Hundreds of light-years away, far removed from the prying eyes of the Irvanian empire, the ring of Hal'urkata - the sacred rostrum, slowly rose from the dark, viscous pool as the deep, sonorous hum of religious chanting echoed through the dark cavern.

On the platform stood the six members of the royal family - the most powerful people in the fledgling kingdom of Kaiyaath. As the last drops of the dark ichor dripped back into the pool, the hymn reached its crescendo.

Once the last dong of the traditional rejuvenation ceremony sounded, Sultan Dakhir Za'Drakh opened his luminous violet eyes and, unfurling his large translucent wings, unsheathed his ceremonial daggers. The rest of his family - his wife, brother and children—followed after him, and the dance began.

Their daggers whirled through the night in a perfectly synchronized orchestration. As the silent crowd watched, the fast-paced, fluid series of movements intended to mirror the ceaseless flow of the sacred waters got progressively faster and faster. The family moved in perfect harmony, their swords interweaving and parting like the currents of a rushing river.

Numaish-e-khanjar, the dance of the blade whisperers, had its ceremonial significance, but it was also unquestionably a show of strength. Performing the complete orchestration was impossible for any ordinary Kaiyaathian. It was the wyrmblood inherited by the royals that enabled them to orchestrate this mesmerizing display of artistry and power.

As the spell-bound audience watched, the representatives of Madhab Al'Fahyat - the protectors of the one true faith, lit the sacred thuribles. As the deeply scented charcoal ignited, the swirling smoke, accompanied by the symphony of rich, heady scents, unfurled from the censers, weaving their way outwards, eventually enveloping the dancers completely. The blades too ignited, glowing red in the dark.

Soon, only a whir of red and violet could be seen through the hypnotic tapestry of fumes. They looked like fiery, mythical monsters battling in the clouds. Time stood still as the quinquennial ceremony approached its conclusion.

The dancers slowed their movements as the smoke dispersed, and by the time the last wafts had fled, the entire cavern was absolutely still. The audience realized that something was different this time.

Traditionally, the ending poses of the performers in the final stance were expected to be in the order of their position in the hierarchy. But now, alongside the Sultan, Shehzada Rah'draakh, the first prince, too, stayed standing at the center, their wings fully unfolded. Shehzadi Reina'Dras and Queen Ferha'Dras had stepped back and now stood with a bent knee and their daggers horizontal. The others were further along the edges and stood on their knees with their hands on the hilt of their daggers thrust into the ground.

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The concluding stance was an unmistakable statement to all of Kaiyaath. Sultan Dakhir was formally declaring his son, Rah'draakh - as the new crown prince.

This transition had been in the works for decades.

In the next iteration of Harlae-utafa—the ceremony of rejuvenation—the sultan would not be taking part. He had stood strong for the past two hundred years, but his role as the custodian of Kaiyaath was coming to an end now. The wyrmblood in his veins was now running too thin.

If he pushed it further, he would be opening up his family line to unwarranted risk. Challengers were already questioning his ability to rule in secret. If anyone dared to openly challenge him now, he would almost certainly be able to crush them in combat. But what about a decade or two later? He could not have postponed this further.

As the circle of Madhab priests finished their final prayers to Al'Fardin - the one true God, the family parted, and the Sultan made his final announcement to Kaiyaath.

Rah'draakh was chosen - the future. The wyrmblood was strong in his veins. And he had proven himself in so many battles that nobody could question his prowess in combat. Among his peers, he had gained the title of khauf-e-nigayaf, the terror of the night skies.

A challenge was issued, and nobody among the thousands of Kaiyaathians who had flown in from all corners of their home world found in themselves the courage to raise their blades against the renowned prince.

Once the custodians of the religion blessed the crown prince and his sacred position, the subjects raised their ceremonial blades and began to cheer for the Khauf-e-nigayaf. The prince's name and his title echoed through the night sky as the crowd acclaimed their future ruler. But somewhere among those cheers, the Sultan heard an old phrase that he had never expected to hear again in his life. "Al-Waharas Wthaark" - the wyrm walks again.

Hours later, once the ceremony was concluded and the guests had gone, the sultan visited the Madhab Al'Pasha, the Madhab supreme and asked him about it.

"While you were immersed in the wyrmblood, we intercepted a message through the Farthaark." the old priest replied.

"A message, " the sultan's brow furrowed, "who was it from?"

The Farthaark was an ancient communication network built by an elder race who had perished a long time ago. The network was the only one of their innovations that had survived. It connected numerous worlds through an esoteric mechanism of subspace communication. The network offered neither speed nor convenience - but it did offer privacy from the eyes of the Irvanian Protectorate.

"We could not trace the origin. But the message was widely broadcasted." The priest leaned on his staff.

"And people assumed that the message was in celebration of the crown prince's officiation," The sultan pondered.

"Of course, what else could it be." The priest looked surprised.

The sultan summoned his personal navigator, "Prepare for a trip to Hradikh L'mar."

"What? Why?" The old world hadn't been visited in hundreds of years.

"The scribe needs to be woken."

The navigator was dumbfounded. "But why? This will likely be the last time we'd be able to wake him. Shouldn't we defer until some dire crisis is upon us?"

Dakhir felt his anger surge. "Are you questioning my decision?"

"No, not at all my Sultan." The navigator bowed out.