Xandria stared at the wall opposite her bed, unable to wrap her thoughts around the dream she had just experienced. It had been unlike any other—a strange blend of memory and magic, heavy with sorrow and truth.
Beside her, the sheets rustled softly.
She turned her head slightly and found Maltherion watching her. His gaze was unreadable, though the faint furrow of his brows betrayed his concern.
Xandria couldn't help but stare at him. The little boy in her dream bore the same face, the same storm-colored eyes—it only confirmed her suspicions, suspicions that had been growing with every new dream, every flicker of memory that wasn't her own.
Maltherion sat up, the muscles of his back shifting as he rested against the carved bedpost. The early morning light from the high windows touched his skin, casting him in a soft silver glow.
"You had a dream again?" he asked quietly, his voice low, careful not to push her too soon.
"I did," Xandria nodded once, her voice barely above a whisper. She shifted closer to him, instinctively seeking his warmth, his presence. Her head rested on his bare chest, and her fingers found the dragon mark etched into his skin. They traced it slowly, a habit she had developed without thinking. It grounded her. It connected them.
The mark pulsed faintly beneath her touch, as if it too remembered the dream.
"Why are you unsettled?" Maltherion asked as he gently patted her head, his hand threading through her hair.
"What makes you think I'm unsettled?" she mumbled, her words muffled against his chest.
"I can feel your emotions," he replied. "I sensed them rising while you were asleep—the sadness, the tears, the brief flicker of joy. Every emotion you felt, I felt too."
Xandria pulled back slightly, touching the mark on her neck. "But how?"
"It's the dragon bond," he explained. "Our bloodlines are ancient. When bonded, the connection is more than just physical. It's spiritual. Emotional. Our hearts are tied now, whether we speak aloud or stay silent."
She nodded slowly, processing his words. Everything he said made sense—frightening, intimate sense.
"Would you like to tell me what the dream was about?" he asked, his tone tender. "Was it a memory? Or a prophecy?"
"It was your memory," she said, her eyes meeting his. "I saw you. And your brother."
His expression shifted. "My brother?"
"Yes." She nodded. "You had a brother in the dream. His name was Thalvorian, and he was your opposite in every way."
"Thalvorian…" Maltherion echoed the name, his gaze drifting. He tasted it like a foreign word, trying to remember something long buried.
"I saw the two of you fall apart," Xandria continued, her voice soft but steady. "Your father… he treated him unfairly. He and his mother were eventually banished from the kingdom. Before he left, he promised revenge. He vowed to destroy everyone who ever hurt you. The look in his eyes—it was pure hatred. A hatred that couldn't be controlled or quenched."
Maltherion didn't respond immediately. His face remained still, but something in his eyes flickered. The storm beneath the surface stirred.
"He had powers," she added quietly. "Ice powers. I think they came from his mother. And you… you inherited yours from your mother too. Both women were daughters of the Dragon King, weren't they? That's where your dragon blood comes from."
Still, Maltherion said nothing. The silence between them thickened with the weight of unspoken truths.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her hand brushing his arm.
Maltherion finally looked at her. "Come with me."
He took her hand in his and led her out of bed. Neither of them bothered to change from their nightclothes. The palace was still asleep, wrapped in shadows and silence.
Xandria grabbed a torch from a holder on the wall as Maltherion led her through a corridor she didn't recognize. The air grew colder the farther they went. The stones beneath her feet felt older here, worn with time.
They stopped in front of a large wooden door, thick with age and dust. It was tucked away at the very end of the palace—a place forgotten, perhaps on purpose.
"Where are we?" she asked, staring up at the door.
"Have you never wondered why there are no portraits of the royal family on the palace walls?" Maltherion asked. His voice was strange—almost hollow.
"I have," she admitted. "But I didn't dwell on it. Did something happen?"
He grunted in response and pushed the door open with one hand. The wood groaned loudly, and a rush of stale, dry air met them.
The room beyond was vast, dark, and cold. It felt like stepping into a crypt.
Xandria hesitated but followed him in, holding the torch higher. Her breath caught as the torches lining the stone walls suddenly flared to life, one by one, bathing the space in golden light.
What she saw made her pause.
The room was filled with paintings. Dozens—maybe hundreds—each covered with a white cloth. It was a forgotten gallery.
The ceilings soared above them, the stone arches etched with symbols she didn't recognize. A massive chandelier hung in the center, its golden crystals shimmering as the light returned.
She walked in slowly, setting her torch on a stand. Her fingers brushed along one of the cloths.
Each painting had a plaque beneath it. Some bore single names. Others had full titles. But one, in particular, stood out—taller than the rest, nearly reaching the ceiling. The fabric covering it was heavier, aged, and yellowing at the edges.
The plaque beneath read: Queens of Alderyn. The Dragon Sisters.
Xandria turned to look at Maltherion. He stood by the wall, arms crossed, his face unreadable once again.
"Can I open it?" she asked, almost reverently.
"Of course, my love. Do you need help?" he asked, a hint of teasing lacing his otherwise solemn tone.
"No, don't worry. I can handle it."
She grasped the edge of the cloth and gave it a firm tug. Nothing. She tried again, harder this time. Still nothing. Just as she was about to call for him, the cloth suddenly gave way—all at once—falling forward and swallowing her whole.
"Maltherion!" she shrieked from beneath the suffocating fabric, her arms flailing. "Why aren't you helping me?"
"I thought you didn't need help?" His voice was amused.
"Are you laughing at me?" she snapped.
"I'd never," he said smoothly, walking over and pulling the fabric off her. It dropped to the floor in a heavy heap.
She emerged, disheveled, her hair tangled and her nightdress dust-covered.
Maltherion chuckled as he reached forward, smoothing her hair back and brushing away the dust from her shoulders.
"I'm going to take a long bath after this," she muttered, brushing at the stubborn fabric.
"How about I join you?" he whispered, the mischief in his tone unmistakable.
Xandria blushed, lightly hitting his chest. "Behave."
Then she turned to look at the now-uncovered painting—and froze.
Her breath caught.
The figures in the portrait were breathtaking. Two women stood back to back, one cloaked in reddish - golden flames, the other in shimmering frost. Their faces were hauntingly familiar. One had Maltherion's eyes. The other… had Thalvorian's.