From the main pavilion of the palace, the Patriarch kept an eye on his Clan. The wind blowing in from the mountains was gentle, though cold, and carried with it the roaring of his dragonkin. Down in the valley, lining the mountains, were palaces that stretched for countless miles, crawling up the cliffs that formed the valley walls. The valley floor, meanwhile, was left wild, allowed to grow as it would. The palaces along the valley walls were connected by dozens of glittering bands of golden Lumenite. Arks hovered overhead, though at a distance great enough to not interfere with observation of the false sky in the Nexus.

The pavilion itself was simple, though made from the richest materials. The floor was glittering obsidian while the pillars and roof were both made from ebony. Both materials came from volcanos located not too far away and bore with them tremendous capacity for fire magic. Were it anyone else standing on the floor of the pavilion, they would be incinerated in a heartbeat.

From there, the Patriarch could see the comings and goings of the whole valley, from the closest to the most distant, dozens of miles away. His Clan wasn’t that large in the grand scheme of things, but their power was unquestionable.

Behind him stood his palace, which dwarfed all those in the valley. It stretched up the mountains in tiers, each one grander and more majestic than the last. Crowning the palace were statues of dragons carved from onyx, their eyes glittering with perfectly cut and polished topazes.

Though the Patriarch enjoyed seeing the splendor of his Clan with his own eyes, from the way that black fire constantly burned in the valley to the line of arks waiting to land in the one place outsiders were allowed to dirty with their presence, he didn’t have as much time as he would’ve preferred this day. Once he’d allowed himself to indulge as much as he had time for, he turned and strode purposefully back into the main palace.

The Patriarch himself was a tall and broad man, with incredibly defined musculature. He was classically handsome, though with long black hair tamed only by several bands made from dragon turtle sinew that held it in as tight of a ponytail as his hair permitted. His eyes gleamed bright gold, while the olive skin of his face bore several large black scales stretching from his orbitals to his temples.

He was dressed as all those in his position ought to be, in loose charcoal-colored robes woven from mountain flax grown in the shadow of Memnon’s Wrath, the largest, most powerful, and most violent volcano his Clan controlled. The power that volcano exuded inundated the flax, making for an unparalleled material for both leisure and practical clothing. Embroidered in deep black upon every available surface of his robes were black dragons, with yellow diamonds for eyes.

As he walked, the Patriarch was joined by the several dozen members of his Clan’s most elite force who were assigned to his bodyguard detail. They’d been waiting just off the pavilion in the light of the universe’s Origin Spark at the heart of the Nexus.

With this guard detail, the Patriarch entered the first of many great halls. The ceiling was two hundred feet tall, borne by statues carved in the likeness of dragons. Hundreds of people scurried about through the hall as they ran from one place in the palace to another, while hundreds more waited for something. Those left waiting could be easily distinguished by the escort of powerful Clan guards who followed them around.

Not that the guards were needed, the Patriarch figured. Only the most trusted of their friends and allies—and neither were particularly numerous—were allowed so far into his Clan’s home.

Still, he hardly gave them so much as a glance despite attracting the attention of every person in the hall upon his entrance. The people were only shocked back into motion when the roar of a dragon echoed throughout the hall. The Patriarch, recognizing the roar, halted a moment.

A large black dragon came flying in through one of the hall’s massive windows. He was enormous, with one pair of wings, four limbs, and a vicious snout filled with many, many teeth. His scales glistened in the bright lights of the hall for only a moment before his body bent and shrank. A few seconds later, a man had replaced the dragon; tall and swarthy, with a more aggressive, angular look about him. He wore only a sash made of mountain flax that eschewed the stylistic trappings the Patriarch’s possessed, leaving most of his legs and his entire well-built upper body bare.

The man took a moment to get his bearings before hurrying toward the Patriarch. Despite his dramatic arrival, the Patriarch’s guards didn’t move an inch to interpose themselves between the dragon and their charge. The reason why became apparent a moment later when the Patriarch held out his hand, and the approaching dragon-in-human-form took strongly took it. The two men embraced each other with as much warmth as either was willing to display in public.

“What news?” the Patriarch asked.

“Sylvain has arrived,” the dragon informed him. “Bennu-of-the-Flaming-Wind has arrived, too.”

The Patriarch’s expression darkened, and it was hardly that bright to begin with. “They can wait,” he said.

“Bennu, I understand,” the dragon said, “but why Sylvain?”

Despite being questioned, the Patriarch felt no anger. “Do you remember what day it is, old friend? What is the one reason why I would leave our kin in the Great White Dragon Clan waiting?”

The dragon’s expression was thoughtful for long seconds before realization dawned. He said nothing more, but a tentative glance upward showed that he fully understood. With a bow, he said, “I will convey your regrets for delaying your meeting, and your wish for them to get comfortable.”

“Do that,” the Patriarch ordered. The dragon almost turned around before the Patriarch added, “Let Bennu wait a while longer, but delay not in wishing Sylvain well.”

The dragon bowed again and departed.

With that, the Patriarch subtly took a deep breath and continued his walk through the great hall. He had to control himself the closer he got to his destination; he’d plunged headfirst into countless battles, spilled no small amount of blood, and acquired power that a bare handful in the universe ever tasted. He’d not achieved all that he had by hiding his thoughts and feelings from his people, but the last thing he wanted them to see was his growing anger as he moved through the halls and terraces of his palace toward the apartments assigned to house his family.

The closer he came to his destination, the less he noticed those around him, and even less did he allow himself to be distracted from his task by admiring the work of generations of the finest artisans and architects in the Nexus. Neither gold nor onyx nor obsidian caught his eye by the time he reached the highest reaches of the palace. The halls here were small, though no less grand than those below. They were simply residential rather than administrative, and so required less space.

As he entered this residential part of his palace, he noticed a young man sparring with several of the guards. Black fire whirled around his fists as he fought sans weapon, keeping the guards at bay.

The Patriarch paused a moment to admire the man’s form, and after several exchanges, the sparring men noticed his presence and stopped to pay their respects.

As the young man bowed, the Patriarch praised, “You’ve improved greatly, Ryker. Your father would be beside himself with joy if he could see you now.”

“You honor me, Uncle,” Ryker said. His bow deepened, but the Patriarch could see the smile on his face.

“Where is Fain?” the Patriarch inquired.

Ryker glanced around a moment, then said, “I’m unsure, Uncle. Playing with his toys would be my guess.”

“Hmm. Is that disdain I hear?”

Ryker grimaced. As if sullenly reciting a lecture he’d received many times, he said, “No, Patriarch; enchanting is a useful art without which we would not have what we do.”

“It’s honorable work,” the Patriarch stated. “Just because your cousin indulges in it instead of training in the martial arts doesn’t mean it is not.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

The Patriarch nodded, then addressed the three powerful guards Ryker was sparring with. “Spare him no hits; no one grows without pain.”

The three guards bowed and acknowledged his order. As the Patriarch walked away, he could hear the sounds of their spar intensifying, and a slight smile played at his lips.

That smile died only a moment later as he saw the hall at the end of the boulevard running through the residential apartments. It was fairly small and unassuming, but the guard detail outside of it was greater even than what the Patriarch had assigned to watch over the Clan’s main treasury. Even stranger was that all of the guards were women, and each one possessed power beyond what even the most common amongst the Clan would ever attain.

The leader of the guard detail bowed for all of her sisters-in-arms, who remained motionless at their posts.

“My Lord,” she whispered, her voice resonating through the black dragon scale helmet she wore.

“Any visitors?” the Patriarch asked, as he’d done every time he’d come all the way here to visit his only remaining immediate family.

“None,” the woman responded.

The Patriarch nodded, then entered the hall. His guards respectfully formed up outside, where they would wait for his return.

As soon as the door closed, leaving the Patriarch alone in the atrium, the glittering obsidian walls flashed with runes. Unlike those that might’ve changed the walls’ appearance, these had more violent purposes; the Patriarch found himself standing amid a veritable firestorm, with jets of white-hot fire washing over his body from every angle.

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With a snap of his fingers, the runes were shattered, the fire was cut off, and he was left standing there, not a hair out of place and not a single stitch of his clothing singed. He strode forward, but when his hand brushed the handle for the door leading further inside, the door promptly exploded. The blast wave and door fragments, however, bent away from the Patriarch as if there was an invisible barrier protecting him, affecting as much as the fire had.

Many more traps awaited him as he pressed further in, but all to the same effect. By the time he reached his daughter’s favorite leisure room, he looked like he’d just come back from a pleasant stroll through the perfect gardens outside the palace instead of navigating a death trap designed to kill even the strongest mages.

Without knocking, he entered the living room. It had an open floor plan, with a great deal of space flanking the sofas and armchairs. A huge table sat upon a rug made from the fur of a stellar lion that the Patriarch had hunted himself, while from the mezzanine above hung black drapes made from the silk of a species of spider famous for their soft silk and incredibly potent venom.

Once through the drapes, the Patriarch found his daughter standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up almost the entire far wall. She didn’t acknowledge his presence.

“Serana,” he called out, his voice sterner than even when dealing with strangers appearing in his court.

His daughter ignored him.

“After all this time, this is still how you greet me?” he growled in anger.

Serana venomously responded, “When you deserve a warmer greeting, I will give one.”

Black fire burned around the Patriarch’s fingers for a moment before he seized back control over himself. Setting traps was just one of his daughter’s ways of being obstinate; if she’d wanted to do more than simply irritate, then she could’ve.

He took a deep breath and asked, “You are the one who broke Clan rules and traditions, dear girl. Do not blame me for your punishment.”

“I’ll blame you for whatever I damn well please,” Serana responded as she turned and glared at him, her golden eyes flashing with fury, her silky black hair sparkling in the light of the Origin Spark. “You have kept me away from my family for nearly a century! I told you I would never forgive you for that! Do you think my resolve has lessened?!”

“I had hoped you would see the error of your ways,” the Patriarch stated. “Dragons do not lie with their lessers. They do not have children with the savage men of the planes!”

“Dragons have children with whosoever catches their fancy,” Serana riposted.

The dam keeping the Patriarch’s anger from his face burst, and he surged forward menacingly. However, he halted after only a few steps, and his face fell in sorrow. “Your mother would burn with shame if she could hear you.”

Serana averted her eyes, betraying some guilt. However, a moment later, her golden eyes turned back to the Patriarch. “I think she’d be more ashamed at having a coward for a husband than my choosing my own husband!”

The Patriarch’s hot anger was replaced with colder fury. “Watch yourself, girl. Clan tradition would’ve had you scourged for your transgressions. It was only your mother’s word that granted you house arrest instead of public punishment!”

“My mother was the kindest and most caring woman the universe has ever seen,” Serana whispered before her eyes narrowed accusingly. “And instead of avenging her death, you ignore our enemies gathering their forces on our doorstep! Were the losses we suffered eighty years ago not enough to show you the errors of complacency?!”

A cold scowl crossed the Patriarch’s face. “You have added another century of house arrest with those words.”

“Add as much time as you’d like, it won’t change a fucking thing,” Serana spat.

“Watch your tongue, girl. I did not raise a salt-mouthed whore.”

“Yet you treat me as one anyway. How much will Bennu offer for my hand? How much does he have to in order for you to accept?”

“How else should I treat you? The woman who gave herself to such low stock? Bennu-of-the-Flaming-Wind would make a much more palatable match than some nobody from the Divine Graveyard, all but forbidden to leave! Though I’d prefer you to take a different consort, one closer to the family. The heir of a vassal Clan, perhaps?”

“You say I’m not a whore, yet you’re trying to sell me like one, are you? Shopping around to see who will pay the best price?”

The Patriarch blazed with fury, but with herculean effort, he controlled himself. He remained quiet for a long moment, and visibly calmed down. “I do not wish to keep you here, my daughter. I love you, and miss having you around. The Clan is duller without you there.”

“If you want me around, then the solution is simple: let me go. You have that power, Father.”

The Patriarch scowled. “Renounce that ‘husband’ of yours, and his bastard you birthed. Pretend that you are still untouched by the hands of man, and you will be let free.”

“Then I will stay here until the end of time.”

“If that is your wish, then so be it. At least you won’t be pestering me to head out on any more adventures.”

The Patriarch turned and left, his anger cooling more quickly once he’d left his daughter’s hall.

‘Why can’t she understand?!’ he wondered. ‘Our power cannot be spread so wantonly! If someone knows she gave herself to such an unworthy man, then all will clamor for dragon’s blood! Those we spurned will be offended again, and those worthless maggots will never leave us alone.’

Similar thoughts flitted through the Patriarch’s head as he began walking toward his own hall. Sylvain had waited for some time, he could wait a little longer; the Patriarch of the Great Black Dragon Clan didn’t want to meet with the Patriarch of the Great White Dragon Clan so filled with rage.

---

After her father left, Serana breathed a sigh of relief. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she almost fell to her knees. If her father had discovered him, then her guest would at the very least be castrated and hanged for a thousand days.

“You can come out now, Fain,” she whispered.

From behind one of the deepest, blackest drapes in the room emerged her cousin, and a man whom she’d held a great deal of resentment toward for a long time. His face was pale as a sheet, nearly matching her own almost unnaturally pale features. Unlike her, however, he’d been allowed outside over the many decades since leaving Aeterna.

“You and the Patriarch…” Fain whispered, terror dripping from every word.

“Drop it, Fain,” she said. “He didn’t see you. You can change your pants later.”

Fain gave her an insulted look, but she noted that he’d almost immediately stopped shaking like a leaf once her insult reached his ears. However, she felt she still needed to establish herself over her younger cousin, and stalked toward him, her fingers blazing with black fire. Fain backed up, but after his back hit the wall, Serana punched right next to his head. Cracks spiderwebbed through the obsidian and ruined some of the mural enchantments, and fire singed some of Fain’s hair, but Serana didn’t care.

“You. Owe. Me,” she said slowly. “If you hadn’t stolen me away, I could’ve defended my family. I could’ve brought them with us!”

“If… If you had,” Fain hesitantly began, “then the Patriarch would’ve had them killed.”

“So you’re saying you should be thanked for leaving them behind?!” Serana blazed. “That I should bow and scrape to you for separating me from my husband?! From my SON?!”

“No, no,” Fain quickly metaphorically backpedaled as Serana leaned forward until they were almost nose-to-nose.

“Then straighten your tongue,” she demanded.

“All I’m saying is that… maybe… we should look for silver linings for my mistake,” he sputtered. “I’m sorry, Serana. I really am. I was injured and didn’t exactly know the situation back then! If I had, I would’ve waited!”

“Would you have?” Serana asked. “Or would you have bowed to Ryker and let him make the decision?”

“I would’ve done what you wanted,” he insisted.

Serana finally backed up a few steps, releasing him from her mountainous aura. He visibly sagged with relief.

“You can make it up to me,” she said as lightly as she might’ve commented on the weather.

“How?” Fain asked, struggling not to sound like a drowning man clutching at a lifeline.

“It’s really easy, actually,” Serana said. “Easier than sneaking in here, I’m sure.”

Fain looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, and he audibly forced himself to ask, “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to return to Aeterna,” Serana stated. She conjured a slate of obsidian from her soul realm decorated with topazes and rubies. Such slates were often used for communications and proof of identity in the Great Dragon Clans. “Find my husband and give him this. Find my son, too.”

After a moment of silence that seemed to stretch for hours, Fain nervously asked, “Is… that all?”

“For now,” she stated. “You can leave now, if you please. I want this taken care of as soon as possible.”

“What if… they’re…” Fain refused to meet her eyes, but she understood what he was asking.

“Don’t finish that question,” Serana commanded him, her golden eyes blazing with anger. “Don’t you dare.”

They could be dead. The same enemies who’d attacked their home on Aeterna could’ve hunted them down. They may have been killed only moments after she’d been forced away by Fain and Ryker.

But this was a possibility that she refused to face. Her husband was alive. Her son was alive. She couldn’t believe otherwise.

Seconds passed as Serana forced away the dark thoughts, until Fain said with as much confidence as he could muster, “After this, we’ll be even.”

Serana spun around, fury again marring her beautiful features. “We will be far from even, Fain! But… at least you will have won back some goodwill.”

Fain flinched, then fumbled around with a black crystal with a dark blue core. Without waiting for her to say anything more, he activated the magic in the crystal, and a sphere of darkness surrounded him. When the sphere dissipated, Fain was gone, teleported back to his chambers only a couple miles away.

Once she was alone, Serana slumped against the window, the glass completely opaque from the outside but affording her an enviable view of the world she’d once so longed to explore. Now, however, she could only think of Artorias and the baby she’d had with him.

‘Where are you right now, Art?’ she wondered. ‘Did you find someone else? Did she raise my Leon? Do you think about me anymore? Do you even remember me?’ Her thoughts turned to Leon, her and Artorias little miracle born from two parents with Inherited Bloodlines. She wondered what he might look like, what power he might’ve inherited in the bloodline awakening ceremony that Artorias would’ve held, what kind of man he would be now. The idea that he would be a mortal or a weak mage nearing the end of his life already was simply unfathomable. Her heart hurt as her arms folded across her stomach.

The memories always came with extra pain on the anniversary of her forced return, the only day of the year when her father was guaranteed to pay a visit. She’d returned to find a Clan at war, taken by surprise by the same powerful foe that had attacked her and Artorias’ home on Aeterna. They’d won in the end, but only at great cost. Even then, her father always seemed keener on punishing her harmless indulgence, her joyous love, rather than chasing down the remnants of their foe. Her mother had been killed in the fighting, and yet her father couldn’t see past his own pride.

That had been eighty years ago, to the day, almost a century since the last time she’d held her son in her arms. The last time she’d felt her husband’s lips on hers, the last time she’d heard his laugh, the last time he’d held her and whispered her name.

All that time, and she’d never been let free of her hall. All that time and she’d had nothing to do but reflect upon the events that led her to this situation. No one to speak at length with, to distract her from thoughts of the family she’d been ripped away from. Artorias, on the other hand, may have lived a whole life without her, the memories of those brief few years they’d spent together fading in the light of that life, perhaps with a new love there to drown her out even faster.

She clenched her teeth as she imagined incinerating some faceless woman who’d dared to sink her fangs into her husband, but she knew such imaginings were pointless. She was getting mad at nothing at all, but she simply couldn’t help herself from imagining the worst when wondering what her husband and son might be doing.

Tears flowed freely down her face as despair began to take hold. She didn’t have much faith in Fain to do what she’d demanded. Getting word to him through a sympathetic maid had been hard enough given the punishment that awaited her if her father learned of the maid’s indiscretion, and she didn’t think she’d get another chance to ever see her son and husband again.

The mere thought threatened to crush her.

But she held onto a tiny scrap of hope. She’d see Artorias again, she knew it. And while baby Leon might not be a baby anymore, she hoped she’d get to see what kind of man Artorias had raised him to be.