For three harrowing days, we carved our path through the wilds to reach the domain of House Cygne Noir. Our nights were spent huddled beneath the whispering canopy of ancient forests, where the stars seemed to shrink from the world below. Exhaustion gnawed at us, knights slumped in their saddles, dust caking the carriage wheels like the ash of forgotten dreams.
But nothing, nothing, could have prepared us for the sight that would burn itself into our retinas.
The Château de Cygne Noir rose before us like a fever dream carved from marble and malice. Spiraling obsidian towers that pierced the skies, phoenix-crested banners that writhed in the wind, their silks blazing with the arrogance of a House untouched by time. Opulence dripped from every stone, every curve, every shadow, a monument to power that made kings weep.
Yet none of it mattered.
Because there, sprawled across those majestic spires like a living crown of apocalypse, was the dragon, utterly indifferent to the world unfolding beneath its wings. It breathed, slow and thunderous and with each breath, the spires trembled beneath its weight like breaking bones, the wind died in its presence, as if the air itself dared not disturb this creature of legend. Time stuttered. Stumbled. Held its breath.
We were statues. Pillars of salt. Witnesses to divinity in its most terrifying form.
It was beautiful. Majestic and terrifying at the same time. The beast shimmered under the sun, its scales golden-yellow like polished topaz, refracting light in a halo of heat.
Zeradion, the Storm Tyrant, youngest of the five Ark-Dragons, now four with one fallen. Ark-Dragons are the heartbeat of the world, nature's wrath woven into sinew and bone. Walking calamities wearing a crown made from bones and devastation. You don't tame them. You survive them. They simply are natural disasters that chose to take shape and remind the world of its place.
This one was the sky's vengeance made flesh, a dragon whose breath summoned lightning, whose roar gave rise to thunder.
The rumors were true, and they burned like wildfire in my chest: House Cygne Noir had not just allied with a dragon.
They had invited the end of the world to tea.
I felt it then, the story bleeding from my fingers like crimson ink. The carefully crafted narrative I'd woven was unraveling, thread by thread, scene by scene. Characters I'd never written were breathing. Events I'd never scripted were unfolding. The very fabric of fate was being rewritten by invisible hands, and I was no longer the author, I was just another character, lost in a plot that had grown beyond my control and I hated that.
My small changes, tweaks to fate, whispers of alteration, had collapsed the arcs I'd so carefully built, like ancient towers crumbling in an earthquake. The hourglass of destiny was spilling, and I stood helpless in its sands.
The dragon meant to reign in the distant south, worshipped by an Amazonian tribe in the jungles of A'maralis, a climactic revelation saved for the story's crescendo. Not here. Not now. Not perched like a bored house cat on the very threshold of our arrival.
"Etienne, you crazy bastard," Grey's voice cracked the silence like a whip. "Why the hell is there a dragon on your estate?"
The same question has been burning in my mind, dear father.
Its golden eyes opened, vertical slits that seemed to pierce through reality itself, seeing not just our bodies but our souls, our fears, our every secret shame. Its massive head rose, crowned with curved horns. Each movement was liquid lightning, controlled destruction, poetry written in the language of annihilation.
Silence.
The kind of silence that precedes the end of worlds.
Grey moved like a man possessed, throwing himself between Caesar and me, arms spread wide like a mother bird shielding her young from a hurricane. His body trembled, not with fear, but with the desperate courage of a man willing to die for those he loved.
Then came the sound.
A sharp crack from the heavens above—reality itself splitting at the seams.
BAM!
Lightning struck in broad daylight. Under a sky clear as crystal. Under a sun that should have made such impossibility...impossible.
Our wyverns, majestic creatures soaring above us. Our brave knights, veterans of the Northern Wall, who had survived hell, only to be disintegrated mid-flight.
No flame. No roar. No final cry of defiance.
Just ash.
Particles of life, spiraling down like black snow from a cursed winter.
Gone.
Erased.
As if they had never existed at all.
The horses screamed, primal sounds that spoke of terror older than language, older than thought. They bucked and reared, their eyes rolling white as they tried to flee from something their instincts told them was death incarnate.
Its voice was thunder learning to form words. Ancient syllables that had been old when the world was young. Each word was a physical force, a weight that pressed against our chests, our souls, our very existence.
"Baslemes dupleurs."
("Cheap imitators.")
Fear. Real fear. Not the pale shadow we called fear in our comfortable lives, but the genuine article, pure, undiluted terror that strips away every pretense, every shield, every lie we tell ourselves about our own courage. It crawled up my spine like frozen hands and whispering, "This is the end." One that made hands shake, turned knees to water.
Caesar, who had been watching through the carriage window with the wide-eyed wonder of childhood, now trembled, silent, small, mortal. His hands gripped the window frame until his knuckles went white.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.
The dragon, apparently bored by its own display of omnipotence, the beast tore its gaze from us, disinterested, almost disdainful and peered deep into the heart of Château de Cygne Noir, into shadows where even our bravest glances dared not wander. A beat passed. Laid its massive head down and closed its eyes. As if we were nothing more than a minor inconvenience in its eternal slumber.
The knights of House Cygne Noir rushed forward, not to attack, but to attend. We were untouched. Miraculously, impossibly untouched. The horses trembled but lived, unlike our knights, five brave men, erased like a typo in god's rough draft.
They vanished alongside the wyverns, those lesser creatures, pathetic echoes of true dragons, destroyed for daring to trespass in Zeradion's sky, as if their very existence was an offense.
Grey moved like lightning made flesh. The carriage door groaned open, and in a heartbeat, he was outside, his blade flashing, it's edge found the throat of Lord Etienne du Cygne Noir. Cold steel kissed warm skin with the promise of swift and certain death.
The lord, elegant, maddeningly composed, his velvet cloak untouched by dust, froze, his hands raised in a a gesture of surrender.
"Is this why you summoned us?" Grey's voice was a snarl, a growl, the sound of a wolf cornered and ready to die fighting. "To feed us to your beast? Let's see if your dragon's lightning outpaces my steel carving a new smile across your throat!"
The spearknights of House Cygne Noir reacted with practiced precision, spears leveled, eyes blazing with the cold fire of professional killers.
But Etienne's hand shot up, calm as a king quelling a rebellion. "Lower your spears," he commanded and they obeyed as if his words were absolute.
"Grey," Etienne said, his voice carrying the weight of old friendship and older secrets, "you, of all men, should know, dragons bend to no mortal will."
The blade at his throat didn't waver. "I just lost five good men. Five fathers, five sons, five souls. If it's not your pet lizard, then explain to me why it's lounging on your spires like it pays rent, did it just fancy your spire for a cozy nap, or is this your idea of a warm welcome?"
Etienne's eyes narrowed, the first crack in his composed facade. "It doesn't obey me. The only person it listens to...is Eclissa. My daughter."
That name again.
Like a curse that wouldn't break. Like ink bleeding through parchment, staining everything it touched. A name that was rewriting my story one syllable at a time.
Eclissa.
Grey barked a laugh a bitter laugh. "You expect me to believe a child, what, ten years old? is keeping an Ark-Dragon as a pet? That she's somehow leashed the unleashable?"
Etienne's exhale was the sound of a man carrying burdens too heavy for mortal shoulders. "Just put the sword down. We'll talk inside. Your sons look tired from their journey. And terrified."
Grey's eyes flicked to us, Caesar pale as winter moonlight, me trying to look brave and failing spectacularly. With a grunt that spoke of reluctant wisdom, he sheathed his blade.
Etienne gestured, regal as if he hadn't just stared down death. "Open the gates.
The gates of House Cygne Noir groaned open like the mouth of destiny itself, and our carriage rolled forward into whatever fresh hell awaited us.
We passed through fields painted gold by the dying sun, wheat dancing in the breeze like tides of a golden ocean. For a moment, just a moment, there was peace. The kind of peace that exists only in the breath between heartbeats, in the pause between lightning and thunder.
And then I saw her.
A girl.
She lay in the grass, as though the earth itself had sculpted a throne for her her.
Not moving.
Not noticing.
Not caring.
Her armor was fitted to her form like a second skin, half-polished metal that caught the sunlight and threw it back in defiant flashes. A wide straw hat veiled her face, and a single stalk of hay dangling from her lips, swaying gently in the breeze like a conductor's baton keeping time with eternity.
She hadn't moved.
Not at the thunder that had rent the heavens. Not at the wyverns reduced to ash. Not at the dragon's voice that had fractured the sky like the word of god. She lay there, as if this apocalyptic display was merely Tuesday for her.
She slept, serene, as if the world's chaos was a lullaby too trivial to rouse her.
Beside her stood a spear, not leaned, not fallen but standing. Upright. Obedient.
It was taller than she was, jet-black shaft with an almost metallic finish like a moonless night. The spearhead highly unique, rather than a single point, it split into a trident-like arrangement with three sharp blades. The central blade is the longest, flanked by two shorter, angled ones, all with a crystalline blue edge that gives off an energy-like glow, like lightning caged in glass.
That wasn't a weapon.
That was a monument.
A warning.
She was young, far too young to be a spearknight and far too relaxed for someone in the presence of an Ark-Dragon. On Earth, that kind of carelessness would've gotten her fired for sleeping on duty. Here, she seemed to be the only one who never quite grasped the gravity of the situation.
We continued forward, and reached the grand doors of château, the doors opened like the curtain rising on the final act of an opera written by madmen.
Servants spilled forth, bowing low. Among them, the lady of the House, Miralys du Cygne Noir stepped forward with the grace. Her gown trailed behind her like a river of starlight. Beside her stood a young girl, perhaps Caesar's age, with long red hair tied back in the fashion of ancient spear-maidens. Her blue-grey steel eyes were sharp as winter steel, missing nothing, forgetting less.
Selène.
I recognized her instantly. My creation, my character, my ink-born daughter now walking and breathing and real as sunrise. The sight of her, of any of them, was like watching my own thoughts take physical form and demand recognition.
They curtsied in perfect synchronization, gathering and holding up the hems of their gowns with practiced grace, the fabric cascading down like spilled wine.
"Lord Grey. Lord Arthur. Lord Caesar," they said in elegant tandem, "we welcome you to our humble abode."
Grey dipped his head in respect. "Miralys, it's been far too long. And I see your daughter has grown into a remarkable young woman. Thank you for having us."
Humble abode. I nearly laughed aloud. Who in their right mind would call a palace with hundreds of rooms "humble"? But then again, when you share your home with an Ark-Dragon, perhaps everything else feels modest by comparison.
And yet, one piece was still missing.
Eclissa.
The name that had been haunting my story like a ghost. The unknown daughter who somehow commanded the unleashable.
Etienne leaned toward a knight and whispered something urgent. The knight turned, jogging back down the path we had just traveled.
Moments later, he returned with the armored girl from the field.
She walked with the lazy confidence of someone who owned the world and was bored by the responsibility. Her muddy boots left perfect prints on the pristine marble, each step a small act of rebellion against the château's elegance. Her armor clinked softly, not the harsh clatter of poorly fitted steel, but the whispered song of a weapon that had found its perfect wielder.
And Etienne's voice thundered across the marble like a gunshot:
"ECLISSA DU CYGNE NOIR!"
She yawned, as if his rage was but a breeze, and tilted hat back. Her blue-gray steel eyes met ours.