The success of the contract sent ripples of celebration not just through our domain, but throughout the entire kingdom. The future of House Wight, and by extension the security of the northern border of Aerthos, was assured for another generation. News of the powerful bonding spread like wildfire through the noble courts, carried by magical missives and eager couriers. And with that news came the inevitable, calculated political maneuvering.
Not a week had passed before a formal envoy was spotted on the horizon. The banner they carried was unmistakable, a stark and somber sigil against the bright blue sky a tower of polished obsidian against a field of midnight, crowned with a constellation of silver stars. House Black had come calling.
Duke Morpheus Black, the Black King himself, had requested an audience.
The throne room, usually a space of warm, sunlit grandeur with its high-arched windows and silver-and-blue Wight banners, was a study in controlled tension as the Black family made their entrance. The very air seemed to grow colder, the light dimmer, as if their presence drew the warmth from the stone itself.
Duke Morpheus Black was every bit as imposing as the legends claimed. He was tall and unnervingly gaunt, with a pale complexion that seemed untouched by the sun. His long, jet-black hair fell like a sheet of polished obsidian, and his eyes were dark voids that seemed to drink the light from the room, offering no reflection. His ornate black and silver robes flowed around him as if made of liquid shadow, the material seeming to shift and writhe in the corners of one's vision.
Beside him walked his wife, Duchess Lilith Black, a woman of cold, statuesque beauty. Her skin was like flawless porcelain, a stark contrast to her piercing crimson eyes that spoke of immense and dangerous power. She moved with a liquid grace, a silver serpent broach coiled at her throat, its ruby eyes seeming to watch the room with a predatory intelligence of their own.
But it was their daughter who immediately caught my attention. Nyxia Black, at eleven years old, already radiated an aura of bored superiority that would make most seasoned generals uncomfortable. She had inherited her father's jet-black hair and her mother's unsettling crimson eyes, and she carried herself with the unshakeable confidence of someone who had never been told 'no' in her entire life. Her dress was a masterpiece of black silk and silver embroidery, elegant but severe, a miniature version of the cold authority her parents projected.
After the stiff pleasantries and formal greetings were exchanged a verbal fencing match of titles and honorifics we retired to a more private solar. This room was my father's domain, a space of warm wood, leather-bound books, and strategic maps of the northern territories pinned to the walls. A fire crackled in the large stone hearth, but even its cheerful blaze seemed to struggle against the palpable chill the guests had brought with them.
The adults engaged in the delicate, deadly dance of noble politics. They spoke of trade agreements for magically infused ores, of disputed territorial boundaries along the Shadowfen Marches, and of the ever-present threat of dungeon breaks. And throughout it all, I could feel the unspoken purpose of their visit hanging in the air, a weight as heavy as a shroud.
"The kingdom has long hoped," Duke Morpheus said, his voice a hypnotic, resonant whisper that carried through the room without effort, "that our two great houses might one day unite. The combination of Wight martial strength and Black magical supremacy would create a truly formidable and stabilizing alliance for the throne."
My mother's serene smile never wavered, but I, watching from my high-backed, child-sized chair, caught the slight tightening around her eyes, the almost imperceptible stiffening of her spine. "The future holds many possibilities, Your Grace," she replied, her tone as smooth and pleasant as honey. "Though perhaps we should let the children grow and discover their own paths before we start planning their lives for them."
"Of course," Duchess Lilith interjected, her voice like silk over sharpened steel. "Though it would be remiss of us not to acknowledge that such a union would strengthen both of our ancient bloodlines considerably. A dragon's power paired with an archmage's potential… it is a legacy the kingdom deserves."
The subtext was as clear as glass. This wasn't a suggestion, it was a statement of intent. The kingdom didn't just hope for this marriage the most powerful political factions expected it. A union between the heir to the Azure Dragon King contract and the most magically gifted noble family in the land would create something approaching true royalty in a kingdom that had none. It was a power play, plain and simple.
During a lull in the adult conversation, as my father was explaining a detail on a map, Nyxia approached me. She moved with a predator's quiet grace, her crimson eyes filled with a dismissive curiosity as she looked down at me.
"So, you're the famous Wight Lion Cub," she said, her voice dripping with a carefully cultivated condescension. "They say you contracted with a Dragon King's heir. They say you're a genius who spoke at three." She looked me up and down, her lip curling with obvious disdain. "You don't look like much. You're just a baby."
She reached a hand out, her long, pale fingers aiming to pat my head as one would a common dog.
My pride a volatile fusion of a twenty-six-year-old's dignity, a ducal heir's inherited arrogance, and now, the nascent, fiery spirit of a dragon flared white-hot. My hand moved on pure, unadulterated instinct.
Pat.
My small, puffy baby hand made contact with her cheek. I had intended a sharp, defiant slap, a clear message to back off. The reality, however, was… comical. My hand, with its toddler-level muscle control and chubby padding, had all the impact of a fluffy marshmallow. The sound it made was not a smack, but a soft fwump, like a pillow being gently fluffed.
The room fell silent for a heartbeat. The tension didn't break, it just became profoundly confused. I saw one of our household knights, a grizzled veteran of a hundred battles, have to turn away, his shoulders shaking as he suppressed a laugh.
Nyxia froze, not in pain, but in sheer, mortified indignation. A faint pink blush, born of pure embarrassment rather than physical impact, began to creep up her pale skin. She looked utterly scandalized that a toddler had just… patted her.
"You…" she began, her voice rising in a squeak of outrage.
Before the situation could escalate into a full-blown tantrum, my mother glided forward, her smile as warm and disarming as a summer morning. She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, a subtle but firm anchor. "Oh, my dear Nyxia, please forgive him," she said, her voice dripping with honeyed charm that could soothe a raging manticore. "He is still just a child. I imagine he was simply curious about your flawless skin. He doesn't know any better."
The compliment, wrapped in a gentle admonishment of my "childish" behavior, was a masterstroke of diplomacy. It completely defused the situation. Nyxia, though still fuming with wounded pride, could hardly argue with a duchess praising her beauty. Duke Morpheus and Duchess Lilith exchanged a glance that suggested they were torn between amusement at the scene and exasperation at their daughter's easily bruised ego.
"Children will be children," Morpheus said, and I thought I saw the ghost of a smile touch his thin lips. "Perhaps this is merely the beginning of a… spirited relationship between our heirs."
The court would gossip for weeks afterward that it was the cute, fiery start of a legendary romance. What they didn't know, and what I knew with absolute certainty as I met Nyxia's blazing crimson glare, was that they couldn't have been more wrong.
It was the beginning of a rivalry that would define both our lives.