The Royal Archives were a labyrinth of knowledge that spanned centuries. Most of the Imperial family treated the library as a tomb—a place for dead words and forgotten treaties. For Livius, it was a sanctuary. It was the only place in the world where he could breathe without feeling the weight of the palace walls closing in.
Deep within the stacks, where the air was thick with the scent of vanilla and decay, sat Vaelin. The old man was in his late forties, but the terminal mana-wasting disease had aged him decades. His skin was grey, and his breath came in ragged, wet rattles. Vaelin was the Imperial Record Keeper, the man responsible for painting the portraits of the bloodline and documenting the history of the Dragon God's descendants.
"You're early, Livius," Vaelin coughed into a handkerchief spotted with blood. He didn't look up from the canvas he was working on. "The Third Prince was in the training grounds again. I thought you'd be watching the carnage."
"Kaelen is a beast in human skin," Livius replied, sliding onto a stool beside the old man. "Watching him swing a sword offers no tactical advantage I haven't already recorded. He relies on brute draconic strength. He has no finesse."
Vaelin chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering on stone. "You speak like a general, not a boy of twelve. Most children your age are dreaming of dragons and glory."
"Glory is for those who wish to be noticed," Livius said, opening a heavy tome on ancient geography. "I prefer to be the one who notices."
Vaelin paused, his brush hovering over the canvas. He looked at Livius—really looked at him. He saw the sharp intelligence behind the boy's masked eyes, the way his hands never trembled, and the absolute stillness of his posture. Vaelin knew the truth. He had seen the Emperor's other children—the arrogant Alaric, the insane Kaelen, the manipulative Elowen. None of them carried the true weight of the Dragon God. Only this ghost in the library did.
Secretly, beneath his desk, Vaelin had begun a project that would be his final legacy. It was a portrait, painted with the finest oils mixed with mana-conductive pigments. It wasn't a portrait of a prince in finery, but of a boy in a shadow-cloak, his golden eyes burning with a cold, righteous fire.
"I won't be here much longer, Livius," Vaelin whispered, his voice trembling. "The records must be complete. Every branch of the tree must be accounted for, even the ones that grow in the dark."
Livius didn't answer. He simply turned the page of his book, his mind already memorizing the supply routes of the Western provinces. He didn't realize that in Vaelin's heart, the old man was already preparing the world for the return of its true king.