Silence thundered through the room.
"My mother… was royalty?" Myrelion asked, barely above a whisper.
Vaeren nodded. "Half-elf or not, your blood carries the fire of dragons and the cold clarity of assassins. You were never meant to rot in the slums."
"Then why abandon me? Why hide me like some bastard shame?"
"Because you are a threat. Not to House Brackwood—but to the Imperial Line. If word of your birth reached the Empress, she'd have you executed before your wings could ever grow."
Vaeren pulled a scroll from his cloak and placed it on the table. "This is your mother's pendant. And a decree written in her hand. She foresaw her death. She wanted you to have this."
The scroll bore a crest unfamiliar to Myrelion—an obsidian dragon wrapped around a sunburst. He opened the scroll and read:
> "To Myrelion Aethros, my child born under the stars and shadows—
If fate grants you this truth, know that I loved you. That I never regretted you.
You are not meant to live in darkness forever.
When the time comes, ride the storm. Let the Empire feel your wings."
Inside the cloth bundle was a pendant shaped like a dragon's tooth—carved from white obsidian and still faintly warm.
"I don't want a throne," Myrelion said bitterly. "I wanted a family. And they're all dead."
"But you still breathe," Vaeren replied. "Which means you still have a choice."
Myrelion clenched his fist. "What do I do with this truth?"
Vaeren's voice turned quiet. "That's for you to decide, Veilwalker. Shadow... or flame."
As dawn approached, Myrelion stood at the edge of Kaelira's grave with the pendant around his neck.
His past had been forged in silence.
But his future would burn.