The sky was still dark when Azrayel rode through the palace gates, the cold air biting at his skin and doing nothing to clear the mess in his head.
His horse's breath puffed white in the air, hooves drumming against the cobblestones in a rhythm that only made his thoughts louder. Every step brought back the same truth—Metheea.
She was real, she was here, and she was his sister.
The word felt heavy, wrong, and sharp enough to cut him from the inside.
He didn't look at the guards, didn't slow his pace. He kept moving with that purposeful stride that dared anyone to stop him.
The palace halls were quiet, torchlight flickering along the walls, shadows chasing him as he passed. Servants ducked their heads when he walked by, too smart to ask questions, though he could feel the weight of their curiosity.
When he reached his chambers after midnight, the candles had burned low, their light throwing restless shadows along the walls. He should have tried to rest, but instead he found himself pacing, the pull of unanswered questions too strong to ignore.
Without bothering to change or even remove his cloak, he left again, his boots striking the floor in steady, echoing steps until he reached the audience hall. The big doors were already open. Voices drifted out—his father's among them.
Azrayel walked straight in, his boots loud against the marble floor, and conversations stopped mid-word.
"Leave us," he said. He stayed standing there for a moment, looking at his father intently where he still lay back on the bed.
The advisors knew better than to hesitate. They gathered their papers and left, the door thudding closed behind them.
He wanted to say their search was over, that he had found her, but the words stuck in his throat.
Instead, he said, "I need to ask you about… the pull. Between mates."
The king's whole expression shifted, the sternness cracking into a rare smile. "Have you found yours?" His voice carried an edge of hope Azrayel hadn't heard in years. "If so, Katarthan will finally have stability."
"No." The word came out too quick, too hard, as if he needed to shut that idea down before it could breathe.
His father looked at him intently and said, "So, what about it?"
Azrayel stepped closer, then sank into the chair beside his father's bed.
"I want to know more," he said, keeping his tone even, though inside his thoughts ran sharper. In his mind, the real question burned—I need to know if this pull I feel is the bond… or something else entirely.
His father leaned back, eyes going distant. "The bond is… different from anything else. When I met your mother, I knew instantly. It was like something invisible tied us together, something that would always pull us back to each other. It's more than desire, more than reason. It changes you."
He smiled faintly, caught in memory. "Your mother was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And the bond made that beauty endless."
Azrayel's voice cut in, sharp. "Then how could you still long for her, even after—" He stopped himself.
The king's eyes darkened. "…It was my fault. I chose the kingdom before her."
The silence that followed felt thick enough to choke on. His father's gaze sharpened.
"Is it that girl?" The question stopped Azrayel's heart, a burst of pain shooting through him. He wanted to say yes, to let the truth spill out, but his mouth refused.
Without answering, he turned on his heel and walked out.
He headed down into the lower halls, past guarded doors and narrow stairways until the air cooled and the light dimmed.
He went to the nest, descending deeper into the palace's archive of dragon-born history. The chamber glowed faintly with a blue, iridescent light that seemed to seep from the very stone, casting a soft, otherworldly shimmer across the room.
Shelves sagged under the weight of scrolls and books that smelled of dust and age, their spines catching the blue sheen as if touched by magic.
He flipped through brittle parchment, careful not to tear it, eyes scanning line after line. He wanted proof—anything—of a sibling pair ever being mates.
Maybe it was impossible. Or maybe someone had erased every trace, burying it so deep that no one could prove it had ever happened.
Leaning back, he stared at the lamplight on the table.
If there was no record, then what was this thing he felt? Was it the bond, or was it just the raw, unshakable instinct of being near another of his kind? Could he even tell her to forget they were siblings? Could he forget himself?
The thought slammed into a wall in his mind and broke apart. She was his sister. That wouldn't change.
The weight of it settled in his chest. He shut the book hard, dust rising into the light.
The kingdom was in a shaky spot.
The king was sick, and Azrayel hadn't matured enough to take over as regent or king.
For years, the court had been pushing to bring Metheea back—not just to take her away from Dythrid, where she'd been held like a hostage, but because even after growing up there, she was still dragon-born.
That alone made her a source of power for Katarthan.
But it also made things dangerous.
She had her own claim to the throne, and that could split the kingdom in half.
The court wanted her and feared her at the same time, knowing her return could either strengthen the realm or tear it apart.
And now here she was—within reach, his reach—and he wanted her by his side.
His chest ached.
Even if it could only ever be as his sister.