He

  sat there in silence. After the sudden end of his dreams he had not

  immediately been clear on where exactly he was. Yet the general

  confusion did not last long. Aelthyria had made herself comfortable in a

  deep black armchair opposite him and was reading a book with complete

  composure. Seemingly too absorbed to notice him immediately — but that

  suited him well. The room was wrapped in a sweetish scent that had a

  calming effect — as did the soft be He leaned back, closed his eyes and let the impressions of the previous day flow once more through the shallows of his thoughts.

  The

  crackling of a turned page was the only sound that cut through the

  almost sacred stillness of the room. While he kept his lids closed, the

  fragments of yesterday reformed before his inner eye: the clash of

  steel, the bitter taste of suffering and grace. The burning pain in the

  blood-red mist — a consequence he had not expected in that form. And yet

  his careless manner of acting had also brought him recognition. Now he

  knew a little more about himself and a little more about his creator

  Aelthyria.

  A thin smile crossed his lips. He knew he would do it again.

  Yet the moment had to be chosen with care. Not least because her wrath

  was not to be underestimated. The small taste he had been permitted to

  experience the previous evening was very likely only a small part of

  what was possible. But so be it. Pain was merely a currency, and he

  possessed enough stubbornness to buy the next insight dearly.

  Aelthyria turned another page in silence.

  "You think," she said, without looking up, "that pain is a currency."

  He

  opened his eyes visibly surprised and looked at her questioningly. If

  pain was not a price, what was it then? Only another expression of lived

  absurdities in the face of the oh-so-wonderful order? Aethyrael knew

  she could read parts of his thoughts — perhaps all of them. Yet here too

  it was clear that there seemed no way around subordinating himself to

  this fact for now. Mind-reading aside — only one of many factors he was

  not yet able to understand.

  "Is it not?" he asked finally.

  "It is," she answered calmly. "But only for those who possess nothing more valuable."

  That threw him briefly. Unexpected as always — yet perhaps that was precisely what he should have expected.

  He straightened slowly and looked at Aelthyria with interest. "And what do I possess?"

  Her

  head lifted slowly until her eyes met his. A piercing and knowing gaze.

  Not searching — but confirming. As if she were discovering nothing,

  merely reading what she had long since known.

  "Perspective," she said finally. "And the tendency to misapply it — as well as to occasionally overestimate it."

  Silence.

  "Yet

  do not concern yourself, my star," she continued with a smile. "For

  you, pain is no currency — it is part of the path that you and I will

  enjoy together."

  Then

  she closed the book. The sound echoed through the room — not loud, but

  final. Before Aethyrael's thoughts could reach his lips, she had risen

  from the deep black armchair with her customary elegance and stood

  before him. He felt her azure eyes fix on him. For a moment nothing

  happened. Then a gentle impulse struck him. Something called to him.

  Drew him in her direction — not with force, but with self-evidence. He

  could have resisted. At least he believed that.

  "Come to me, my child, and let me look at you," she whispered in a honeyed tone.

  The

  words echoed more strongly in his thoughts than they had truly been

  spoken. Before he understood what was happening, his body set itself in

  motion. And Aethyrael was permitted to observe from close proximity how

  he moved toward her — step by step — without offering even the faintest

  resistance. Truly disappointing in his eyes. Yet then he posed himself a

  more honest question: what exactly had he wished to resist? Was it

  against her — or against the fact that he had not even perceived it as

  compulsion?

  He clicked his tongue in displeasure. "I would certainly have managed that on my own."

  She

  ignored his protest with her customary skill and touched his cheek with

  a flowing movement of her hand. Both runes beneath his eyes pulsed in

  rhythmic confirmation. Aelthyria studied the reaction for a moment and

  then nodded, satisfied. She released him, the impulse ebbed and lost

  itself in the shadows.

  "Today appears to be your lucky day," she said with a gleam in her eyes. "Your impatience will finally bear fruit."

  He

  had to blink twice to process the sentence. Events were fairly tumbling

  over one another — not that he had anything against that. On the one

  hand he was glad of it, yet on the other her words carried a strange

  undertone. A knock at the door tore him from his thoughts. A familiar

  face appeared and smiled at him knowingly. It was Vaelthrys.

  "Well,

  little one," she said as she stepped closer and positioned herself

  before him. "Today truly appears to be your lucky day. As promised — no

  more constructs, but a dragon all for you."

  Apparently his confusion was plain to see, for both began to laugh.

  Truly

  marvellous, he thought, returning their laughter with a sharp smile.

  From now on buying himself breathing room will certainly become even

  more entertaining.

  "I

  leave him in your care for now," said Aelthyria. Then her gaze turned

  once more to Aethyrael. "And you, my star, will remain in your orbit

  today."

  She

  stroked through his hair one last time — then she was gone. What

  remained was only himself and Vaelthrys, who was already leaning

  casually against the doorframe and studying him. Her presence still

  carried something animal about it. A pressure that seemed to settle

  slowly and steadily over his senses.

  Aethyrael

  walked beside her. Not behind her and not guided — but entirely at ease

  beside her. That alone is interesting, he thought. Most would either

  pull me along or have me trail behind.

  The

  corridors of the castle were wide and tall, of dark stone that did not

  feel dead. More… attentive. As if it registered that he was here,

  without being disturbed by it. Runes were set into the walls — not like

  his. These were calm. Disciplined. Almost well-behaved. So that is what

  runes look like when they have no intention of surprising anyone.

  He

  cast Vaelthrys a sideways glance. She moved with a self-evidence that

  had nothing to prove. Horns, dragon eyes, the inscriptions on her cheek —

  all openly visible. No concealing and no pride necessary. Only

  presence. Annoyingly effective.

  "You walk as if you have seen all of this a thousand times," he said.

  "I have," she answered calmly.

  Of course. Why not.

  "Tedious?"

  "No. Ordinary."

  That made him pause briefly. Ordinary is more dangerous than tedious.

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  They

  stepped out onto a balcony. Limbus lay below them — colours that could

  not decide what they wished to be, landscapes that appeared to have

  layered several realities atop one another and then simply accepted that

  it worked. He stopped. So this is the place where I am to learn not to

  accidentally extinguish myself.

  "So…" he began, staring into the distance, "you are a dragon."

  "Among other things."

  He blinked. Of course. Why should it be simple.

  "Among other things."

  "Yes."

  He looked at her directly now. "And you serve my mother."

  Vaelthrys corrected him immediately: "We assist one another." Fine distinction. Usually means everything.

  "Voluntarily?"

  A brief silence. He noticed how his runes responded quietly — not in warning, more… curiously.

  "You ask dangerous questions," she said finally, "for someone who has only just learned that he exists."

  He grinned. Existence is overrated. Context is more interesting. "One must set priorities."

  She

  stopped and turned to him. "Aelthyria forces no one who is strong

  enough to remain," she said calmly. "And whoever stays does so because

  they know what they owe her."

  Interesting, he thought. Neither fear nor chains — only consequences.

  "And you?" he asked. "What do you owe her?"

  A trace of something passed through her eyes. Memory perhaps.

  "Order," she said. "And a purpose."

  That struck him unexpectedly. Yes. That I know.

  They

  walked on. The castle grew livelier. Constructs lowered their gazes and

  servants kept their distance. Beings he could not explain he sensed

  more than saw. No one asks here who rules. They know.

  He felt a faint resonance in his runes. Accord? Recognition?

  "You also have unusual eyes," he observed.

  "Yes."

  "My mother too."

  For one heartbeat there was silence. Vaelthrys looked at him more sharply now. "Not the same."

  "Hers see further," she continued.

  "And mine?"

  She studied him for a long time. Too long for a simple answer.

  "Yours," she said finally, slowly, "see things that even dragons avoid."

  His heartbeat quickened slightly. That… I like. And that is probably a problem.

  "And you?" he asked. "Where do you truly come from?"

  "From a time," she answered, "when dragons believed they had to guard the world."

  "And now I know that the world no longer wishes for that."

  They

  stopped before a massive door, covered in symbols that even his runes

  did not immediately understand. Good. Finally something that does not

  recognise me at once.

  "You will spend much time here," said Vaelthrys. "Learning. Reading. Understanding."

  He looked up at her. "And you?"

  "I will be here." No promise. A fact. "As long as you do not deliberately provoke me," she added.

  He grinned. Oh, that will be difficult. "No promises."

  A

  quiet laugh escaped her. And Aethyrael noted that the castle felt less

  like a cage… and more like a place that already knew it would not remain

  as it was.

  Vaelthrys

  opened the door. Behind it lay no room in the conventional sense, but a

  continuum of levels. Shelves drew themselves in arches and spirals

  through the height, of dark wood, metal, bone, stone — some materials he

  did not know. Some presumably existed only here. Between them hovered

  fragments of light, narrow platforms, staircases that began where others

  ended.

  Aethyrael stopped. Not from awe. From irritation. This is… a great deal.

  "What is this?" he asked finally.

  Vaelthrys looked at him. Briefly surprised. Then she nodded slowly, as if correcting herself. "A library."

  He furrowed his brow. The word hung in the air. Libra… what?

  "And that means?"

  She indicated the shelves with a brief movement. "Collected knowledge. Thoughts. Observations. Memories. Errors."

  He

  followed her gaze. Everywhere lay objects — bound pages, scrolls,

  tablets, crystals, hovering glyphs. Some pulsed faintly. Others were

  dead. So… preserved thoughts.

  "Why," he asked slowly, "are they not simply… there?" He tapped his temple. "Like other things."

  Vaelthrys paused. Turned fully to him. "Because not everything may be known the moment it exists."

  That struck him unexpectedly. Interesting, he thought. So there is knowledge with a ripening time.

  "And this," she continued, "is knowledge that must wait for now."

  He stepped closer to a shelf. Reached out his hand — yet stopped just short. If I touch that… something happens.

  "May I?"

  "Not yet."

  Of course not yet.

  "So," he said, lowering his hand, "you collect thoughts, lock them away and hope they behave themselves."

  "We preserve them," she corrected calmly. "So they are not lost."

  He snorted quietly. "Or so they become dangerous to no one."

  A

  brief, probing glance from her. A hit — so both then. He walked slowly

  between the shelves. Felt how his runes responded — not hungrily, but

  watchfully. As if they were recognising patterns without naming them.

  This is no place for learning. This is a place for deciding what one is

  permitted to learn.

  "My mother has been here," he observed.

  Vaelthrys nodded. "More than once."

  "Has she read everything?"

  A smile. "No."

  Good.

  If even she does not know everything, hope remains for me. He stopped

  before a narrow shelf. The books there were sealed. Not from fear. From

  respect.

  "So…" he began, searching for the right words, "this is not a place to find answers."

  Vaelthrys waited.

  "But to survive questions."

  She looked at him for a long time. Then she said quietly: "That is a very dangerous recognition."

  He looked on at the sealed books. "Then it is well," he murmured, "that I begin early."

  He

  turned to her. "And one day," he continued, calm, not arrogant, and yet

  self-assured, "I will want to know why certain things must remain

  here."

  Aethyrael

  smiled thinly. So knowledge is not power. Knowledge is direction. And

  for the first time he understood: if he wished to learn, he had to do

  more than read. He had to choose.

  He

  stopped abruptly. It was no particular shelf. No marked book. Only a

  point in the room where his runes suddenly… faltered. Their flickering

  grew shallower, their response to the surroundings more subdued. As if

  they wished to warn him — a quiet whisper only he could hear: Stop.

  He

  furrowed his brow. That is new. Slowly, carefully, he reached out his

  hand. The movement was calm, controlled. His fingers drew closer to the

  book. And then — an impulse, like a gentle but uncompromising rejection.

  The air condensed for one heartbeat, his hand stopped abruptly, as if

  the room itself had decided it had no business there.

  Aethyrael withdrew his hand. He blinked. "…right," he said quietly. "That was new."

  Vaelthrys had not moved. But her attention was now fully on him.

  "What did you feel?" she asked.

  He

  looked at the book. At first glance it appeared unremarkable — old and

  sealed. "Not me," he answered after brief consideration. "Something that

  decided I did not yet belong." He raised his gaze. "That was no

  protection for me."

  Vaelthrys' eyes narrowed fractionally. Had he recognised that too quickly?

  "No," she said finally. "That was protection from you."

  That he did not… like. And precisely for that reason he remained calm.

  "And yet I can read the title," he observed.

  She

  stilled for a barely perceptible moment too long. He pointed to the

  narrow characters on the spine. Not runic or modern. Not something he

  had ever consciously seen. And yet he knew what was written there.

  "It is no language I have learned," he continued. "But I recognise it." He looked at her probingly. "Why?"

  Vaelthrys was silent. Then she stepped one pace closer, her voice now quieter, considered. "Because you did not begin at zero."

  Aethyrael's mouth curved slightly. "I suspected that."

  "At your creation," she continued, choosing every word with care, "more was transferred than merely form… or potential."

  "A

  part of the knowledge," she said finally, "that otherwise requires

  time, instruction and repetition… is already anchored within you." His

  runes responded in quiet recognition. "Not as memory," she added

  quickly. "More as… familiarity."

  He

  looked again at the books. At the inscriptions. At what he could read

  without ever having learned. So I know things without knowing from

  where.

  "And that," he said slowly, "did not happen by chance."

  Vaelthrys' gaze shifted away for one heartbeat. "No."

  He exhaled. Neither anger nor frustration. But a quiet recognition: timing. Again and again, timing.

  "And this script," he asked further, now almost casually, "is that also something I have… inherited?"

  Vaelthrys

  looked at him for a long time. "You have access to more than you are

  aware of," she said finally. "But not to everything. And that is

  intentional."

  He smiled crookedly. "Of course."

  He turned back to the book. This time without reaching out his hand. Very well then — not yet.

  "Then

  I will note one thing," he said calmly. "When something repels me, it

  is either dangerous…" He looked at her. "…or important."

  Vaelthrys held his gaze. "Sometimes," she said quietly, "it is both."

  Aethyrael nodded in confirmation. "Then I am curious how often I will hear that yet."

  Vaelthrys

  did not answer immediately. She set herself in motion again, and he

  followed her through the tall corridors of the castle. The stone beneath

  his feet was cool, but not lifeless — more like something that knew it

  existed. The further they went, the more the atmosphere shifted. Less

  echo and sound. More… space and unfolding.

  The

  castle breathes, he thought. Not metaphorically. Every last forgotten

  corner of Moonshire seemed truly to possess a life of its own.

  A

  faint current of air drew through the corridors, though no windows

  stood open. Torches burned calm and steady, yet their shadows moved as

  if responding to something outside his field of vision. The ceilings

  vaulted higher, lost themselves in darkness where no dust danced.

  Everything felt cleansed.

  "You ask many questions," Vaelthrys observed finally.

  "I have existed for a short time," he replied dryly. "That seems appropriate to me."