She wasn't joking.

My arms, legs, and—somehow—even my lower back were covered in bite marks. Deep ones. Scabbed over in uneven lines, purple-ringed bruises blooming beneath each one like ugly flowers. Did you know fake griffins still have beaks? I didn't. I assumed their lack of a soul meant their lack of a snapping, serrated, predator-grade beak.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Beaks are sharp.

Claws, sharper.

And despite their simulated nature, apparently the Panthress' simulacra were not programmed with mercy.

There were so many bite and claw marks across my skin I could've passed for a failed gladiator or someone who insulted Ten during breakfast. Again. The worst part? I couldn't even get mad about it. This was my idea. Mounted combat, I had declared. I'll master it. It'll look cool. Idiot.

The only reprieve—the only one—was being alone in the center of my room, where the edges of the Starlight Forest and this reality began to blur. The fusion of two spaces existed in delicate balance here. The roots of mana saplings twisted upward in spirals, curling like dancers mid-pose, releasing a gentle radiance in every direction. Ethereal pinks and mellow purples flowed with tender oranges and shimmering blues, all of them shifting inwards and outwards in a rhythm like breathing. Like music.

This strange half-realm, where the spiritual converged with the material, always settled something inside me. A harmony in the dissonance.

"Sire," came a pointed, cultured voice beside me, as dry as pressed parchment. "You are aware that you're essentially being enthralled by your own mana again, yes?"

I sighed and leaned back further onto my elbows, letting my fingers dig into the moss-soft soil.

"Lumivis," I muttered, not even bothering to glance at him, "it's still fascinating my shell does this. It's like watching a part of me bloom in real-time. Like my mana's learning how to breathe."

A rustle. Then the faint chime of wings folding. The ghost-light of the Lexicon Familiar's shape settled beside me. Half-bird, half-script, all judgmental glare.

"They likely do propagate," Lumivis said, voice clipped, as if annoyed that I was impressed with myself. "And that should terrify you."

"Terrify is a strong word."

"They are mana constructs, Sire. Unshaped. Unbound. Unclaimed. Living as hybrids between dream logic and the bleeding edge of your subconscious design. If they begin to multiply without containment, they could imprint permanently on this pseudo-pocket. Worse, they might learn from each other." He paused. "Like rabbits. But magical. And armed."

"Okay. That's mildly terrifying."

"Only mildly?" He shifted again, feathers rustling like pages turning in some unseen archive. "I'm not sure which is worse. The danger you court, or your lack of appropriate horror."

"You're the one who said I needed to train my Worldcrafting more," I said with a faint grin. "Consider this… organic progress."

"Organic? No. This is unsupervised. This is the arcane equivalent of a child discovering fire and deciding to use it to build a city."

I winced as I tried to sit up fully, my side catching on what I hoped was a shallow puncture. "Yeah, well, the fire bites now, too."

"That was your choice. You agreed to let Panthress conjure an unsouled simulacrum of a nightmare beast, and ride it. After falling off twelve times, and being dragged across a flat boulder, I would've thought you'd reconsider."

"I did reconsider. I reconsidered if I wanted to wear armor next time."

"That is not the same thing, Sire."

"Nope. But it's the choice I'm making."

He fell silent.

The saplings shimmered. One of them bent slightly in the no-wind, reaching down with its rainbow-pulsed tendril to lightly touch my shoulder. Like it was checking in. A child made of ink and stars.

I let out a breath.

"You're really not proud?" I asked, quieter.

"I did not say that," he replied, equally quiet.

I looked toward him.

His tone softened by a degree, just enough to pass for warmth. "You survive your own recklessness. Often through cleverness, occasionally through luck, and rarely—but not never—through raw strength. There's something admirable in that. Foolish, yes. But admirable."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"You would."

"I assume you broke me out of my reverie, Lumivis, due to some update?"

"Correct again, Sire," the familiar voice replied, its tone as silken and smug as always. "There are two items that require your immediate attention. One: check your Gloss. Two: consider returning to Danatallion's Halls—willingly—sometime soon."

I let out a low breath. Of course.

I reached over and opened my Gloss, expecting something mundane, maybe an update about training metrics, a message from one of my siblings, or some bureaucratic nonsense. Instead, embossed in shimmering script, the message unfurled like a royal decree:

Prince Duarte-Alizade,

Your attendance is both cordially invited and formally requested at the upcoming ballroom hosted by our Reqdenyet'enen, the High Queen Lilliane.

You are to arrive in full formal attire and don a mask featuring a bird. This is not a masquerade in the traditional sense—each attendee's mask animal has been preassigned.

This occasion marks your official induction into the Scarlet Table. Upon its conclusion, the Sanguine Spear shall be entrusted to you.

I am also aware of your Visitor. She is permitted to attend as your escort.

The message pulsed softly, the seal of the Reqdenyet'enen flickering like a heartbeat beneath the signature.

I read it twice, then a third time, before slowly closing the Gloss. My mind had just started to uncoil from the griffin claw-induced trauma, and now this.

A ball. A formal ball.

With bird masks.

"Oh wonderful," I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. "A government-mandated costume party with weapons as party favors."

"You seem… less enthused than I expected," Lumivis noted, sounding positively delighted by my dread.

"Do I look like someone who collects bird masks for fun?" I gestured vaguely around the room, where the mana saplings still swirled in radiant, pastel fractals. "And what is the Sanguine Spear, anyway? That sounds like something that'll either impale me or try to crawl inside my soul and whisper secrets."

"Likely both, Sire," Lumivis answered calmly. "It is a symbol of office, power, and murder. Tradition, you understand."

"Of course," I sighed. "Can't be royalty without at least one cursed relic to hang on your wall."

"But really," he added, "you should consider attending. The Queen does not make requests idly, and there's… meaning to the way this is worded. Being summoned by title, and formally welcomed into the Scarlet Table… They're not just acknowledging your presence anymore. They're claiming you."

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"I noticed." I didn't say it aloud, but the weight of it settled across my shoulders all the same. Prince Duarte-Alizade. They were stitching me deeper into their web—knot by knot, thread by thread.

And then, there was the mention of my Visitor. No names. No titles. Just that word: Visitor. Fractal, presumably. But the ambiguity didn't sit right. It rarely ever did.

"Lumivis," I asked slowly, "how often do they actually use the word Visitor in formal glosses?"

"Rarely," he admitted. "Only when someone is considered off-Gloss, untraceable by conventional record. A wildcard, as it were."

"Fantastic," I muttered. "I'm bringing a mystery box to a gala. Nothing can possibly go wrong."

"Oh, and Sire?" Lumivis added, "About the second matter—Danatallion's Halls—"

"Yes, yes," I groaned. "I'll consider walking back into the hell-library voluntarily. Because nothing says stable mental health like willfully reentering the space where books try to eat you and metaphors are literal."

"You're progressing too quickly for your foundation to stay stable," he said quietly. "You can't afford to build skyward without deepening the roots."

I didn't answer. Not immediately.

Instead, I turned my gaze back to the pulsing color-drenched saplings—the surreal forest merging between two worlds at the center of my room. They spun like planets caught in a slow dance. Each shimmered with hues that didn't belong in the mortal spectrum, like someone painted dreams into light.

I'd been so enthralled by the beauty of it all, I hadn't stopped to think about what it meant.

They were growing. Still. In here. In me.

"How much longer until these saplings take over my room?" I asked, not expecting a comforting answer.

"Hard to say," Lumivis said, too casually. "They're not bound by local space. Or time. Or much of anything, really. The forest that birthed them lies half in your soul and half in elsewhere."

***

"So," Ten said with a sly smile, arms folded, foot swinging off the edge of the bench. "You do know he likes you, right?"

Her gaze was fixed squarely on Fallias, who blinked back at her with the unfazed calm of someone who'd been asked whether the sky was blue.

"He saved my life," Fallias replied flatly. "By draconic law, we're already wed."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

"…What?" Ranah blinked.

"Wait—what?" Alexandria's head tilted like a hawk hearing prey say something stupid.

"Oh stars," Cordelia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Here we go."

Fallias, still utterly composed, lifted one elegant, clawed hand in a gesture that was clearly supposed to be explanatory. "He risked his life to preserve mine. In Drakthonic customs, that is equivalent to a marital pact. It is not romantic—it is binding. I am already spoken for."

"You're not, though," Alexandria cut in, exasperated. "Unless you gave him a part of your hoard and stated your claim in front of witnesses, it doesn't count. Not here."

"Yeah, that's not enough," Ranah added, nodding in agreement as she tossed a grape into her mouth. "Intent matters. You can't just assume people know you're soul-bonded because they kept you from dying once."

Barbra, half-lounging on a cushion nearby, lifted her mug and gave a solemn nod. "We all save each other's lives, like, constantly. If that counted, I'd have married half of Marr by now."

Ten leaned forward, grinning wider now. "Exactly. So? What's really stopping you? You clearly like him. You watch him like he's something rare—like something worthy."

Fallias narrowed her eyes. "He is worthy."

"Oh, that's cute," Fractal chimed in, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, her other hand flicking light illusions into the air: tiny silhouettes of a prince and a dragon, dancing. "See? That's how we know it's real."

"When did this turn into a women's social club?" Cordelia muttered under her breath, still rubbing her temple like she was getting a migraine from all the estrogen in the air.

"Well, we aren't going to get the gossip from V," Fractal said, fluttering her hand dismissively like she was swatting away the concept of male communication. "Besides, this is girl stuff. We're allowed."

"'Girl stuff' is starting to sound dangerously like a tactical intervention," Cordelia replied.

"It is," Ten said proudly. "We're deploying emotional honesty."

"Tragic," Cordelia muttered.

Fallias looked between them, confusion flickering like a candle trying to decide whether to stay lit. "So… my hoard is not sufficient."

"No," Alexandria said, deadpan. "It never is. Feelings first. Hoards later."

Ranah grinned. "Put that on a shirt."

"I'd wear it," Barbra said with a shrug.

Fractal snapped her fingers, and the little illusion-dragon leaned forward to kiss the illusion-prince on the nose. "See? Easy. Now all you have to do is tell him how you feel."

Fallias folded her arms, tail curling inwards thoughtfully.

"…I would rather duel a basilisk," she said after a long pause.

"Oh, sweetheart," Ten said, patting her shoulder. "We all would. That's the fun part."

Fallias exhaled through her nose, a thin plume of barely-contained smoke drifting from one nostril. "Words feel… insufficient. Telling him he matters feels like naming a mountain with a pebble."

Barbra whistled low. "Alright, that was actually kinda poetic."

"Yeah," Ranah agreed, raising a brow. "And also peak dragon. You're adorable and dramatic. Perfect combo."

"It's not drama," Fallias said, frowning slightly. "It's—serious. There is something weighty about him. Something that makes everything around him tilt. Being near him feels like flying with no wings, and falling with no fear."

The room went quiet for a moment.

Then Ten let out a long, slow breath, clutching her chest. "Oof. That's it. I'm in love too now."

"Welcome to the club," Fractal said, utterly delighted.

Cordelia groaned again, but softer this time. "Gods, you're all hopeless."

"I am hope," Fractal declared cheerfully. "And also love. Mostly love, right now."

Alexandria tilted her head. "So you do like him."

Fallias looked down, a lock of her silver hair falling into her eyes. "Yes. But that is not a rare truth. Everyone does."

"Sure," Ten said with a nod, "but not everyone has his trust like you do. Or that gentle way he talks to you when he thinks no one's listening. That means something."

"It does," Barbra agreed. "Look, Fallias, you don't have to pounce on him like a hungry manticore. Just... say something. Give him a hint. Let him know that whatever bond you think you already have—it can grow."

"I don't know how," Fallias admitted, voice quieter now. Her claws curled slightly against her sleeve. "Every word I think of feels too grand or too small."

"That's because feelings are too big and too small at the same time," Fractal said, letting her illusions swirl into motes of light. "They don't fit right. You just have to let them be messy."

Cordelia actually smiled a little. "Which is the closest thing to wisdom I've heard in this room so far."

"Thank you!" Fractal beamed.

Alexandria leaned forward. "You said he saved your life. That left a mark on you. So leave one back. Doesn't have to be magic or tradition. Just be honest. That's rare enough."

Fallias looked thoughtful, expression shifting through several emotions she clearly wasn't used to wearing so openly—hesitation, frustration, hope.

"I will… consider it," she finally said.

"Good," Ten said, pointing at her. "And while you're at it, figure out what kind of mask you're wearing to the Queen's ball."

"Oh yes!" Fractal clapped her hands together. "You're going, right? He'll need someone beside him—someone trustworthy. Someone elegant. Someone mysterious and maybe just a little romantic?"

"Let me guess," Ranah said dryly. "You're volunteering as fashion coordinator."

"Obviously."

Fallias blinked, caught off guard. "He has not asked me to attend."

"He will," Ten said, voice full of certainty. "Trust me. He wouldn't go through a political formality that big without someone he could count on."

"You're not just someone he trusts," Cordelia added, finally looking up from her spot against the wall. "You're someone who makes him less cold. That matters."

Barbra grinned. "And who knows, maybe he'll give you part of his hoard."

Fallias blinked. "He has no hoard."

"Sweetheart," Ten grinned wide, "you're the hoard."

That drew a sharp puff of amused air from Fallias—her version of a laugh, small and smoky.

For the first time in the conversation, she allowed herself to smile. Just a flicker. Just the edge of a fang peeking out beneath the weight of old traditions and unspoken fears.

"I… would accept such a gift. If offered."

Cordelia raised a brow. "Then maybe don't wait forever for him to offer it."

And just as Fallias was about to respond, the door creaked slightly—soft footsteps down the hall.

Fractal's eyes lit up. "Oh, speak of the prince."

Ten stood up, stretched, and started casually ushering the group toward the adjoining chamber. "C'mon girls. Let's give the dragon some air."

Barbra rolled her eyes, but followed.

Alexandria glanced back over her shoulder. "Don't let him walk in first. You'll be too distracted to form words."

"I already am distracted," Fallias muttered.

Ranah grinned. "Good. That means you care."

Cordelia was the last to step through the archway. She paused beside Fallias for just a moment.

"You don't need to roar," she said, voice lower. "Just… let him hear you."

And then she was gone.

Fallias stood still, hands folded in front of her, pulse steady—too steady.

But somewhere, inside, something fluttered.

Not wings.

Not fire.

But something like hope.

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