping around a knife. “But we must forgive accidents, mustn't we? After all… you’ve made quite a few yourselves.”

The head tilted, the monocle flashing as though catching light from nowhere.

“Now. To business…I have walked your halls, you know. Touched the stones that once belonged to me. They whisper still. Of songs sung in silver. Of names worn into the bedrock by love, not conquest. Do you hear them? No, I imagine you were far too busy licking the walls clean.”

The snout leaned forward, predatory and polite. “The land you walk is not yours. It never was. You’ve shat your titles into the ash of what you’ve perverted. You call yourselves lords. Sovereigns. Icons of a new era.” A soft laugh. “You are thieves in stolen crowns. And the curtain, darlings, is about to fall. The time of desecration upon these hallow halls ends now.”

“I will peel the paint from your palaces. Strip your names from history until even the worms forget your taste. I will take your treasures, your fame, your worship and spend it feeding those you crushed. Then, when you are coinless, joyless, forgotten, only then will I demand your death.

The likeness of him smiled then, a thing too patient to be merely pleasant. “But what to do you wonder, what could befit of your terrible mistakes?” The smile sharpened like a knife turned in slow motion. “I could drown you in coin, let rot unmake you behind locked doors; I could watch winter steal your breath. Those are tidy ends, efficient, sensible, utterly boring.”

A whisper of sound, like silk dragged across bones, threaded the air. “I will take the thing you hide inside your ribs. I will peel the soft places away, stitch them to the rafters, and hang them out to dry for all to leer at.”

The illusion filled the chamber shadows curling around the columns, its eyes blazing like hellfire. “I will unmake you hour by hour, weaving your screams across the leylines, carried like a summons to every wing and throat that claims kinship within the sky. Let every misbegotten wretch listen as you unravel; praying they never darken my gaze.”

A laugh, first a single, clean note, then a swell, wrong and delighted and without pity spilled from the burning scrap of parchment. The image wavered, then steadied, luminous and terrible. Its gaze cut each of them like a knife. “I'll be seeing you all soon.”

The flame dissolved with an oily hiss, curling in on itself like the remnants of perfume in a snuffed room. The scent it left behind was neither smoke nor ash—it was memory, rot-sweet and metallic, like breath caught in silver gone sour.

Veltheris did not move.

She would not grant the shadow the grace of a reaction. Her frills, stiff and motionless, betrayed nothing. Her gaze lingered on the space where the draconic phantom had hovered, now gone, leaving only silence and the faint crackle of spellfire dying.

Valcagor let out a wheeze that might have been a laugh or a burp. It was difficult to tell with him. “Well,” he said at last, scratching under one bloated wing, “someone’s got his tail in a twist. I’d call that a threat, but I’ve heard goblins scream scarier things after bad stew.”

She did not look at him.

“I fail to see the humor,” Zaelith said, each word dipped in disdain like wine over ice. “That was not an idle threat. That was a performance.”

Veltheris allowed her chin to tilt, the way one might examine a dead blossom. “Of course it was a performance. Theatrics, posturing… what did he even say, truly? That he’s cross? That we trespassed on the lands of some long-lost sentimental who disappeared decades ago?” She flicked her tail, deliberate. “He called himself forgotten. I suggest we honor that wish.”

Across the stone floor, Valcagor made a dismissive snort, then turned toward one of the half-finished silver platters still laid on the side table. “I liked him better when he didn’t talk. But sure, Silver, let’s pretend some grudge-drunk corpse with a flair for rhyme is a real problem. If he wants his mountain back, he can come suck the soot off my tail.”

Her eyes narrowed, frills tensing. “Must you always speak like an open sewer?”

“Only when I’m near rotting silk.” he shot back, licking at his teeth.

Zaelith’s tail tapped once against the polished stone, the sound sharp and final. “Enough.”

Both turned toward him, if only because his voice had dropped, not raised.

“He spoke in symbols,” Zaelith continued, voice even, but weightier now. “That scale. That seal. That name. Ardanth may be forgotten by mortals, but not by dragons who read.”

“And we’re meant to quake at that?” Veltheris asked, eyes half-lidded. “What will you suggest next, Zaelith? That we abandon our holdings because a letter made a kobold bleed?”

“No,” he said, almost softly. “But I suggest we recall the past he comes from. This land was not ours first. It was his.”

Valcagor flopped back onto the cushions he’d half-devoured earlier, tail flicking. “So, fucking what? Everyone’s stolen land from someone. Gods, if I cried every time some moaning wraith claimed a cave I pissed in, I’d never sleep.”

Veltheris’ eyes did not leave Zaelith.

The purple sovereign’s gaze had not shifted from the burned stone, though his claws now rested upon the box that had held the letter, almost absentmindedly, as if measuring its weight against something far older.

She sighed, a touch exaggerated. “Well, I’ve wasted enough time listening to specters. I have scales to polish and expectations to meet. My staff will be wondering if I’ve grown indulgent.” She turned, already envisioning the soft touch of Alastair’s hands, the quiet bow, the wine poured to exact temperature.

Behind her, Valcagor groaned as he rolled upright, joints cracking like a collapsing vault door. “Yeah, yeah, great chat, loved the spooky shadow show. Tell your corpse-friend he can try me anytime. I’ll make soup from his sorry scales.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

The chamber felt quieter now that the others were gone, less like a war council, more like a sanctum scrubbed of pretenders. He did not sigh. That would suggest release. Instead, Zaelith shifted his weight with surgical grace, wings folding in with a rustle like silk dragged across glass. Beneath him, the scorched stone where the letter had vanished still smoked faintly.

Cassian returned, his steps near silent, the faint tap of a talon only audible to ears trained for treachery.

Zaelith did not look at him. “I had hoped,” he murmured, “that time might dull arrogance. Instead, it has preserved it. Like fruit in vinegar.”

The gryphon’s eyes flicked toward the scorch mark. “And what flavor is that?”

“Rot,” Zaelith replied. “Dressed in silver and sentiment.”

The silence hung. Not comfortable. Measured.

“You’re worried.” Cassian said at last.

“I am bored,” Zaelith corrected. “Bored of being the only creature in these isles who sees a dagger when it gleams. Valcagor saw a joke. Veltheris, a relic. But I saw something else.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Which was?”

“A stage.” Zaelith’s tongue wet his fangs. “With no exits.” He finally turned his gaze to the gryphon, cold yet burning. “I want the spire sealed. The Circle wards redrawn. No communication leaves the mountain unless it bears my mark, and only after I breathe on the wax myself.”

“Understood. And the archives?” Cassian gave a faint nod, already pivoting.

“Send the storm glass seers into the deep stacks. Every mention of Ardanth. Every shred of his past. If any clerk files it under ‘myth’—fire them.”

“You already fired the last three.”

Zaelith’s tail gave a single, vicious flick. “Then disintegrate the next.”

Cassian didn’t laugh, but something in the twitch of his wing suggested approval. He stepped away.

“Cassian.” He halted. “I will require you... closer. Until we understand this, what he wants, how he sees. I do not wish to...To have you where he can reach you first.”

The gryphon turned fully. “That almost sounded like concern, my lord.”

“Not at all,” Zaelith said, gaze slipping away. “You are merely valuable. And I would prefer not to re-train another assistant.”

“Of course.”

A heartbeat passed. “I love you.” Zaelith added, as if correcting a ledger.

Cassian blinked.

“That wasn’t an order.” Zaelith clarified, voice low.

“It wasn’t necessary.” The gryphon crossed the distance, leaned in. His beak brushed against the dragon’s muzzle, feathers rustling. “But thank you for the documentation.”

The latch clicked. The door creaked inward. Six kobolds, each bearing long-handled scrub-brushes, velvet polishing cloths, and expressions of innocent duty—froze in the archway.

Time didn’t stop. But it bent.

“You didn’t post a ward, did you?” Cassian didn’t look up.

Zaelith inhaled through his nose, very slowly. “I was distracted.”

One of the kobolds dropped his brush. Another whimpered. The leader, a trembling thing in a too-large livery coat, opened his mouth to apologize. Nothing came out.

Slow and terrible Zaelith rose. His head tilted, “You’ve seen something,” he said calmly. “That’s unfortunate.”

“You’re not helping.” Sighed Cassian.

“I rather think I am,” Zaelith murmured.

One kobold tripped on his own tail trying to flee. Another hiccupped and fainted. The last one, brave and doomed, tried to bow. “It…it’s an honor, really! We…we always thought…maybe! But—”

“No no no no no we saw nothing, nothing at all!” The lead kobold was already backing away, dragging his trembling peers by the hems of their uniforms. “We—we thought you’d left. We were just going to clean the floor. The grease. The crumbs. The…uh…black dragon lord."

“Enough.” Zaelith’s growled. “You are not to speak of this. Not in jest. Not in passing. Not even to your own reflection.”

The kobolds nodded frantically.

“If you do,” Cassian said lightly, “I’ll personally relocate your jaw to your lower spine.”

They didn’t ask if he was joking.

Zaelith stepped forward, gaze as calm as frost on steel. “You are permitted to depart. That mercy will not repeat itself. Knock next time.”

The door slammed shut behind them with a gust of violet wind. Silence returned.

Cassian tilted his head toward the door. “So. No killing today?”

“I’m feeling generous,” Zaelith muttered, “One slip from any of them, and I’ll have their memories extracted and donated to the archives.”

“Mm.” Cassian mused. “Nothing says privacy like brain-stripping.”

No reply came, the purple dragon was already nuzzling in again, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, whispering into Cassian’s ruff like nothing had ever happened.

The silence lingered a moment longer, until Cassian, unmoved as ever, tilted his head “Well,” he muttered, “there goes the last six deniers in the palace.”

A pulse of breath escaped the dragon’s nostrils, more steam than exhale, barely restrained heat. “They lacked discretion,” Zaelith said, “Besides, the one in the back has been sketching you.”

“That explains the suspicious number of tail-feather studies in the laundry reports.”

A single eye rolled lazily toward him. “He included me. Nude. Reclining. On a pile of Arcane Registrations.”

“Ah. A tasteful composition. Shame about the brains.”

Crimson lightning danced faintly across Zaelith’s scales as he shifted forward, each motion deliberate. “You mock my image far too freely.”

“You pay for my honesty in rare tea and enchanted oils. Consider it an exchange of services.”

The dragon’s head lowered until his breath stirred the feathers at Cassian’s throat. “Perhaps I should make an example of you.”

Feathers ruffled. “Try, and I’ll file a grievance.”

“I’ll file your body.”

There was a pause, then a smirk upon that beak. “And I’ll reschedule my spine alignment,” Cassian he ruffled his feathers, drawing a thin line underneath the dragon’s jaw. “Because gods know I’ll need it afterward.”

Their eyes locked. A moment passed as the air between them seemed to heat. Zaelith’s tail coiled once around the gryphon, lightly, possessively. “We’re using the silver dais this time.”

“Good,” came the reply, already turning. “The mirror from the observatory still has claw marks. If I find another broken lens, I’m filing you in the damage reports.”

“Cassian.”

“Hm?”

A soft chuckle rumbled in Zaelith’s throat. He nudged closer until his muzzle warmed Cassian’s ear with static-hot breath. “I will burn stars down for you.” he murmured, every syllable a low promise.

Cassian’s shoulder grazed the doorway as he paused, smiling slow and unreadable. “Good,” he said, voice rough with amusement. “Make it quick. I like my catastrophes tidy.”

Their silhouettes vanished into the violet-dark corridor, the storm glass doors sealing shut behind them with a chime like a whispered oath.

** * * **