Fraviax.

  Even the name sounded like weight carved into crystal. As Raela and Aluvar descended in their full draconic forms, wings spread wide in magnificent arcs of fire and lightning, the capital of the Free Dominion of Zyvereth unveiled itself like a living tapestry. Jol clung tightly to the ridge of Raela's back, seated just behind her neck. Her warm scales radiated heat beneath him as they pierced through the cloudline. Aluvar soared beside them, his lightning-hued wings crackling with arcs of energy, his form sleeker and more compact than the elder dragons—but no less precise in movement. He was young by dragonkin standards, but already bore the reputation of one with battlefield wisdom far beyond his years.

  Beneath them, Fraviax shimmered like a crown of civilization. A vast city of concentric circles, flowing crystalline roads, and towering spires stretched outward from the monumental Aether Nexus—an impossibly tall central structure where all six elemental energies intertwined in a perpetual spiral of light. Streams of elemental magic coursed through arcane conduits like glowing veins, illuminating the city’s elegant architecture. Each district bore the mark of its elemental House: Fire, Cold, Lightning, Force, Radiant, and Acid.

  It was mid-spring in this temperate region, and the air was pleasantly warm. From above, Jol could see trees in full bloom along the city's outer districts, their blossoms scattering in the breeze. Sunlight gleamed off rooftops and polished stone, and the open plazas below were crowded with people enjoying the season’s warmth. Fraviax looked not like a city on alert—but one still clinging to order, beauty, and routine in the face of rising tension.

  As they passed through the upper atmosphere, sigil-beacons flared to life, outlining the only permitted aerial corridor for dragonkin entry.

  “Only this quadrant allows draconic entry,” Aluvar mentally transmitted. “Don’t let the grandeur fool you—Zyvereth values order above spectacle.”

  Jol nodded silently, though his fingers tightened slightly around a spine. The thought of controlled skies stirred something rebellious in him.

  They entered a special aerial corridor, one of several that led directly to the Skytalon District, a ward reserved for high-ranking dragonkin, sanctioned fliers, and the elite military. The air itself shimmered faintly with arcane boundaries, forming invisible lanes enforced by floating sentry orbs. It was beautiful—and quietly menacing.

  Traffic parted before them—smaller draconic forms and magi-tech hovercraft drifting aside in deference. The sight of two fully transformed dragonkin in flight, especially one as known as Aluvar, carried weight.

  He roared once—not in threat, but declaration. The guards at the entrance to the district saluted with glowing staves raised in respect.

  They landed in spiraling formation atop a great obsidian platform etched with glowing runes in the heart of the Skytalon District. As Raela’s talons touched down, magical circles lit beneath her, confirming their authorization. Aluvar followed a moment later, and with a fluid shimmer, both dragonkin reverted to humanoid form. Jol dismounted carefully, wincing slightly from the ride. The rush of wind, the ache of holding tension for too long—it all faded into the warm, structured air of Fraviax.

  Two teams awaited them on the platform. The first group—clearly military—was accompanied by a contingent of Dominion soldiers clad in polished steel and bearing the insignia of the Vaultguard. At their center stood a stern woman in command attire, her dark blue cape trailing behind her and a brooch shaped like the Nexus Star fastened at her collar.

  "Knight Adept Aluvar," she said, nodding briskly. "I am Commander Elseth of the Vaultguard. We've been dispatched to secure the Heart of Gold as per the High Council's directive."

  Aluvar gave a short nod and unstrapped the metal-encased satchel from his back. The protective seals shimmered with containment glyphs as he handed it over to Elseth.

  "It’s intact. No exposure or breaches since Himnar. Keep it under heavy warding and out of public knowledge."

  Elseth accepted the container with a respectful bow of the head. "We’ll transfer it to a deep-core vault beneath the Aether Nexus, under triple-seal protocol. Only High Council authorization will permit access."

  "The fewer who know its location, the better," Aluvar added.

  "Understood," Elseth replied. Her gaze flicked briefly to the sky, as if expecting danger to fall from it at any moment. "There was unrest in the Assembly earlier. Squabbling and bickering. It’s starting already."

  "Let them argue," Aluvar said. "Our task is to make sure there's something left to argue about."

  Elseth gave a final nod, turned sharply on her heel, and her soldiers fell into formation behind her as they departed toward the central Nexus spire with the artifact.

  Moments later, the second group stepped forward—city guards in pearlescent armor flanking a tall official with silver-ink tattoos spiraling along his temples.

  “Aluvar. Your presence is noted and respected.”

  Aluvar dipped his head. “I bring two with me. One under observation, one under appointment.”

  The man’s eyes shifted to Jol. “The unregistered cold-affinity? Jol… Vall, was it?”

  Raela stepped slightly in front of him, protective. Aluvar raised a hand.

  “Peace, Magistrate Vhoren. He is no threat to the Dominion.”

  “That remains to be seen. Standard protocol dictates assessment and classification. House Cold will want oversight.”

  “And he will receive it. But you will not take him from me—not yet.”

  Vhoren’s expression hardened. “We’ve dealt with pretenders before, Aluvar. Foundlings showing up with rare affinities, no records, no lineage. You know how easily that can be exploited.”

  “And I also know when a boy has risked his life fighting demons,” Aluvar replied. “Jol Vall has earned the Dominion’s curiosity, if not yet its trust.”

  Vhoren gave a slow, measuring look to Jol. “That name means nothing in our registries. His bloodline is a mystery, his aura untraceable. That puts him under provisional classification.”

  “Then let the system decide,” Aluvar said smoothly. “As you’ve stated.”

  The magistrate didn’t argue further but gestured curtly. “Bring him to Sanction Hall Seven.”

  Aluvar nodded. Then mentally transmitted to Raela to keep an eye on him.

  “Knight Independent Raela Zahd will accompany him. For ease of processing.”

  Magistrate Vhoren glanced with a hint of annoyance towards her. This was not the usual protocol, but decided not to bother.

  “Understood. Any other unofficial requests?”

  “No. I’ll be back soon.”

  And started walking towards the gates that opened up into the city

  Sanction Hall Seven was carved into a cliffside of pale stone, its pillars rising like fangs toward the clouds. Inside, the air was cold—not unpleasant, but charged with the hum of hidden magic. The interior bore no unnecessary decor. Here, function and judgment were one. As they approached the hall, Raela moved beside Jol, her expression unreadable.

  “You doing alright?” she asked under her breath.

  Jol nodded stiffly. “As alright as I can be, considering I’m walking into a glorified interrogation chamber.”

  Raela gave a dry smile. “Just remember—it’s protocol, not punishment. And I’m coming with you. I’ll be overseeing the inspection from within.”

  He glanced at her, surprised. “I’m surprised you’re allowed to do that.”

  “Aluvar asked. They didn’t object. Maybe because we didn’t give them time to.”

  Jol gave a faint chuckle, tension loosening in his shoulders. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. They’re going to poke and prod you with things that glow and buzz. Try not to bite anyone.”

  “No promises.”

  Raela’s smirk widened slightly as they entered the chamber together, walking under archways etched with the legacy of Cold House: stoic warriors in armor of glacial steel, mages shaping storms with a glance, dragons sleeping beneath frozen waterfalls. It was awe-inspiring—and more than a little intimidating.

  Inside the central chamber, floating orbs began to glow as he entered. Scanners hummed, casting light and spectral readings over him. Jol stood still, refusing to flinch.

  “He’s pure,” muttered one technician, after a few tens of seconds of examination. “Unregistered, but the signature is… potent. Cold, clearly. And young.”

  “Lineage?” another asked.

  “No known match. This is a ghost bloodline.”

  The magistrate from earlier frowned. “Unacceptable. Every dragonkin has a trace. There must be some—”

  Before the speculation could spiral, the side doors burst open. Aluvar stepped through first, his lightning-marked eyes scanning the room with calm precision. Behind him followed a taller figure in military attire, his presence commanding immediate silence. The guards straightened. Even the floating orbs dimmed slightly, as if yielding to the energy in the room.

  Jol blinked. He hadn’t expected Aluvar to return so soon—and certainly not in this way. But it was the man behind him who drew every gaze.

  Aluvar gave him a brief nod before stepping aside, subtly positioning himself behind the taller man in a deferential posture. It wasn’t overt—but to Jol, it felt like a gesture of rank. Respect.

  And something else. Something familial.

  The way the man briefly touched Aluvar’s arm as he passed, the way Aluvar dipped his head slightly—it wasn’t the behavior of soldiers. It was the unspoken language of those who had fought together for years. Trusted each other. Perhaps even more than that. A father-son kind of bond, unspoken but steel-strong.

  Jol felt a chill not from his affinity, but from a realization. If a veteran like Aluvar deferred to this man, then the man wasn’t merely powerful. He was something else entirely.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Then he spoke.

  “I’ll take him.”

  Silence fell. Then…

  “Balthazar Esprit,” Magistrate Vhoren said more annoyed, as if the words were being pulled out of his mouth with pliers.

  He strode forward and stood beside Jol without looking at him.

  “I invoke the Clause of Custodial Merit. Article Thirty-Seven of the Dominion Concordance. The boy—Jol Vall—will be placed under my protection.”

  The magistrate regained his composure quickly. “He is of Cold affinity. You are Force-aligned.”

  “I am High Strategist of the Eastern Vanguard and a certified Custodian under the Triumvirate. That grants me the right.”

  “You have no jurisdiction over unregistered dragonkin.”

  Balthazar’s eyes, a deep violet with flecks of pale silver, fixed on him. “You’re welcome to take it to the Council. But by then, the boy will be under oath and training. Delay will compromise his development.”

  “And you believe that justifies the breach of tradition?”

  “I believe protecting the realm is more important than tradition,” Balthazar said flatly.

  Vhoren’s lips tightened. “You tread close to insubordination.”

  “Then bring charges. Until then, the clause stands.”

  The room was silent again. A power play had just been made—and it had worked.

  Magistrate Vhoren bowed stiffly. “Very well. For now. But the Council will review this.”

  Jol looked at the man beside him, uncertain. There was something there. Familiarity. Weight. He felt like he should know him—but didn’t. Not yet at least.

  Balthazar said nothing. Only placed a hand on Jol’s shoulder.

  “Come. You have much to learn.”

  Balthazar’s quarters in the Skytalon District weren’t luxurious, but they exuded control. Clean lines. Functional furnishings. Not a scroll or artifact out of place. He motioned Jol inside, then gestured to a nearby bench while Raela stood near the doorway, arms crossed.

  “You’ll find uniforms in the drawer. Training begins tomorrow at first light,” Balthazar said without looking at him. He tapped a sigil on the wall, causing the room’s inner barrier to hum briefly—soundproofed.

  “Things are moving quite fast in here.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Balthazar continued in a neutral tone.

  “I don’t have any choice…”

  Balthazar didn’t answer right away. He moved to the far table, poured two glasses of crystalline water, and set one on the bench beside Jol.

  “Yes, you have a choice. We always do. But to make the right one… Now that’s something to respect and cultivate. You’ll learn that in time. But you have a good headstart.”

  There was something in his voice—not warmth, exactly, but the faint echo of concern. Still, he kept his distance, never quite meeting Jol’s eyes.

  “You survived Himnar. That says enough for now. Tomorrow, you start learning how to do more than survive.”

  And then he left them there, the door sliding closed behind him with a soft click.

  Jol sighed, slumping onto the bench. “He’s intense.”

  Raela gave a soft laugh and took the bench beside him. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “You’ve known him long?”

  “Yes.” Raela pulled in a thoughtful breath, then exhaled slowly. “He’s complicated. But… he’s good. In his own way.”

  A small smile touched her lips. “He took me in years ago. After I Awakened. I didn’t have anyone left, and the Houses weren’t interested in helping some half-wild fire girl from the southern cliffs.”

  Jol blinked. “So you live here?”

  “With him. His mansion is home, as much as any place has ever been. He doesn’t say much, but he’s always watching. Always planning three steps ahead. He raised me more like a soldier than a daughter, but… I don’t think he knows how to be anything else.”

  There was a softness in her voice that wasn’t there before. Not reverence, but familiarity. Trust.

  “He’s never told me why he took me in,” she added, “but I know it wasn’t out of pity.”

  Jol stared ahead. “Do you trust him?”

  Raela nodded. “With my life. But that doesn’t mean I understand him.”

  She looked at him, smiling slightly, then continued.

  “What I do know is he doesn’t show his cards easily. But he doesn’t take people in lightly either. If he’s offered you a place, it’s not out of duty. It’s because he sees something.”

  Jol looked down at his hands. “And what do you see?”

  Raela hesitated, then bumped her shoulder gently against his. “Someone who’s still figuring that out. But who has people that believe in him, whether he likes it or not.”

  He looked at her, and for a brief moment, the mask dropped. Just enough.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly.

  She smiled, not teasing this time. “Get some rest, Jol Vall. Tomorrow, you begin your next chapter.”

  That night, Jol lay on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the silence pressing down like a weighted blanket. The transformation, the revelations, the way Raela’s presence softened the coldness inside him—it all swirled into a storm of thought he couldn’t quiet. Eventually, exhaustion claimed him, and his breathing slowed.

  But his rest was not peaceful.

  He didn’t dream—not at first. He simply floated. A weightless sensation. Then a sound—a faint breeze, like leaves whispering secrets. A light flickered, distant, and gold.

  A garden. Lush, sun-dappled. Familiar. And then it happens again. The calls. Him running. The helplessness. The fire always comes too fast, the air always too thick with smoke. The voice that screams his name never reaches him in time.

  And still, he runs.

  Outside the dream, his face twisted. His brow furrowed, mouth parted slightly as though whispering words he could not speak aloud. A soft breath hitched.

  Then came the sharp intake of air—the kind that precedes a sob. His eyes fluttered open, tears already tracing paths down his cheeks. He blinked several times, then turned his face to the narrow window above his bed. A few faint stars still hung in the pre-dawn sky.

  His voice cracked into the quiet: “Archlight… if you can hear me... please keep her safe. Hold her. Wherever she is.”

  Then, he closed his eyes again, but the tears continued.

  *****

  Later that same night, in one of Fraviax’s older administrative towers—the kind whose halls were paved in silent stone and illuminated by everburning glyphlight—Balthazar Esprit stood before a tall, darkened window, watching the mist drift through the higher levels of the capital.

  Behind him, the heavy door opened without a sound. Aluvar entered, still in uniform, his long coat dusted from evening air. He gave a subtle nod of deference. With him came a new presence: a tall dragonkin with angular features and burnished-bronze skin. His eyes gleamed with acid-green clarity, scanning the room like a weapon unsheathed.

  “So,” the man said, stepping into the glow of the glyphlight, “it really is you calling in favors again. You must be desperate.”

  “Dionur.” Balthazar offered the faintest hint of a smirk. “I might be. Or at least discerning.”

  “I’ve heard of the demonic incursions,” Dionur’s acid-green eyes narrowed, but there was familiarity in the motion. A shared past, battle-worn and buried. “You always did like sending me where the rot runs deepest.”

  “I’ve never sent you anywhere I wouldn’t go myself.”

  “No,” Dionur said, glancing at Aluvar. “You just get better at picking who walks into the dark beside you.”

  Balthazar turned fully now, his voice level. “I want you to partner with Aluvar on this. You’ve worked with worse.”

  “I’ve killed worse.”

  Aluvar gave a dry grunt of amusement. “Good. Let’s not make this personal.”

  A pause. Then, Aluvar continued.

  “So, what’s the briefing?”

  "Well, we’ve received confirmations from all kingdoms," Balthazar said, breaking the silence. "There were demonic incursions in all of them: Pahurak, Vhal Karenth, Aestharyn, Luxareth, Telotharn, and Velguurith. Some minor, some severe. Coordinated to occur within hours of each other."

  Aluvar folded his arms. "Simultaneous strikes. Across all of Xael. That’s concerning."

  "Indeed," Balthazar agreed. He tapped a rune on his wrist, revealing diagrams of multiple ancient relics. "They went after more than the Heart of Gold. Each kingdom reported either thefts or damage to sealed sites—artifacts, relics, vessels of ancient power. This wasn’t about destruction. It was a hunt."

  Dionur’s voice was low. "So they’re collecting them."

  "Yes," Balthazar replied. "And it’s not the first time I’ve seen tactics like these. This was a synchronized multi-front operation. We’re dealing with leadership on the other side—strategic minds, not just rabid cultists."

  He looked directly at Aluvar and Dionur. "That’s why I’m sending you back to Himnar. The High Council has formally sanctioned the mission. Something about the portals – how they opened across the realm – still doesn’t sit right with me."

  Dionur nodded. "We leave at dawn."

  Before he could leave, Aluvar raised a brow. "There’s more, isn’t there?"

  Balthazar gave a faint, humorless smile. "Always. The Assembly of Voices met earlier today. It devolved into accusations and fearmongering. Some blame the military for withholding information. Others accuse the Houses of hoarding power. The non-dragonkin representative demanded open access to magical resource inventories. Multiple delegates stormed out."

  Dionur frowned. "So unity is already unraveling."

  "Cracks," Balthazar said. "Small ones. But cracks that can split mountains if ignored."

  Balthazar moved toward the window, his voice quieting slightly. "We don’t have time to placate politicians. Find the truth in Himnar. And if there’s more bleeding through the Veil… plug it before the dam bursts."

  Aluvar nodded once. “What about the boy? Jol?”

  Balthazar’s gaze didn’t shift. “Jol Vall…”

  He left the last word hanging in the air for much longer than he used to. Then, as if coming back from a reverie, he continued.

  “Cold affinity, as you know. No formal training yet—he’s only begun acclimating.”

  Dionur’s brow furrowed slightly. “A dragonkin appearing now, from Himnar no less, and with no clear bloodline. Convenient.”

  “He is being monitored closely,” Balthazar replied. “By me. The Council is also aware. It’s true, his purity has never been seen before. It’s as if the cold dragon-god Seryndal poured his whole essence into him. But his potential remains… undefined.”

  “That’s why he needs training,” Dionur added, matter-of-factly.

  “That’s why he starts tomorrow with Knight Independent Raela Zahd.”

  Dionur nodded, satisfied.

  “If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.”

  Aluvar nodded as well and prepared to depart.

  “Move quickly,” Balthazar added. “And may the Archlight shine everbright upon your paths.”

  “And yours,” Dionur replied to the traditional exchange.

  Then, the two left the room in silence, leaving Balthazar alone once more.

  He stared out over Fraviax’s sleeping skyline. The chamber, lit only by the soft pulse of the glyphlights, felt heavier now – like the weight of a thousand decisions pressed against its stone walls. Outside, the spires of Fraviax shimmered in the night haze, their peaks piercing the low clouds like blades of silver.

  He stepped back to the window and drew a long breath, the silence coiling around him like a cloak. Slowly, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and drew forth a small, flat pendant—no larger than a coin, forged of steelglass and engraved with a symbol few alive would recognize: a circle split by a single vertical line, flanked by rays that arced inward like seeking flames.

  The insignia of the Lightseekers.

  He turned it over between his fingers, the smooth metal cool to the touch. A faint warmth pulsed from within it – not magical in the arcane sense, but spiritual, as if responding to his thoughts. The Lightseekers always believed in hidden truths, and in protecting what the world wasn’t yet ready to understand.

  His jaw clenched.

  “Liona…”

  The name came unbidden, curling in his thoughts like a whisper through mist. He hadn’t spoken it aloud in years. He had kept his distance, honored the pact. Let her raise Jol alone in Himnar, away from the eyes of the Houses, of the Order, of the world. Not because he didn’t care—but because he had believed it was the only way to keep them both safe.

  Now she was gone.

  And Jol… Jol bore the grief of it alone.

  “I should have been there, Balthazar thought. I should have come sooner. Not as the Lord, not as the strategist… but as his father.”

  He looked down at the insignia in his palm. The Lightseekers had trained him to bury his past. To trust the mission, the cause, the hidden light that burned beneath empires and people. But there, in that moment, under the silent stars of Fraviax, his resolve wavered.

  He had lost Liona…

  But he would not lose Jol.

  Balthazar closed his hand around the insignia.

  “The Light must be guarded. Especially when it flickers the most.”

  The boy—his son—was awakening. The Titan stirred. And the balance of the world hung, trembling, on a knife’s edge. Sometimes, he wondered if the Lightkeepers did enough. Regardless, one thing was sure enough.

  There would be no turning back.

  He opened his eyes again, fixing his gaze on the horizon where the stars began to fade into the first gray hints of dawn.

  “You’ll have to face more than you know,” he whispered, voice like stone worn smooth by time. “But may you have the strength to rise… and the heart to stay good.”

  Then, he slipped the insignia back into his coat, squared his shoulders, and disappeared into the shadows of the hall.