"It is because I had a vision…" Ignarion's tone was low, grave, as though each word threatened to crack the air itself. "Orion will not stand beside you as the next beacon of hope, brother. His future is… wrong. Twisted."
He sliced open a rift with a flick of his hand, lavender frost spilling from its edges.
"We will continue this later. Mother Rosen is calling."
---
Inside Nyxhara
"Mother! Mother! Look! Mother Rosen's eyes are open today!" A child's laughter rang across the crystalline fields, her tiny feet crunching in the frost-laden grass as she pointed skyward.
Her mother, soft-faced and warm despite the chill, knelt beside her. "Then speak quickly, little one. If she listens, your wish may be granted today." She brushed a stray curl from her daughter's cheek, her smile trembling with awe.
Above them, VlastMoroz's titanic serpentine body wound around the Kingdom of Arian like a living fortress. Her scales shimmered with pale auroras, her breath shedding snow that fell upward, returning to the clouds. Her colossal form cradled the kingdom like it was her final egg—the last fragile treasure she would ever guard.
And then, a rift tore open in the silence beside her ancient head.
Ignarion stepped forward, the frost beneath his boots cracking from his weight. His red hair flared faintly in the reflected light of Rosen's open eyes. But he was not alone.
From the faint creak of VlastMoroz's jaw, another figure slipped into view. Yandelf emerged with the grace of flowing ink, her long limbs stretching like a predator freed from stillness. Her presence hummed with the gravity of space itself, bending the air around her.
"At last…" she exhaled, rolling her shoulders with a weary sigh. "The peace talks are finished. Highfall was as insufferable as ever. His arrogance hasn't dimmed since the War of Facade."
She ascended into the air lazily, drifting until she hovered beside Ignarion, her sharp gaze appraising him.
"Peace talks are already over?" Ignarion's brows lifted, faint disbelief breaking through his stoic mask.
"Over?" Yandelf's lips curled into a wry smile. "Hardly. He called it peace, but all I heard were veiled threats. Typical of Highfall… the relic still thinks the world bends to him."
Her violet eyes narrowed, flickering briefly toward Rosen's glowing gaze, then back to Ignarion. "And yet here you are, pulled away from your endless training. Tell me, brother… what has our Mother whispered to you this time?"
Ignarion lifted his head, his crimson hair shifting in the glow of Rosen's awakened gaze.
"Mother only asked me to come," he admitted softly. "I don't yet know what this is about."
Rosen's eyes—twin stars that had seen ages rise and collapse—fell past him, settling instead on Yandelf. Her voice, low and resonant, rumbled like truth itself.
"Yandelf. Orion calls for aid from Tevyat. And I… cannot step into that realm without declaring war upon Celestia itself."
Yandelf's lips curved into a knowing smile. She inclined her head with a theatrical bow, her voice laced with velvet amusement.
"Understood, Mother. Then I shall go in your stead. And perhaps…" a playful glimmer sparked in her eyes, "I'll see if Orion still refuses me when I ask nicely."
Her laughter—light, dangerous—shivered across the frostbound air. With a wave of her hand, the void itself groaned, and a rift tore wide. From its depths, something immense stirred.
Noctharn emerged.
The frost dragon's form stretched like a nightmare born of glaciers—his body plated in jagged shards of ancient ice, each ridge glowing faintly with trapped auroras. Fifteen feet tall at the shoulder, twenty in length, his wings unfurled into the sky like the ribs of a cathedral, spanning nearly fifty feet, blotting out the light of Rosen's gaze for an instant. His every breath condensed into a stormcloud, and his presence bent the air into brittle silence.
Yandelf floated down onto his crown, sitting with effortless grace, as if the leviathan itself were no more than her throne. She crossed her legs, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, like a queen settling into a familiar seat.
Noctharn's great head tilted slightly, frost dripping from his fanged maw. His voice was a rumble that quaked the frozen earth.
"Are we leaving Nyxhara this time, Yandelf?" His tone carried centuries of weariness, the sigh of a being too old for endless summons.
Yandelf's fingers brushed along one of his ridges, her smile sharp as starlight.
"Yes, old friend. Stretch your wings…" Her gaze turned toward the rift, where Tevyat's faint shimmer beckoned. "For Tevyat has forgotten what it means to tremble."
Mother Rosen's gaze lingered where the rift had been, Yandelf's laughter still faintly trailing in the frostbitten air. Her lips did not move, yet her voice slipped into Ignarion's mind like a secret hymn.
"So bright…"
Ignarion's chest eased, and a rare smile crept onto his lips.
"At least she will not be touched by the chaos of time between realms. Unlike Orion."
"Yes…" Rosen's resonance shivered, softer now, heavy. "She is strong enough. Untouchable. Perhaps more than even I."
For a heartbeat, the ancient Sovereign's gaze dimmed, her next words a sigh tangled with centuries of regret.
"Ignarion… tell me. Do you believe I have been too cruel?"
The question lingered in his mind like ash on snow.
---
Meanwhile, in Tevyat—
Far from the heavy weight of Sovereigns and realms, the southernmost edge of Mictlan sprawled out like a land forever bruised by fire. Peaks jutted up like clasped hands, guarding something within. And inside those clasped hands lay a secret—a secret that didn't bother being discreet.
Citlali's house.
Perched on the mountainside with zero shame, it looked like rebellion had gotten drunk and built itself a home. Its walls were an anarchist's mural: neon streaks of graffiti, burning sigils, childish flames painted over older, faded warnings. Someone had scrawled a crude doodle of the Lord of the Night wearing a mustache and a pink frilly dress. Another, in glaring scarlet, screamed:
"IF YOU'RE LOST, TURN BACK. IF YOU'RE A GOD, WIPE YOUR FEET."
Inside, the chaos was no less eccentric. Orion and Frieda sat curled together on a battered couch, their embrace soft, steady, like two pieces of a puzzle that had finally been jammed into place after years of trying.
At their feet, Felix curled tightly around the couch like a vigilant pet who refused to admit he wasn't actually furniture. His scales shimmered faintly with frost, a cool mist escaping his nostrils whenever someone got too close to his humans. Though small by dragon standards, the intensity in his amber eyes carried the weight of a guardian who'd fight the sky itself if it dared knock on the door.
In the next room, Citlali sprawled across her bed, a light novel balanced on her chest. Her face twisted in mild suffering as she kicked her legs restlessly against the sheets.
"I can't wait to change into pajamas…" she groaned inwardly, flipping a page with all the strength of someone fighting a war. "But these pests just won't leave me alone."
Her thought was punctuated by Orion's muffled laugh from the couch—followed by Felix's tail swatting against the side table, sending a pile of old mugs clattering to the floor. The little Frost dragon raised his head indignantly, as though they had interrupted him.
A rift split the mountain air, thin at first, then widening into a jagged scar of pale light. From it emerged Yandelf, still seated with regal ease atop the colossal Frost Dragon, Noctharn.
Her silhouette gleamed, etched by the rift's glow—leather-wrapped limbs, fur-trimmed armor hugging her form, and a long lance strapped across her back. She carried herself not merely as a warrior, but as the embodiment of a legacy: every strap and buckle a hymn to battles fought before her time, every piece of fur-lined steel carrying the weight of blood and heritage.
Beneath her, Noctharn exhaled a cloud of ice-thick mist, eyes narrowing as he scanned the cozy little house that dared hide his prey.
"I can sense him here…" the dragon rumbled, frost lacing the syllables. His maw curved in something almost like disdain. "That little rascal hasn't shown up for proper training in—what, six years? So this is where he's been sulking..."
Inside, Felix froze mid-tail flick. His head snapped up, pupils shrinking as his scales bristled. He recognized that voice. That tone. That doom.
"...CHIEF?!" Felix yelped, untangling himself from the couch with such frantic speed he nearly tipped it over. He stood rigid, like a soldier back from leave only to find his commander staring him down. His voice cracked with a fear far older than himself, a genetic memory etched into every Frost Dragon's bones.
Yandelf's smile sharpened as her gaze fell on him.
Orion's eyes widened, a blush betraying him before he could compose himself.
"Yandelf…?" he breathed, her name tasting like a spark dragged across flint.
Frieda tugged his arm tighter against her own, her eyes darting between them with equal parts suspicion and curiosity.
"What's going on?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with heat. "I thought you said you asked for Morven to help us… not her."