Ignarion stepped into the Prince's chambers just as the others had settled in and resumed their conversations.
The room radiated a quiet regality—sunlight poured through tall stained-glass windows, casting delicate mosaics of color across the polished marble floor. Gauzy drapes billowed softly in the breeze, carrying with them the faint, calming scent of lilies. Though undeniably grand, the chamber felt warm and serene—more like a sanctuary than a throne room.
As Ignarion entered, the room fell silent, all eyes turning toward him.
"Is Prince Orion awake?" he asked plainly, his voice cutting through the stillness. "We have things to discuss."
"He is," King Orion replied, his tone holding a respectful weight. "Crown Ignarion."
Seraphyx furrowed his brow. "Don't you think he should rest a little longer?"
Ignarion approached the bedside without slowing. "Looks like you've worked some trick to keep his heart calm for now. But you and I both know—letting those emotions fester under false peace will only worsen the damage."
Seraphyx sighed, his gaze dropping slightly as he gave a nod. "I know. That's why I wanted to give him a moment to breathe before asking him to carry that pain again."
"You're too gentle, Seraphyx," Ignarion said, a faint edge in his voice. "Softer than you ought to be."
Then, after a beat, Seraphyx tilted his head slightly and asked, "We haven't seen you since you left to find Yandelf. What happened? Did you know she's… inside Mother now?"
Ignarion blinked, the faintest hint of awkwardness creeping into his usually composed expression. "No... I didn't. I had no idea where she was. So I went to ask Mother directly. I didn't expect her to say Yandelf was inside her."
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes drifting away in quiet shame. "Mother asked me to go in as well... to deliver the message and speak with Yandelf. But I couldn't. I didn't dare."
He sighed, shaking his head. "In the end, Mother had to force her out... spat her up in her sleep just so I wouldn't have to face it."
Seraphyx giggled and glanced away, his expression guilty but amused. "I shouldn't have asked."
Ignarion clicked his tongue. "Say that without the smug little smile, then."
He sighed and turned to Prince Orion, shifting back into business. "Come on, Orion. We've got work to do. You need to personally meet Lady Rosen and—"
Before he could finish, Seraphyx elbowed him sharply in the ribs.
"Ow—what was that for?" Ignarion snapped, rubbing his side with a scowl.
"It's Mother Rosen…" Seraphyx muttered with an exasperated sigh, like a mom correcting table manners for the fifth time that morning.
Ignarion sighed as well and straightened his posture like he was adjusting invisible armor. "Is it now? Fine. Mother Rosen, then."
He cleared his throat and continued, "We need to meet with her. There's something important we have to discuss. If it's possible, we'll also look into Frieda's revival. And of course... we need to begin your healing. So I'm taking you first to Mother Rosen, and then... to Kaelya."
"Wait—Frieda can be revived?" Prince Orion asked, eyes widening with a flicker of hope. His voice trembled slightly as he turned to Seraphyx, searching his face for answers.
Seraphyx's smile faded. He met Orion's gaze gently, pity softening his eyes. "We don't know for sure. Only Kaelya and Mother Rosen can say for certain."
"And since I'd rather not risk unsettling Mother's mood with this task," Ignarion continued coolly, "we'll ask Kaelya instead. Her command over life is no less potent than Mother's."
Orion nodded, then slowly pushed himself up from the bed. His legs trembled under his own weight, but he stood tall, if only barely.
"Take it easy, Orion," Queen Minerva said gently, a furrow of concern in her brows.
"Emotional scars can have a heavy toll on the body," Ignarion added, his tone softer than usual. "Move slowly. You can follow at your own pace."
They left the chamber and made their way through the castle's marble halls, until they reached the open grounds outside. The skies above were a pale silver, clouds drifting lazily as if even the heavens held their breath.
Ignarion stepped forward, out onto the clearing.
Without a word, he began to strip off his garments. Layer by layer, regal armor and cloth fell away until only flesh and silence remained. Then, with a signal for the others to step back, his body began to glow with a soft, ominous red.
A transformation unfurled.
His form stretched and expanded, bones cracking and reforming as crimson light engulfed him. Wings unfurled—vast and terrible—veined with frostfire, trailing wisps of ethereal flame. Where once stood a man, now loomed a mighty wyrm, risen from myth itself. His scales were a deep, glimmering crimson streaked with veins of glacial silver, like frozen blood trapped in eternal time. From his head curled blackened frost-horns, jagged like winter's wrath. And from his maw came no fire—only silence. A silence so cold it scraped across the soul. It was not the absence of sound, but judgment made manifest.
"Grab my claws," rumbled Ignarion, his voice deep and ancient, vibrating through the very marrow of those present.
Orion, stunned but steady, stepped forward. He reached out, grasping one of the wyrm's enormous claws. Gently, almost reverently, Ignarion lifted him upward and settled him upon his back.
The wyrm's body rippled with contained power, but his movements held care—as if even in this monstrous form, he refused to let the prince fall.
After some time, the crimson wyrm descended from the sky in slow, sweeping spirals, wings cutting the air with reverence rather than force. They arrived at the outskirts of Arian—where the mountains bowed and the land quieted itself. And there... rested the head of Mother Rosen.
Her massive, slumbering visage lay against the earth as though the entire continent had cradled her into rest. Eyes closed, lips soft in thought, her expression carried the strange serenity of a being that had seen worlds rise and crumble—and had grieved each one like a mother watching her child sleep, knowing they won't wake.
Orion's breath caught in his throat. He blushed, deeply and instinctively, as his gaze landed on her face—on that serene, impossibly colossal visage. It wasn't shame. It wasn't fear. It was reverence, awe… and something else. Something tender. He quickly looked away.
Ignarion sighed and spoke under his breath, though loud enough for her to hear.
"I still don't understand how the Arians live without fear under your gaze, Mother… even I can't look you in the eye."
He kept his head down, unwilling to meet the divine presence fully—like a mortal standing before the sun and choosing shadow over blindness.
A warmth, both ancient and gentle, filled the air.
"You have done well, Ignarion," came Mother Rosen's voice.
It was soft. Not quiet—never quiet—but soft, like mountains murmuring their love to the sky. "You have fulfilled the tasks I placed upon you."
Then, her closed eyes slowly opened, revealing vast pupils like galaxies slowly spinning, filled with knowledge too heavy for mortal comprehension.
Her attention turned to Orion.
"Orion," she said, and even the soil seemed to still itself.
"I have a task for you."
She paused. Not for effect, but for truth.
"I understand," she continued, "that you are not yet ready to accept it. I do not ask for the impossible of you—not yet. But when your heart is steady... when your wounds have closed, even if they still ache… my children will be waiting. And you will begin your duty as my Envoy."
There was something in her voice—an aching hopefulness, a mournful pride. The way one speaks when asking for something they know they shouldn't—a favor they have no right to demand, and yet must.
It was the tone of a mother asking her child to carry a burden forged by the sins of her own generation.
Orion swallowed. "What do I need to do?" he asked, hesitation threading every word.
And then… she moved.
Her colossal head leaned forward, millimeter by millimeter—yet each movement carved new pressure into the air, like the atmosphere itself had to stretch to accommodate her presence. Until, finally, her gaze was just meters away.
The world grew cold—but not cruelly. Her breath didn't frost the air—it crystallized it. Snowflakes shimmered in the sunlight like falling shards of glass. And somehow... it didn't hurt. It felt like the cool press of a mother's palm on a fevered brow. Calming. Grounding. Eternal.
And then, with a voice that could move glaciers and command the tides of fate, she spoke:
---
"Send the message of war.
To allies... and to enemies."