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Time flows like a river, yet some moments stand outside its current, eternal and unchanging as the stars themselves. In the ancient texts of the dragon priests, it is written that when two souls are destined to unite, they have already been one in countless lives before. The binding ceremony merely awakens what has always been: a recognition of souls that have danced together since the first flames of creation.

The sacred grove of Zerath'um existed in that liminal space where time held no dominion. Here, beneath the watchful gaze of ancient dragon statues, past and future merged like tributaries into a great river. Incense smoke coiled through shafts of amber light, carrying the sharp bite of dragon's blood sage and the sweetness of mountain crown flowers – scents that spoke of both death and rebirth, endings and beginnings intertwined.

Seven pools of sacred water encircled the central altar, their surfaces dark as night yet gleaming with inner fire. Ancient runes carved into the stone path between them pulsed faintly with each step taken near them, speaking of bonds forged before time had a name.

The priest's voice carried the weight of ages as he addressed those gathered: "Before time was measured, before dragons taught mortals the secret of fire, there was the eternal dance of souls. We are not here today to create a bond, but to acknowledge what has always been. In the great wheel of existence, these two souls have found each other again, as they have countless times before and will countless times hence."

Einar stood beside Valeria, his wings, dark as the space between stars save for their ember-red edges, shifted slightly as the priest's words resonated with something deep within his soul. Beside him, Valeria's presence was like dawn breaking after the longest night – her golden horns catching the light that filtered through ancient boughs, her wings radiating a warmth that seemed to touch not just his skin but his very essence.

The silver-scaled priest raised his hands, his voice carrying the weight of mountains: "Seven are the sacred steps in the ancient tradition, seven the breaths that join two souls into one flame. Each step marks a truth, a promise, a recognition of the divine dance in which all souls participate." His robes, encrusted with freely given scales from each great clan, caught the light like captured stars.

As he spoke, golden light began to spiral around Valeria and Einar, ancient runes flickering in the air between them. The dragon statues' eyes gleamed with inner fire, as if the ancient ones themselves were bearing witness to this eternal moment.

"Who stands to witness this truth?" the priest intoned.

A voice rose, deep and commanding. "Aetherion Clan bears witness," declared a man with hair like molten gold. His eyes, piercing and cold, carried the weight of a dragon’s endless life. He stepped forward, every movement regal, his aura humming with barely restrained power.

Another voice followed, darker and fiercer. "Emberheart Clan bears witness," said a man with flames licking at his heels. His crimson eyes burned with intensity, mirroring the same fire that danced in Einar’s soul.

Between them stood the silver-haired girl, her red eyes holding secrets that seemed to pierce through time itself. Something in her gaze when it fell on Einar spoke of knowledge best left unspoken, of paths walked in shadow and pain.

Valeria's wing brushed against Einar's, sending ripples through the flames surrounding them. Through that simple contact, he felt what the ancient texts spoke of—the recognition of something eternal, a completion that transcended mere physical form.

"Your essence," the priest commanded, "show us the truth that your souls already know."

Both closed their eyes, calling forth their magical essence. The air grew heavy with power as their cores manifested – Valeria's a sphere of golden light shot through with silver threads, pulsing with the rhythm of creation itself; Einar's a deep purple verging on black, veined with crimson like the first light of dawn breaking through eternal night.

The priest began to chant in the ancient tongue, words that spoke of the flames of creation and of the eternal cycle of soul union. As he chanted, the cores within us began to move, drawn together by forces beyond understanding.

Where the cores touched, reality itself seemed to blur. Light and shadow danced, merged, separated, and merged again in an eternal dance that mirrored the cosmic play of creation. Those watching felt the weight of something ancient and profound, a truth too vast for words.

The priest lifted the ceremonial chalice, its surface alive with dancing runes. "Begin the vher'khai."

Hand in hand, they approached the first pool. Its water gleamed golden as they stepped into its shallow depth, their feet leaving ripples that sparked with inner light.

"Har’khai un’dar," the priest said, his voice low and reverent. "For the nourishment of spirit and flame."

Each pool they entered carried its own truth, its own blessing. Silver for strength. Blue for preservation. Red for protection. With each step, the air thickened, the runes glowing brighter. By the time they reached the final pool, the weight of the ritual pressed against Einar’s chest like a shield in battle.

The final pool was dark as night, its surface reflecting stars that didn’t exist in the sky above.

"Zher’kai vhan’lar," the priest intoned. "For eternal companionship through all lives."

As they stood in the final pool, the priest dipped his fingers into the ancient chalice. The sacred water glowed as he traced the three-fold sigil of eternity on their foreheads – vher'khai shan'dar, the mark of the Drakons.

"Speak your vows in the tongue of flames," he commanded.

Valeria turned to face Einar fully, her wings catching the light. "Har'kai ren'sol vhen'dar," she spoke in the dragon tongue, "I vow to stand beside you. Your equal in battle. Your heart in peace. In this life and the next, I am yours."

Einar responded in the same ancient language, "Shar'kai than'sol zher'dar" – "I vow to protect you. In every storm, in every fire, I will be your sword, your shield, your home. No matter what comes, I will not let you stand alone."

Stolen story; please report.

The silver-haired girl stepped forward then, her movements too fluid to be entirely human. She offered them a box carved from wood that seemed to drink in light, adorned with dragons in eternal flight. "A gift from your brother," she said, her voice carrying echoes of other times, other promises, "for the path ahead." Her eyes met Einar's for a moment, holding the knowledge of paths once walked together, now forever changed.

The priest raised his hands one final time: "Vher'khai shan'dar sol'ren" – "By the eternal flames of Zerath'um, by the ancient bond between pure-blooded dragons, your fates are now one. May the divine wings shelter your path."

Valeria leaned forward, her lips brushing his. The touch was soft and tender yet charged with magic that sank deep into his soul. Their bond solidified, not just in the eyes of those gathered but in the very fabric of existence.

When the kiss ended, Einar whispered, "In this life, and the next."

The silver-haired girl watched from the shadows as they turned to face their witnesses, her form seeming to flicker between moments in time. Her whispered words carried to them on a breath of wind: "Vher'kai than'sol”

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The room was cloaked in darkness, the faint glow from the rain-speckled windows casting eerie shapes on the walls. Thunder rolled across the sky, its tremor reaching through the walls, deep and insistent. Einar lay pale and still on the bed, his chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. Lyna sat beside him, her fingers wrapped tightly around his hand, her own grip warm and slick with sweat, yet she clung as if his very life depended on it.

A jagged flash of lightning lit the room briefly, casting her shadow long and stark across the wall. She glanced at the window, where a loose piece of wood kept it open just a crack, allowing the storm’s humid chill to creep into the room. Outside, the sky was heavy with clouds that churned with an unnatural menace, glinting with lightning that seemed to ripple with purpose.

Her fingers tightened around Einar’s hand. A thought slipped from her lips, quiet and bitter: “Is this… is this the seal’s doing?”

The sigil on Einar’s forehead glowed faintly, its three twisted strands forming an ancient mark she didn’t recognize. The sight of it twisted something deep inside her—a feeling that clawed and scraped. She had seen much in her life, but this was different.

The creak of footsteps approaching the door broke her trance. She wiped her damp eyes hastily, reaching for a cloth to dab Einar’s brow just as the door opened, and Alira and Eliza stepped into the room, their faces pale with worry.

Alira’s voice was a murmur, careful but firm. “Ma, you need rest. You’re exhausted.”

Eliza, carrying a small wooden bowl, moved forward, its contents sending a pungent herbal smell curling through the air. “Here, Aunt,” she said, handing it over. “This will help, herbs and mushrooms for strength.”

Lyna forced a tired smile, raising the bowl to her lips. She took a sip, immediately grimacing as the bitter taste coated her tongue. “Ugh,” she muttered, giving a weak laugh. “Medicinal brews are one thing I’ll never get used to.”

Alira and Eliza exchanged a brief, knowing smile. But the quiet moment was short-lived as another lightning bolt split the sky outside, its flash filling the room. Eliza’s gaze lingered on the window.

“The rain hasn’t stopped for two days,” she murmured, watching the storm with wary eyes. “This is… different. It’s like the storm itself is waiting.”

Lyna’s spoon hovered mid-air, her expression distant. “They’ll start whispering again,” she muttered, voice laced with a hint of bitterness. “Sorcery. Curses.”

Eliza scoffed softly, keeping her voice low. “Not just the villagers, Aunt. If the city saw this, they’d call it dark magic. They’d send someone to look into it.” Her gaze dropped to the floor. “People fear what they can’t understand.”

For a moment, the room was silent save for the soft scrape of Lyna’s spoon against the bowl, and the constant patter of rain against the windows. The quiet stretched, tension thrumming in the air.

Alira broke the silence, her voice tentative. “How’s he?” she asked, nodding toward Einar.

Lyna exhaled, her tone bleak. “The same.”

Alira’s brow furrowed. “What kind of magic could… could keep him like this? And sealed magic, no less.”

Eliza’s brows knitted, her fingers gripping her shawl. Lyna met her gaze, her expression hardening. “Eliza… you understand that no one must know of this. No one.”

Eliza swallowed, her expression sober. “Not a word. I swear it.”

Lyna’s gaze shifted to Alira, who nodded solemnly. “I understand,” she murmured, her eyes drifting back to her brother.

The silence fell again, heavy as stone, and Lyna set down her empty bowl, gathering her thoughts. “Magic isn’t simple,” she began quietly, her gaze focused on a point far beyond the walls. “In this world, some creatures wield high magic: the elves. Others, like the dwarves, possess magic in its most grounded form. Humans are balanced between the two, bound to bloodlines and talent… yet there are some, born with magic so strong it defies nature. A rarity.”

Eliza’s expression changed, a glint of realization in her eyes. “I’ve read about that,” she said, her voice subdued. “The Chronicles of Legends mentioned of pure magic, flowing in bloodlines, before…”

Alira leaned in, her curiosity piqued. “Before what?”

Lyna’s voice dropped, her words slow and careful. “Before the dragons vanished from this world. With them went much of what we called the old magic.”

Alira’s brow creased in confusion. “Dragons… but I thought they were just stories. Legends.”

Lyna shook her head, her gaze thoughtful. “No, Sweetheart. They were real. Powerful creatures, yes. But they were brought here by beings far older.”

Eliza looked back at Lyna, her eyes searching. “But, Aunt… how do you know this? There are no records of beings older than dragons. Not in the Old Archives of Thresha. How can you be so sure?”

Lyna’s eyes drifted to the window, her gaze distant, locked on the storm-laden sky. Her lips moved slowly, uttering a word they didn’t understand, spoken as if from another tongue. “Dorzahk.”

The two girls exchanged glances, Eliza’s face paling. “W-what… what was that?”

Lyna’s gaze remained fixed as she pointed towards the sky, her voice quiet but firm. “Old magic.”

“Old… magic.” Eliza repeated the words as if they were something dangerous, foreign.

A tense silence followed, pressing down on them. Lyna set the empty bowl aside and reached for Einar’s brow, her touch gentle. Alira leaned closer, her eyes wide, her voice trembling as she asked, “Why hasn’t he woken?”

Lyna moved, revealing the faint sigil on his forehead—a strange, twisted mark glowing softly. Alira gasped, a hand flying to her mouth.

“What… what is that?” Alira whispered.

Lyna studied the mark, brow furrowed. “I don’t know.” Her voice was low, carrying the weight of her fear. “But he will be safe,” she added, as if willing it to be true.

Eliza watched her intently, doubt plain in her face. “How can you be sure?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lyna looked at them both, her eyes calm, resolute. “You wanted to know what sort of magic does this?” she asked, voice steady as stone.

The two nodded, captivated.

“The purest magic there is.”

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