Two days passed since the seventh shrine awakened, and the fire in the Dragoon camp burned brighter than ever.
The morning mist still clung to the training fields as drills began in full swing. Blades slashed through marked air, elemental runes flared beneath synchronized steps, and the rhythmic pulse of striking feet beat into the earth like war drums. Amid it all, two figures moved with sovereign grace.
Alter and Soryn stood shoulder to shoulder, guiding the flow of the morning session. From stance correction to aura management, they worked in seamless tandem—every motion mirrored, every instruction aligned. Though the trainees had grown accustomed to their commander's brilliance, seeing two "Alters" on the field felt like witnessing a divine martial illusion.
Soryn clapped once. "Form Two—Sky Piercer: Celestial Thrust! Pair off and begin rotation drills! You should feel the acceleration in your spine!"
Alter nodded, folding his arms. "Those who hesitate in the charge will hesitate in battle. Again!"
Laughter echoed here and there, but none disobeyed. They admired Soryn's authority, even if none could quite explain how someone so new moved like a reflection of their commander. Still, none questioned it—especially not when both men sparred in tandem and left behind only scorch marks and cracked stone.
Then, without warning, a royal messenger arrived—dismounting in haste and bowing before the assembled ranks.
"My Lords," the courier said with reverence, eyes flickering between them, "a summons from Aetherflame Palace. Immediate audience… with Soryn Vael'Zarion."
A stunned silence fell over the field. Trainees exchanged glances. Elira tilted her head. Rhed mouthed, Wait, who?! Vellmar blinked. Talia started giggling until Selin elbowed her quiet.
Even Alter turned his head slowly, lips twitching. "Not me?"
Soryn exhaled and gave a sly grin. "Looks like the dragons in the palace woke up."
"You sure you want to go alone?" Alter teased, voice laced with amusement.
Soryn turned halfway toward him, giving a playful, overdramatic bow. "I'll survive. But…" His gaze narrowed just slightly. "I suppose it's time to begin the operation."
Alter chuckled, crossing his arms as the sunlight glinted across his armor. "Operation: Sweep Selene Off Her Feet and Send Her to the High Heavens?"
Soryn gave him a wink. "Exactly. I'll be sure not to fall through the clouds."
And with that, he turned, nodding once to the bewildered recruits—who still hadn't processed half of what they'd just heard—and walked toward the waiting steed with royal livery. In a flash, he was gone.
Behind him, the field slowly returned to motion. But the spark in the air had shifted.
And Alter? He just grinned. The real game… had begun.
The golden gates of Aetherflame Palace opened with ceremonial flourish as Soryn dismounted, his calm expression unfazed by the dozen guards that escorted him through marble corridors gilded with molten veins of dragonbone.
Servants whispered. Courtiers parted. And within the grand chamber of royal judgment—thick with ancestral heat and polished obsidian tiles—stood the royal family of Drakareth, cloaked in tension and stormy eyes.
At the center, King Vael'Zarion sat tall and grim-faced upon the obsidian throne, his silver eyes wary. Queen Elanra stood to his side, arms crossed and lips pursed in a line that could slice a war priest in half. Prince Ryvar looked one twitch away from drawing steel, while Alyxthia peeked out from behind her mother with barely veiled curiosity.
"You… carry our name," the Queen began, voice sharp as dragon glass. "Vael'Zarion is not a common surname. Explain this... Soryn Vael'Zarion. Now."
Soryn did not bow. He merely clasped his hands behind his back, offered a smile of practiced humility, and stepped forward.
"I understand the confusion. But let me assure you," he said calmly, "I am not the King's… bastard son."
That set Ryvar off. "Then how do you—?!"
The Queen raised a hand to silence him.
Soryn exhaled softly. Then, with perfect composure, he spun a tale that sounded heartbreakingly believable.
"I was born in the outer territories, my mother unknown to me. Taken as a child by slave traders. I escaped years later—half-starved, alone. I wandered from town to town, never knowing my origin, only the chains I broke."
He paused, glancing to the high murals depicting ancient draconic victories.
"Six years ago, a man found me—Alter. He trained me, gave me purpose, forged me into something more. And… when I asked for a name to call my own, he gave me 'Vael'Zarion.' Said it meant 'Skyborne Flame'—a crown not of blood, but of fire earned through trial."
Soryn turned back to face them.
"I accepted it… never knowing it belonged to a living royal line."
The chamber remained silent.
A moment passed. Then another. Until—
The King exhaled, deep and slow, and slumped slightly in his throne. "So you… are not my son."
Soryn smiled. "No, Your Majesty. You're far too stiff."
Prince Ryvar grunted in amusement despite himself. Alyxthia giggled. Even Queen Elanra's lips twitched slightly, though she fought it.
"Well," the King said, "then I suppose… you're not guilty of unexpected lineage crimes." He gave a sigh of something close to relief.
But then Soryn tilted his head. "Though, since I already bear the name—why not make it official?"
The Queen blinked. "What?"
Soryn shrugged. "You have room for one more, don't you? I train soldiers. I serve the people. I have no claim to your blood, but I'll uphold your banner."
King Vael'Zarion blinked in disbelief. Queen Elanra stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Ryvar let out a what the hell? laugh, while Alyxthia leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Ooooh! Can we keep him?"
Silence.
Then the King laughed. A slow, rolling thunder of a laugh that broke the tension like shattered chains.
"You are mad, boy."
Soryn grinned. "Only slightly, Majesty."
"I'll consider your… proposal," the King replied, shaking his head. "But only after I'm sure you don't turn out like Ryvar."
"Hey!" Ryvar snapped.
A new harmony settled over the room—confusion now replaced with curiosity, interest… and perhaps, something close to kinship.
The man with no name had stepped into the halls of kings. And whether by tale or truth, he had left a mark of flame behind.
The royal chambers quieted.
The Queen slowly lowered her teacup, her sapphire eyes narrowing not with suspicion—but contemplation. Prince Kaelen crossed his arms and studied Soryn with a tactician's gaze, while Prince Ryvar sat back with one leg over the other, still unconvinced. Princess Alyxthia, however, stared in silent awe at the man who had trained the fabled Dragoons and now stood before them—composed, courteous, and utterly unmoved by the court's suspicions.
King Vael'Zarion, after a long silence, gave a slow nod. "You are not my son," he began, voice steady, "but I see the flame of our people in your stance… the skyborne resolve in your bearing."
The Queen gave him a glance of reluctant agreement.
"Your proposal," the king continued, "holds merit. Morale across the continent has shifted with the rise of the Dragoons. You carry our name, albeit by circumstance… but names, when wielded with honor, shape nations."
Soryn bowed, fist over heart. "I have no intention of claiming the crown or causing strife among your bloodline. The crown prince deserves his place—his duty. I wish only to serve Drakareth. Let my actions speak louder than any claim of lineage."
A hushed moment passed. Then the king stood, raising a single hand toward the chamber doors. A herald stepped forward with scroll and ink.
"Then by decree of the sovereign flame," King Vael'Zarion said aloud, "Let it be written: Soryn Vael'Zarion shall be adopted into the Skyguard Line as a prince of Drakareth. No claim shall be laid upon the crown. His title shall be Flame Whisperer of the Skyguard Line, bonded by loyalty, forged through merit, and honored as kin."
The herald scribbled furiously.
The Queen exhaled, at last allowing her shoulders to relax. Alyxthia smiled. Kaelen gave a nod of professional acknowledgment. Ryvar muttered under his breath—something about this not being over—but held his peace.
Soryn knelt. "I accept this decree, with gratitude and with resolve."
Then—he glanced up and added with a small smirk, "...And I promise not to cause any more rumors of secret affairs, Your Majesty."
The Queen blinked, stunned.
The King let out a long groan and dragged a hand over his face.
"Guards," he said with dry exasperation. "Escort the new prince to his quarters before I regret this adoption."
A burst of laughter rippled through the chamber—even Alyxthia couldn't hide her giggle.
As Soryn was led from the room, he wore a calm, content expression. Another step in the operation had just fallen into place.
Operation: Sweep Selene off Her Feet and Send Her to the High Heavens — now had royal backing.
The morning sun bathed the royal palace in soft golden hues, painting the white marble corridors in warmth. Within one of the palace's guest chambers, Soryn Vael'Zarion stood in front of a tall polished mirror.
Gone was the traveling swordsman garb of old. In its place, a newly tailored military uniform adorned his frame—deep midnight blue, accented with silver trim and the royal phoenix-dragon crest of Drakareth stitched proudly onto the chest and shoulders. Subtle gold embroideries lined the sleeves and collar, denoting his newly appointed princely status. The outfit merged martial discipline with regal grace—no longer a warrior hiding in plain sight, but a symbol of command and dignity.
His long hair, normally tied back or braided loosely during training, now flowed down his right shoulder in a smooth, carefully groomed cascade. A silver clasp near the end held the length in place to keep it from dancing too wildly in the breeze. The image reflected in the mirror carried a presence that could not be denied—neither by soldier nor sovereign.
Soryn exhaled softly. "Too princely?" he murmured to himself, adjusting a cuff.
Then came a knock.
"Enter," he called, his voice poised and steady.
The door slid open a crack—and a curious eye peeked in.
Princess Alyxthia.
She froze for a second, caught off-guard as she beheld him in his new attire. Her mouth parted slightly.
"Oh—!" she gasped, pushing the door wider as she stepped in. "You… look…"
Soryn turned slightly, offering a composed smile. "I hope that means presentable."
The princess blinked, then shook her head, flustered. "No, I mean—yes! I mean… very."
He gave a small bow. "Thank you, Princess. You're kind to say so."
She glanced down, cheeks a shade warmer than usual. "A-anyway… breakfast is ready. I was asked to come get you."
"I appreciate it. Lead the way."
They walked side by side through the sunlit halls. Alyxthia snuck occasional glances at him, trying—and failing—to mask her curiosity and admiration. Compared to the rough combat instructor she once saw training the Dragoons, the man now beside her looked as though he had stepped out of a royal portrait. Regal, composed… and still carrying that quiet strength beneath it all.
They entered the dining hall.
King Vael'Zarion sat at the head, with Queen Elanra to his left. Princes Kaelen and Ryvar were already seated—Kaelen composed as ever, Ryvar sipping tea while pretending not to stare. The chatter hushed briefly as Soryn entered, every royal eye flicking toward him with a mix of surprise, interest, and silent approval.
Soryn bowed respectfully to the entire table. "Good morning, Your Majesties. Princes. Princess."
"Join us," the king said with a faint smile, gesturing toward an open seat beside Alyxthia.
Breakfast began—light conversation over roasted fruit, draconic omelets, and spiced tea.
It was the king who broke the ceremonial quiet. "Soryn. What do you intend to do today?"
He set his teacup down before answering.
"My morning will begin with Dragoon training, as always. I'll oversee their regiment rotations. After that, I may take the afternoon to better acquaint myself with the capital. I'd like to understand the people and the streets—learn how Drakareth breathes."
Alyxthia perked up. "I could be your guide!"
The queen arched a sharp brow at her daughter's sudden enthusiasm, while the king gave a faint hum.
Ryvar didn't even try to hide his smirk. "Sounds like someone's excited for civic duty."
The queen's eyes flicked to her daughter, subtle as a hawk. The message was clear.
King Vael'Zarion, with a knowing sigh, offered a solution. "Very well. The Princess may accompany you—but Prince Ryvar, you will join them."
Ryvar blinked. "Me?"
"Yes," the king said dryly. "Consider it… a buffer."
The queen gave a small, regal nod. "And perhaps to keep focus."
"Of course," Soryn said smoothly. "Your guidance is appreciated."
Alyxthia gave a tiny pout. Ryvar rolled his eyes—but relented. The queen, though still uncertain, didn't object.
Later that morning, a royal carriage rolled into the Dragoon training grounds.
The moment Soryn stepped down in full uniform, heads turned.
The recruits paused mid-stretch, stunned. Even the senior officers stopped to glance his way.
Rhed whispered, "That's not the same guy who made us eat dirt last week…"
Vellmar just nodded solemnly. "Nope. That's a prince."
Talia's jaw dropped. Elira tilted her head, expression unreadable. Selin merely blinked, her eyes narrowing with recognition—but no judgment.
Alter stood on the upper overlook, arms crossed. He gave a knowing smile.
"All good?"
Soryn adjusted his gloves. "All good."
Then—just for Alter's eyes—a tiny golden chibi version of Soryn popped up beside his head, giving a cheeky thumbs-up, tongue stuck out sideways.
Royal Son: Acquired.
Alter chuckled under his breath.
"Oh, Selene… you have no idea what's coming."
Far across the fractured realms, in the disciplined stronghold of Seraveth—the Mythral Dawn's estate stood like a fortress of celestial order. Morning sun spilled through the open-air courtyard, catching the glint of steel and echoing the rhythm of synchronized training. The clang of weapons. The hum of magical resonance. The thunder of synchronized movement.
And at the heart of it stood Selene Virellia.
Hair bound back into a sleek ponytail, her silver strands shimmered like drawn moonlight as she guided the vanguard division through a round of high-speed formation strikes. Her eyes, always sharp, mirrored focus honed by years of war, precision, and duty.
But then it hit.
A jolt—not of blade or spell—but a shiver that ran along her spine like icy static.
She stopped.
Her breath hitched. Shoulders tensed.
Her hand unconsciously touched her neck.
"…What was that?" she muttered.
Another shiver.
A twitch of her nose.
"Am… I catching a cold?"
The words fell out flat, but disbelief clung to them like fog. A wave of silence followed.
Across the courtyard, training weapons stopped mid-swing.
The twelve commanders froze.
Caelum blinked.
Darius lowered his shield.
Mira Snowveil dropped her staff, eyes wide.
Revyn Mistclaw leaned in, whispering like he'd seen a celestial anomaly. "Did… did the ice queen just say what I think she said?"
Even Thorne Ironstride, usually too hardened for humor, gave a concerned grunt.
Arinelle whispered, "The silver-haired, divine-tempered, frost-kissed Selene… might be ill?"
Selene stood unmoving, still rubbing her neck.
"…This has to be sabotage."
Ilyra Faen, utterly baffled, asked in a hush, "Did someone poison the tea again?"
No one knew what to say.
Somewhere in the heavens, the gods surely blinked.
And in the quiet stillness of the courtyard, the cold-tempered vanguard commander—a warrior who had once fought through frostbite without flinching—shivered again.
The midday sun glared down upon the training fields of the Dragoons, casting long shadows as rows of elite warriors lunged, struck, and retreated in unison. Dust danced around their boots, kicked up by relentless drills. But today, the rhythm had changed.
Alter stood at the front, his voice firm, eyes sharp as he introduced the next evolution in their combat training.
"The Demon God Killing Martial Arts… is not a form," he declared. "It's a law. A divine rebellion inscribed into movement. Each strike you learn was born to slay the untouchable."
He paced down the line as stunned silence held the air taut.
"We begin with foundational mastery. Twenty internal force drills—each one will prepare your body to house the storm this art demands."
Soryn stood beside him, arms folded, expression calm.
The recruits watched, listening. The earlier fatigue of repetition had vanished—replaced by something colder. Heavier. More dangerous.
The regime shifted. The groups were reorganized again—schedules rotated, responsibilities reshuffled. Teams were assigned to train not only their Divine Heavenly Sword Style, but now a new pillar: Heaven-defying martial arts designed to kill gods.
As the drills continued, Soryn leaned toward Alter.
"The tour went well," he said evenly. "The people are… vibrant."
Alter didn't look over, simply nodded once. "Go. See it through."
Without a word more, Soryn turned and walked toward the waiting carriage beyond the field's edge. He stepped in, now clad in his royal military uniform—hair bound over one shoulder, the royal sigil gleaming upon his chest.
From the opposite end of the palace, the 2nd Prince, Ryvar, awaited—arms crossed, already tapping his foot impatiently.
The Princess Alyxthia, on the other hand, seemed positively thrilled.
"You're late!" she said, stepping up to the carriage with a playful pout.
Soryn offered a half-smile. "Training delays. I trust you're ready for a walking marathon?"
"I live for walking marathons," she said with false pride, swinging herself into the seat beside him.
Ryvar grunted and followed, muttering something about being dragged into tourist duty.
The carriage rolled forward through the outer gates of the Aetherflame Citadel and began descending the winding roads into the capital proper. Veyr'Zhalar's streets were alive—fluttering banners of deep crimson and gold hung from high arches, and market stalls brimmed with colors, spices, and laughter.
But just as they turned a corner past the artisan district, Soryn's expression shifted. His gaze sharpened.
"Stop the carriage."
Alyxthia blinked. "What?"
"Now," he said.
The driver yanked the reins. The wheels screeched to a halt.
Soryn stepped out first. His boots hit the cobbled stone, his eyes fixed across the street.
There, tucked between a mason's guildhall and a baker's terrace… was a smithy.
But not just any forge.
This one bled with dragonfire runes etched into its threshold.
An old, soot-stained sign above the door read: "Zevran's Echo – Forger of Flame and Bone".
Soryn took a step closer, brow furrowed.
Alyxthia peeked around him. "You dragged us here for… a blacksmith?"
Ryvar arched a brow. "Unless he plans on buying a sword for courting."
Soryn didn't respond.
His eyes remained locked on the glowing embers beyond the threshold, where sparks leapt upward like flares of memory.
The scent of scorched iron and burning coals struck Soryn the moment he stepped into the smithy.
It was dimly lit, save for the fiery glow at the forge's heart—where molten metal hissed and danced. Sparks shot up from the anvil like stars falling in reverse, each beat of hammer on steel echoing with stubborn pride.
CLANG… hiss… CLANG… hiss…
The rhythm was hypnotic. Alive.
Soryn took a few steps in, eyes scanning the interior. The walls were lined with weapons at various stages of completion—some crude, others elegant, but all clearly made with unwavering discipline.
Then a voice interrupted the forge's pulse.
"Ah—good day, traveler. May I help you with something?"
It was a young man—barely twenty winters—with soot smeared across his face and sweat dampening his tunic. An apprentice, likely.
Soryn gave a polite nod. "I'm here to speak with the master blacksmith."
The apprentice tilted his head, a bit puzzled. "Master Zevran doesn't usually take walk-ins—"
His eyes flicked behind Soryn—and immediately went wide.
A heartbeat later, the boy dropped into a bow. "Y-Your Highness. My lady…"
Princess Alyxthia gave a graceful smile in return. Prince Ryvar gave a bored grunt.
Soryn kept his tone even. "If you could let the master know that I'm here… I'd be grateful."
"Y-yes! Immediately!"
The apprentice spun on his heel and vanished through a leather-curtained doorway deeper into the forge.
Silence settled again, save for the crackling flames.
Then came footsteps—slow, deliberate, heavier than the apprentice's.
From behind the curtain emerged a tall, broad-shouldered man. His apron was scorched black. His forearms were thick with muscle and dusted in iron shavings. His beard—once gray, now mostly white—was braided in two lines down his chest.
His eyes… sharp as daggers drawn fresh from the quenching barrel.
He took one look at Soryn.
And paused.
The hammer in his right hand stilled.
A glimmer of something unreadable passed through his gaze.
Then he stepped forward, lowering the hammer to his side, voice deep and rough from years of fire-breathing steel.
"…You're not just here for a sword, are you?"
The smithy fell utterly silent after Soryn's quiet words.
"You… forged a divine weapon," he said, calmly—like commenting on the weather. But the statement struck like thunder.
Master Zevran froze mid-step, brows furrowing. Even the ever-proud Prince Ryvar turned sharply to stare. And Princess Alyxthia, caught between awe and disbelief, blinked twice before slowly turning to look at the weathered blacksmith.
"…That's impossible," Zevran muttered, more to himself than anyone. "No one knows."
Even his apprentices, who had worked beside him for years, stared wide-eyed.
"How could you possibly know that?" Zevran asked, his voice low.
Soryn smiled at the question—not boastful, but analytical.
"The hammer marks," he said, gesturing toward the still-cooling blade on the anvil. "The resonance of the metal. The rhythm of your tempering technique. All too clean. Too refined. That's not mortal technique alone."
He tilted his head slightly.
"And your hands—they bear the tremor of one who has balanced divinity against mortal steel. Subtle. But telling."
Zevran's weathered face tightened—then relaxed into a slow, grudging grin.
"You have a trained eye."
Then he extended a heavy, callused hand. "Name's Zevran Drakemoor. Been forging since before your royal family sat the throne."
"A pleasure," Soryn replied, shaking his hand firmly. "I came only to tour the city today. But your forge… drew my attention."
"You saw a forge and wanted to stop by?" Ryvar asked, puzzled. "To compliment a smith?"
Soryn looked over his shoulder. "Yes. A craftsman deserves recognition where it's due. More than that, I thought perhaps I could offer a hand."
That stunned them again.
"A hand?" Alyxthia echoed. "Do you… forge?"
"I've helped Alter numerous times," Soryn said simply. "Weapons, armor, conduit cores, ceremonial blades. It's not my primary focus—but I was trained well."
Zevran folded his arms. "Then show me."
Without a word, Soryn stepped into the forge proper.
The prince hesitated. "This isn't a place for royalty."
Alyxthia didn't care. "I'm going with him."
She followed, her long gown lifted slightly to avoid the soot-covered ground. The warmth of the forge flushed her cheeks, but her eyes never left Soryn.
He took off the outer layer of his decorated uniform, revealing his undershirt—thin and damp from the heat. His arms flexed as he reached for the tongs and hammer, his movements efficient and deliberate. His back—broad and scarred from past battles—gleamed with a sheen of sweat. The muscles along his torso moved like coiled cords beneath his skin.
Alyxthia flushed. She quickly turned her eyes away, but not before Soryn caught the reaction with a faint smirk.
Then he set to work.
Molten steel hissed as he placed the ingot into the forge's heart.
Each movement he made was like a memory flowing back into his limbs—muscle memory that had waited six years to be stirred. The ringing of metal against metal echoed with purpose. Zevran's eyes widened as he watched.
This wasn't basic smithing.
Soryn used one hand to hammer, while the other moved in precise arcane gestures. Threads of runic magic laced the metal during each strike, binding protective symbols into the very structure of the blade. An azure gem was selected and set into the pommel—its magical properties amplifying barrier magic.
He quenched the blade in enchanted oil that burned with a flicker of golden light.
Then he forged the sheath—sculpting a golden dragon motif across its polished black leather body. The beast's wings wrapped protectively around the blade's mouth, its tail spiraling to the tip like a guardian encircling its ward.
By the time he was done, the forge had gone quiet.
A singular weapon rested on the display table. A ceremonial short sword—imbued with divine resonance. Its aura hummed faintly, like a silent hymn only the soul could hear.
Zevran stepped closer, one hand hovering just above the blade. His fingers trembled.
"…It's flawless."
"No," Soryn said calmly, "it's meant to be protective. Elegant. Symbolic."
He turned, lifting the sword with both hands, and approached Alyxthia.
She stood straight, unsure of what he intended. Her lips parted slightly as he knelt on one knee and offered the sword to her.
"For you," he said. "A gift. For guiding me today."
Her eyes widened.
"I hope it protects you in the future. Its barrier spell activates on reflex. It will shield your heart—literally and otherwise."
She stared at the blade… then at him.
A soft blush colored her cheeks as she reached out to accept it.
"I… thank you, Soryn."
He rose, and their eyes met.
The divine sword pulsed faintly between them—like it recognized something its creators had yet to understand.
From the sidelines, Ryvar muttered under his breath, "Well, damn. Now I have to get her something."
Soryn turned to face Master Zevran, brushing soot from his palms.
"I hope you continue to forge with renewed clarity," he said. "The city may call upon your talents soon. So might the royal family."
Zevran bowed deeply, his weathered face ignited with something brighter than gratitude—purpose. "Thank you, young master. Your technique… your presence… it's lit a fire in me I thought was long gone. I'll surpass even my own limits. You'll see."
Soryn smiled. "That's what I like to hear."
With that, the group departed the smithy, emerging into the late morning bustle of the capital streets. The cobbled roads shimmered with reflected sunlight, and the smell of baked bread and oiled leather drifted through the air.
Alyxthia trailed beside Soryn, her fingers still curled tightly around the ornate short sword. She was holding it with the same care one might hold a treasured heirloom. Her blush hadn't entirely faded—but she'd since found her nerve.
"Right, then…" she said, gathering her composure and clapping her hands together. "Next on our tour—merchant's quarter! It's where most of the non-royal artisans and alchemists set up shop. And yes," she added with a glance at Soryn, "there are plenty of material stalls and magical wares. I assume you'd be interested."
"Very," he replied, eyes already scanning the street ahead.
They passed open carts displaying rainbow-hued cores, fragments of rare metals, monster-hide accessories, and infused cloth charms. Soryn occasionally paused to examine a vendor's enchantment matrix or ask the provenance of a crystalized wisp core.
The merchants, surprised by the sharp and regal visitor flanked by the royal siblings, offered their best explanations—sometimes embellished, sometimes humbled by Soryn's sharper-than-expected insight.
Prince Ryvar kept a casual pace, arms crossed behind his head. "You're oddly at home here, Soryn," he commented.
"Training under Alter wasn't all blade and battle," Soryn said. "Craft and clarity go hand in hand. Observation is part of discipline."
They continued onward.
Eventually, they found themselves before a polished storefront of gleaming glass and silver trim. Delicate chains, glowing pendants, and finely cut gemstones shimmered under charm-lit cases. The sign above read Auristelle's Enchantments and Jewels.
"Let's step in," Ryvar said casually, already strolling toward the door. "I should probably get something for my dear sister to counter that ridiculous sword."
Alyxthia gave him a look. "It's not ridiculous."
"It's overly impressive. That's dangerous."
As they entered the store, a pleasant chime rang from the doorbell. The air was cooler inside, tinged with lavender and old magic. Soft music played from an enchanted crystal in the corner, and a refined half-elven woman behind the counter greeted them with a courteous nod.
"Welcome to Auristelle's. Browsing or ordering?"
"Both," Ryvar said, already making a beeline for a case filled with lightcore-enhanced bracelets. "I need something that'll shut my sister up."
"RYVAR!"
"I mean something that'll compete with that," he added, gesturing to the divine short sword still clutched to Alyxthia's side.
The princess huffed, glancing away.
Soryn meanwhile drifted toward the side displays—carefully examining a set of rings inlaid with subtle warding runes. His eyes passed over amulets that pulsed gently with soul resonance, and earrings enchanted with clarity-enhancement for mages.
Alyxthia quietly drifted to his side.
"…You really know your way around crafted items," she said softly.
Soryn nodded. "If I hadn't become a warrior… I might have ended up a crafter. Or a smith."
"I think you could've been anything," she said, almost whispering.
He turned to her. Their eyes met for a second too long.
Just before either of them could speak, a loud "I'll take this one!" came from Ryvar. He held up a thin silver chain with a star-shaped charm etched with wind sigils.
"For protection," he said. "And to keep up with him."
Alyxthia blinked. "You're giving this to me?"
"Don't make it weird," Ryvar muttered. "Just take it. It's not like I'm trying to one-up your mystery knight or anything."
The princess giggled despite herself and accepted it.
Soryn smirked and nodded approvingly. "It's a good choice. Practical."
"You can say thank you anytime," Ryvar quipped.
"Thank you," Alyxthia said, smiling warmly.
As they exited the store with their new purchases, the sun cast gentle rays over the capital street—three figures walking side by side, a blend of mystery, royalty, and slowly deepening ties.
The trio's next stop led them to one of Veyr'Zhalar's finest establishments—The Silken Ember, a high-end restaurant nestled between twin marble towers at the heart of the capital's noble quarter. Its open-air terrace overlooked the cascading sky-lantern fountains, and its guest list was often reserved for dignitaries, famed artisans, and visiting nobles.
But today, as the soft chime of the entry bell echoed through the air, the room quieted.
All eyes turned.
Soryn stepped in first—his new royal military attire bearing the insignia of the House Vael'Zarion gleamed under the soft aetherlights. On his shoulder, the tied lock of his long hair fell like dark silk. Flanking him were Princess Alyxthia and Prince Ryvar, both dressed with the casual confidence of born royalty.
Whispers rippled.
"Is that… the new prince?"
"Never seen him before. Look at the crest. He's one of them, no doubt."
"Is he the king's secret son? Gods, look at that posture…"
"…He's handsome."
"…Too handsome."
"…He looks like a weapon that learned how to smile."
The trio were ushered to a private terrace table near the back, a polished obsidian slab rimmed with silverleaf vines. The waiter nearly dropped his ledger twice before handing them the hand-inscribed menus.
"I'm… honored to serve you, Your Highnesses. Please, take your time."
Soryn thanked him with a nod and began scanning the options. Alyxthia glanced at him sideways.
"Are you used to this kind of attention?" she whispered.
"Not dressed like this," he admitted.
"You're doing well," Ryvar said, amused. "Better than I expected. No signs of choking under pressure."
"I've had worse," Soryn replied.
Soon, their meals arrived—an elaborate array of seared flame-wing fish glazed in moonfruit syrup, cloudroot purée, golden grain rolls stuffed with sun-cream, and chilled mistbloom petals for garnish. The scent was divine.
Soryn picked up his utensils with impeccable etiquette, but after a few bites, his gaze softened with genuine surprise.
"This is…" he paused, "…unexpectedly delicate."
Alyxthia grinned. "Told you. The Ember's chef trained in the floating cities of Eiryth. Every dish is built around elemental pairing."
"I thought it was going to be overhyped noble fare," Ryvar admitted through a mouthful. "But it's damn good."
Soryn tried a dip of the mistbloom sauce with his fish. "Refined layering. Seven-step reduction process. No shortcuts. They even tempered the salt blend with wind-essence filtration. This chef's serious."
Ryvar gave him a long look. "How do you know that?"
Soryn just smiled faintly. "When you've boiled wild tubers over bare embers and brewed tea in bandit caves… you learn to taste everything."
Alyxthia laughed. "You're like a walking contradiction. Soldier, crafter, now food critic?"
"Just a wanderer," Soryn said. "Who happened to end up with a surname that causes a national crisis."
The table shared a chuckle. Even Ryvar, normally slow to warm, found himself grinning.
"I'll admit," the prince said, swirling his wine, "I was skeptical of you. I still am, a little. But today? You've handled the stares, the streets, and even Alyxthia's endless commentary with grace."
"Hey!" Alyxthia huffed.
"He's not wrong," Soryn said calmly, raising his glass slightly. "But I'm glad to be among good company. Even if I'm still figuring out where I belong."
She met his eyes over the rim of her glass.
"You're doing fine."
As the trio ate, the sun dipped just slightly across the terrace. The whispers in the restaurant continued—nobles and commoners alike speculating on the identity of the quiet new prince seated with the king's children. But at the center of it all, amid fine food and quiet laughter, Soryn began to feel something new blooming in the air—
Not just acceptance. But belonging.
The afternoon wore on, but the excitement hadn't dimmed.
From forge to glassmaker, potioner to enchanter, Soryn moved through Veyr'Zhalar's artisan district like a quiet storm of insight and subtle authority. Each workshop they visited became more than just a passing stop—it became a moment of revelation.
At the arcanewood workshop, he suggested stabilizing wand cores using a twin-thread binding of wyrmbark and skyroot, a method thought lost to time. The old crafter gaped at the simple suggestion that doubled casting output.
At the gemweaver's stall, Soryn showed how rotating elemental gems while embedding could drastically enhance resonance. A soft swirl of his finger over a fire gem pulsed out visible aura rings, something the shopkeeper had only read about in ancient forging texts.
At the alchemist's den, Soryn gently corrected a formula mid-mix, preventing what would've been an unstable brew. "Add moonshade oil, then swirl clockwise—not counterclockwise," he advised, not even looking up from the ingredients.
By the fourth stop, the master enchanter bowed his head with reverence. "You have walked the paths of many craftsmen, my prince. The city will whisper of this day for years."
Both Prince Ryvar and Princess Alyxthia stood wordless half the time—astonished, humbled, and somewhat dazed.
"Where did you learn all this?" Ryvar finally asked.
Soryn simply replied, "Six years with Alter. That… teaches you many things."
Their final visit brought them to a grand tailor's atelier—a silver-and-ivory storefront draped with floating mana silk. Inside, seamstresses paused mid-stitch as the royal party entered. The master tailor, a refined man with magnifying lenses over both eyes, approached with poise.
Soryn took one look at the design schematics on the wall and asked, "May I offer something?"
The tailor hesitated. "…Of course."
Within minutes, Soryn demonstrated a unique triple-thread knot using windthread, mana-silk, and ember-cord. "This reduces drag, increases resilience, and retains enchantments longer."
The tailor dropped his measuring tape in awe.
The princess, cheeks still warm from earlier events, softly spoke, "I'd like a new dress. Something elegant… but with movement. And maybe a little embroidery along the edges."
The tailor nodded. "It shall be done."
Soryn placed his order as well: "Three outfits. One formal, one ceremonial, and one travel-ready—breathable, but armor-compatible."
The tailor gave a deep bow. "It will be my honor, Your Highness."
As they left the atelier, the city watched.
Not as curious onlookers anymore—but as citizens beginning to see something stirring beneath the silk and steel. This wasn't just a newcomer. This was someone bringing motion to tradition.
They returned to the royal carriage, the sun beginning to dip behind the distant mountains, painting the capital in hues of molten gold.
In the quiet of her chamber that night, Alyxthia curled beneath her embroidered covers, cradling the divine short sword Soryn had gifted her. The gemstone core pulsed gently with protective light. Her fingers remained wrapped around the hilt, and her smile lingered even in sleep.
Outside, the moon shone softly over the capital of Drakareth.
And in its light, the name Soryn Vael'Zarion began to spread—not through proclamation or herald, but through whispers, awe… and a trail of quietly mended brilliance.
The morning sun shimmered over the training fields of the Dragoons, casting golden light across blades in motion, bodies in stance, and sweat glinting like tiny stars. Soryn arrived just as the wind caught the long tail of his decorated uniform. His silver-accented military attire, bearing the royal emblem of Drakareth, caught every eye.
Several recruits froze mid-form.
A dropped practice sword clanged against the ground.
One wide-eyed trainee whispered, "He looks like a battle-bred prince from the legends…"
Alter, standing off to the side with arms crossed, didn't even turn his head. "You're staring again. That means you're not training. Ten laps. All of you."
The snapped command jolted the field back into motion. The clatter of discipline resumed.
Soryn reached him, hands calmly folded behind his back.
Alter raised a brow. "How'd the tour go?"
Soryn gave a measured nod. "The blacksmith was awakened. The artisans are motivated. The princess nearly fainted. The prince… somewhat humbled. I also taught half the capital how to upgrade their professions in a day."
Alter exhaled a chuckle. "Classic."
He turned his head slightly, watching the training in the distance—his Dragoons, already stronger, more confident, more unified than when they began. The winds shifted faintly. His golden gaze narrowed.
"I think it's time," Alter muttered.
Soryn's eyes gleamed with understanding. "Then go. I'll handle them."
"I might be gone awhile," Alter said, his voice more serious now. "This next part will determine what comes after."
"Then go awaken the world. I'll keep the fire alive here." Soryn gave him a subtle grin. "They're in for a surprise when you return."
A soft pulse of air ruptured outward as Alter vanished in a blink—no spell chant, no motion. Just gone.
Silence followed for a heartbeat.
Then, slowly, the recruits turned again. Some craned their necks to see where Alter had gone. Others instinctively looked to Soryn.
He stepped forward.
"Back to it," he said calmly, his voice carrying the same authority—but quieter, more surgical. "Your technique is still too rigid. Breathe with the blade. Match your heartbeat with your strike. If I see your rhythm out of tune again, I'll reset the entire sequence."
And somehow, though he had barely raised his voice… the air grew heavier.
The Dragoons snapped back into focus.
Soryn's gaze swept over them—not just to assess, but to shape them. The legacy of Alter now filtered through a new hand.
The Sovereign had taken flight once more.
And the field… was now in the hands of his shadow.