The festivities lasted only a day in the city, then most of the imperial troops marched on to the estates of their lord houses, where celebrations would continue.

Keivan’s cousins and uncles all led companies the same as Urla, and all their troops made their livelihoods on Keivan Pelasius’s lands—a two day journey from the capital across the southern plains of Attica Proper. It was not until moments before dinner on the first night, that Urla finally found her son.

In truth, after seeing his face during the Victor’s March, she’d needed the time to prepare herself, and in all the festivities and marching, there had been little privacy.

Expression stoic as ever, young Ruan greeted Urla with a salute, for they were surrounded by a bustling mass of soldiers and servants, unloading gear, setting up camp, ferrying messages.

“Join me for wine before dinner?” Urla asked, motioning toward the enormous tent that had been erected. Two dozen poles of socha and thick furls of Kirithian cloth would provide her more space than she’d had in months, though she longed for the vast halls of home.

Ruan hesitated, but caught himself. “Of course, Lady Captain.”

So formal. Gods, he was only a boy when we left, Urla thought. He still addressed me as mother. Now, he’s a man grown. Eighteen.

Urla gestured to the tent entrance, and he followed her inside.

A flurry of servants engulfed them both. Once Urla had fielded questions from Pisarre, the chief of their family’s staff, about dinner and preparations for the larger festivities when they reached the Sapphire Tower of Castle Pesasius.

As she spoke, Ruan stepped aside, and a pair of servants removed the leather fastenings on her steel cuirass and eased the runemarked armor off. After two years at the edge of the empire, and a three month campaign, it was a blessed relief. Today had demanded only ceremonial garb, so the process was quicker than battle armor. Urla wore only a cream-colored tunic beneath, which was drenched with sweat from riding in the early autumn sun.

Ruan turned his back as the female servants stripped her and dabbed her naked body with damp cloths and perfumes before dressing her in a sleeveless violet gown made of Kirithian silk. Urla was rarely one for excess, and the entire process was finished in only a few minutes.

When she turned, Ruan remained in his formal academy uniform, a tight fitting crimson tunic beneath standard leathern armor, with bronze fastenings, and pauldrons decorated with a small bronze dragon head on each shoulder. A blue sash for his father’s house—now, his house—was draped over his chest. And a bronze and leather belt with a gladius sheathed at his hip.

All just like her husband had worn in his own academy days.

So regal. So…

Under normal circumstances, mother and son might have taken their wine at the edge of the camp and watched the sunset, but tonight, much as Urla was tired of the walls of tents, it would be improper to speak in public, considering what they must discuss.

Chairs were brought to the center of her tent, wine was poured into bronze chalices, and then, at last, they were alone.

Ruan stood beside his chair, waiting for her to be seated first, but Urla merely gazed at her son, looking him up and down, truly, for the first time in two years.

His dark hair was tied back now. Specks of stubble showed on his upper lip. His brown eyes were full of secrets. It was a Fjuriin tenet to remain composed, to master one’s passions. To accept fate, and remain committed to one’s path. But it was necessary to be true amongst a devoted few. This was the traditional role of Attican mothers since the Golden Age, even Lady Captains.

Urla had been her son’s confidante once. But now… she could sense the walls he’d built up during his time at the academy.

“There’s no need to say I’ve grown,” Ruan said plainly. “I already know full well.”

Urla smirked, and Ruan let the crease of a smile slip at the edges of his mouth.

“Ah, there it is,” she said, and his smile grew. “Yes, even soldiers are allowed a grin from time to time. Now, are you too old to embrace your mother?”

Ruan hesitated, glancing around.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t—”

Before Urla could finish, Ruan crossed the space between them and pulled her tight. He was taller than her now. The top of her head only reached the base of his ear, and she was tall for an Attican woman.

Gods, he must have grown half a foot these past two years.

Ruan clutched her back, a slight tremble in his fingers. She kissed him briefly on the cheek and pulled back. She’d ordered the servants not to disturb them, but she knew he was on edge about appearances, having just become a proper Fjuriin man.

“When did you hear?” she whispered, taking her seat.

“Cedro, another boy at the academy, he lost his father in the same battle. The messenger talked about a dragonfall. I knew it was Voltari from description alone. I told no one, though.”

Urla took a long drink from her chalice, draining the cup. Blessedly, the servants had left a carafe, and she refilled it. The warmth in her stomach dulled the tide of grief that threatened to swell up in her. “I hoped to be the one to break the news.”

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Ruan sat straight and rigid in his chair. “Truth be told, I’m glad for the time to mourn on my own. Or today’s Victor’s March might have been far less sweet.”

Urla nodded. She’d wanted to be the one to comfort him, but perhaps she’d needed him more than he’d needed her. “Only one dragon fell. Who was this Cedro’s father?”

“A low lord from the isles. Lucian Varro. His son is one my bunkmates at Dawncrest.”

Urla cursed to herself. The Varros were barely lords at all. In her own youth, before the Good Emperor Vitruvian’s reign, such a lord would never have bunked with a Pelasius. And she might have still broken the news herself. But then, before Vitruvian, she might never have married a Dragonmount either.

Ruan remained composed, though she noted how he bit the inside of his lower lip in the interim.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

He sighed. “I’ve had three weeks to consider all this means.”

“You’re Lord Pelasius now.”

“Not just that.”

Urla shuddered to mention it. Suddenly fearing it was all wishful thinking. What if Campos was wrong? What if he couldn’t do what he said he might?

But the arrangements were already made, and if there was even the slightest chance Ruan might still become Dragonmount, she had to take it.

“We’re dining with the Consul General tonight,” she said.

Ruan frowned. “Tonight of all nights should be a family dinner. Uncle Adrius has an elaborate feast prepared.”

Urla nodded. “Campos is like a father to me, Ruan. He is one of the highest lords in the land.”

“He doesn’t even have a dragon.”

“By choice. He serves on Athanasius’s council, just as his father served Vitruvian and Erastlan before him. We should be honored to dine with him.”

Ruan straightened at her words and nodded, but his voice remained rigid. “Of course, mother.”

“He has an invitation that I think will be of great interest to you.”

***

Ruan’s eyes went wide, the corners on the verge of tearing up at Campos’s words. “You’re serious, Consul General? Mother, surely this is a joke.”

Urla’s stomach churned, desperately hoping the same. They sat at the head of Campos’s table, the customary honor usually reserved for members of a lord’s own bloodline, though Campos had no wife or children. A few nieces and nephews had joined them during the meal, but left to join their own families as soon as the meal was done. Servants cleaned up the long wooden tables, while the three of them spoke softly.

“No joke, Ruan,” Campos said. “I would never trivialize something so sacred as a dragonbond.”

“But my father was the first Pelasius to become Dragonmount. The chances of another lottery are abysmally low.”

“Your father was one of the first to win a bond under Vitruvian’s rule. But there are ways.”

“I’ll be middle of the line at best for a chance to bond,” Ruan said.

“You’re right. If you wait until the lottery, you will be middle line at best. Each egg will have a chance to be bonded with half a hundred lordlings before it might reach you. Impossible? Who can say? Dragonbonds are a mystery. I’ve seen two fall to the same house in the same year, by chance. There are many houses, even great ones, who’ve yet to form a bond. But your blood runs deep, long before the Dragon Lords. There were Pelasius riders during Aron the Conqueror’s reign.”

“I don’t understand.”

Urla briefly brushed his shoulder. “Speak plainly, General. For my father’s sake.”

A handsome servant with fair Valucian skin refilled their glasses. He wore a maroon vest and tight brown breeches, and had seen twenty summers at best. Campos pulled him close and whispered something in his ear, then winked and waved the young man away. “Thank you, Baro.”

The servant barked an order in Valucian, and the other servants quickly left the room. In the distance, Urla heard the strumming of lyres and the beat of dancing drums. She recognized it as an old melody dating back just after the Crossing, in the lively style of the Old Continent.

Baro stood at the entrance to the tent, arms crossed. Urla thought she had seen him before, though Campos had kept other young men close as long as she’d known him. Clearly, Baro was special, to be so trusted.

When it was clear their conversation was private, Campos spoke.

“Since your father married your mother, I’ve often teased her about finding out the origins of dragon eggs.”

“It’s knowledge entrusted only to the Emperor, and the old Dragon Lords,” said Ruan.

“You’re right, but also to others who’ve no stake in the matter.”

“What do you mean?” Urla asked. “You’ve always known? You’ve been pestering me since I married Keivan.”

Campos chuckled and shrugged. “Guilty. I was curious how much is known by families such as yours. Ancient lineage and such. Though, in truth, knowing you, you’d not have let on to a fool like me, even if you’d known.”

Urla fought a smile.

“So, you know where the eggs actually come from?” Ruan asked.

“I’ve been entrusted with delivering them for the lottery for the past several years. But this year, our gracious Emperor has requested I bring more… assurances. Ruan, I’d like you and your mother to join me in safely delivering the eggs from their present hiding place. In the process, you’ll be the first potential mount to come in contact with this year’s selection. And should you so happen to bond with one of them before the lottery, well, what’s done would be done, wouldn’t it?”

“There’s no breaking a bond,” Ruan said, eyes alight. “Only death.”

“That’s right,” said Campos.

“When do we set sail?” Urla asked.

“Tonight.”

“Before the celebrations?” Urla asked.

“It’ll be a week of preparations. You’ll slip away, to mourn your husband’s death in private. We’ll be back before First Feast.”

“Wait, there and back in less than a week,” said Ruan. “Where are we sailing?”

Campos grinned. “Ah, well, we won’t be traveling by ship. At least most of the way.”

“What?” said Urla.

“I told you, there was someone I wanted you to meet,” said Campos, his grin growing wide and mischievous.

“Out with it, General,” Urla said. “Er, with respect.”

“Ha! Yes, I enjoy the game a bit too much, I know. But can you really fault a man for enjoying himself? Baro, bring in our guest, would you?”

The Valucian man nodded, and slipped past the entrance into another part of the tent. He emerged moments later, bowed to the general, and then spoke, “I present Lady Knight Meripha Salyr.”

An immense woman with dark brown skin strode into the room, bedecked in runemarked armor even finer than Urla’s own. Each plate shimmering like polished silver. The shield of her helmet remained closed, but her dark eyes shone. Dark hair flowed from behind the helmet in several tight braids.

Despite the thick armor, her movements were silent and lithe, an impossibility made possible only through magic.

Ruan’s mouth gaped. He glanced from his mother to General Campos to the knight. “A Knight of Caadron?”

Besides the alchemists, the knights were the only other order entrusted with the ways of magic in the empire. This woman was one seven who walked the Path of the Gods.

The Lady Knight stopped in front of them and dipped her head in reverence. “You summoned, Lord General?”

“Take us to the palace,” he said.

“Of course, Consul General,” she said, inflection-less.

The Lady Knight drew an enormous broadsword from her back, the long blade shimmering with ethereal radiance. An emerald gemstone glowed in the pommel.

Urla had never seen a godblade this close. The gem shone with a ferocious luminescence as the Lady Knight swung the blade in a swift arc, forming a shimmering ring of light. Mists plumed around her, as though she’d just plunged a forged blade in water.

When the mists settled, the ring of light remained, and within it was what Urla could only describe as a window in the air itself. All around was Lord General Campos’s tent, but within the ring of light, was an immaculate palatial hall, lined with towering marble pillars, etched with gold filigree.

Urla’s breath caught.

“Who are we going to meet?”

Campos shrugged. “We mustn’t keep the Dragon Emperor waiting.”