The garden still slept beneath the weight of night. Cold air lingered between the trees, carrying the shimmer of dew across trembling leaves.
On the stone platform, Noa stirred. His eyes cracked open—white irises circled by a thin crimson ring, a vertical black slit cutting through their centers. A dragon's mark, rare and unmistakable.
Silver hair spilled over his shoulders, framing the small, half-formed horns rising from his head. His clothing was simple yet noble: a black tunic, a patterned belt, and violet silk strands falling from his shoulders. Regal, but not ostentatious.
"You're awake, my son?"
The voice drifted to him like frost carried on a gentle wind. Noa raised his head. A woman stood nearby, snow-white hair cascading down her back, her face serene, her blue eyes like a calm winter sky.
"Mother…" His voice was low, almost hesitant. "Are you always here in the mornings?"
Sylvia knelt beside him, her lips curving into a tender smile.
"I come here to see you, Noa. Always."
Warmth spread through his chest, but the weight beneath it pressed harder. He lowered his gaze.
"…I still can't shift."
Sylvia's hand brushed his hair, gentle yet firm. "I know. It's not rare. Especially for those born in their Niva form."
Noa's jaw tightened. Niva—the humanoid shape of dragons. By ancient law, a child was born in the form their mother held during pregnancy. Many dragons now chose to live in their Niva state, and so children like him were born without awakening wings until much later.
But later had long passed. Others of his age had already taken flight. He had not even felt a shadow of wings.
"They've all changed," he muttered. "But me? Nothing."
Sylvia's arms wrapped around him, her voice firm and steady.
"You are not like them, Noa. Even if your form sleeps, your heart holds power. Be patient."
Her reassurance barely had time to settle before a voice shattered the air.
"Prince Noa! His Majesty calls for you—at once!"
A servant rushed into view and bowed.
Noa stood, tension rippling through him. He gave a small nod. "Thank you."
Turning back, his eyes lingered on his mother. "Will you wait for me?"
Sylvia's smile was soft, unwavering. "Of course, my son."
He left the garden. Along the stone path, other dragons glanced his way. Some whispered, others openly sneered. The elders with long white beards watched him with heavy, judging eyes.
Their stares dug into him, but Noa forced a faint smile. Beneath it, his chest tightened, his teeth pressing together until his jaw ached. Rumors had already spread—the prince who could not transform, the heir who might never awaken.
By the time the towering doors of the palace came into view, his heartbeat was pounding against his ribs.
The grand hall opened before him. He stepped inside, bowing low.
"Father."
The Dragon Emperor regarded him with a gaze that cut sharper than any blade. Neither warmth nor hatred rested there—only a cold unease.
"Why," the Emperor said at last, "have you still not shifted? You avoid training. You do not carry yourself like a prince."
Cold sweat slid down Noa's back. His throat tightened.
"Well?" The Emperor's voice rose. "Have you swallowed your tongue?"
Noa's hands curled into fists at his sides. His nails bit into his palms. He forced the words out.
"I'm doing everything I can, Father."
"Everything you can?" A harsh laugh shook the hall. "The only thing you've managed so far is breathing."
Noa's teeth ground together. Heat rose in his chest, sharp and bitter. "I… I'll train harder. I won't run anymore."
The Emperor's expression remained unreadable. "See that you do. Words are nothing to me now. You will face a trial."
Noa's head lifted. "A trial?"
"In the northern valley, a dark beast has awakened. At dawn, you will face it. Law is law: if the heir cannot prove himself, he is no heir at all."
A chill spread through Noa's veins. His stomach tightened. Yet he bowed his head.
"I understand, Father."
"Good. Leave me. The trial will draw out your blood—whether it flows strong, or not at all."
The words struck like iron. Noa turned sharply, fists clenched so hard his knuckles burned, and walked out.
From the shadows of the corridor, Sylvia watched. Her chest ached as her son's figure disappeared through the palace doors.
Noa… your blood is not ordinary. If this trial breaks you… No. I won't allow it. Your fate is greater than even your father knows. And it will change the empire itself.