Viperyan's dream had finally taken form, even if only for a day. Behind her ran her closest friends, drawn into an adventure upon her own lands.

  She knew from the beginning of her training that she was too small. Speed and technique—that was what she needed if she wanted to survive confrontation with the enemy.

  As she sprinted through the trees, a strange current surged through her veins—a crackle of electricity, like lightning straining to be unleashed. It flooded every fibre of her being.

  Her senses caught him before her eyes did.

  A peasant.

  Viperyan drew one of her daggers by instinct. The blade sang through the air, spinning end over end.

  The —one of the Thornes' greatest heirlooms. She'd been given the set of four daggers, each embellished with an intricately carved basilisk. Rare green Cellestium stones served as their eyes. Forged from the ancient deep mines of the Rift—, the near-extinct metal of the phoenix.

  The intruder's scream tore through the woods, louder than the Vulgnis's dying cry. The dagger pierced the tree trunk, but not before slicing his cheek open.

  was lethal to non-Magicals. It caused a festering infection that only the strongest sorcery or counterpoison could undo. To keep their anonymity before the Sack of Inverdon in the Age of the Great, Magicals were guided by divine counsel to sheathe their blades with .

  Within the bounds of Inverdon, Viperyan had no reason to conceal her metal. Her blades gleamed naked and free.

  As she watched him struggle, the energy within her erupted—bursting outward, flinging him into the gnarled embrace of a nearby oak. He hung there, trapped by nothing but her will.

  A peculiar heat bloomed around her eyes. Wholly unfamiliar.

  "Yellow! Demon!" The man's cries echoed through the woods, growing louder with every step she took.

  "Vip..." Rezal's voice came faintly—distant, like a calling from miles away.

  With a simple snap of her fingers, she silenced the man. No spell cast. No wand bestowed. She didn't have one yet.

  "How..." Rezal's voice trembled.

  She turned to her friend. The peasant crashed against the ground—the lack of eye contact severed the thread holding him.

  Rezal's violet eyes met hers, wide and shimmering with something between awe and fear.

  "Is the Vulgnis alive?" she asked evenly.

  "I... lost sight of you. And then—" He gestured towards the fallen man.

  "Progress, isn't it?" Viperyan said, almost to herself, a spark of pride filling her chest.

  It was the first time she believed she had controlled her power. They stood silent for a moment before she broke it.

  "Our Queen will want to know what he's doing so far south." Viperyan glanced at the man sprawled trembling over the snow.

  Rezal brandished his wand. "!"

  A flick of blue light lifted the peasant. He cast a second hex—the countercurse to slow the infection. She didn't know how to perform it herself.

  "Neyr..." Rezal whispered, the word thick with worry.

  She looked at him. His eyes held hesitation—the customary pessimism he couldn't seem to hide.

  "By the Lady... what is wrong with you?" she demanded.

  "Your eyes." He said it quickly.

  "I felt burning." She blinked, still feeling it. "But I held my powers."

  "Yet..." He hesitated. "Your eyes were yellow."

  She froze. Afraid that he'd seen more than the colour shift. That he'd seen what she felt. The hunger. The sensation of holding a power she'd never felt before. The urge to take the peasant's soul.

  Her lips curved into a faint, deflecting smile. "Does power suit my fairness?"

  He rolled his eyes, smiling. As usual, her sarcasm deflected the attention. A veil over truth. A shield against danger.

  But as her heart slowed and her hands began to steady, Viperyan knew this was the first echo of what was coming in her . The first whisper of her Seal.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. She was a truth seeker when it came to everyone but herself.

  When it was about her, she preferred to evade uncomfortable truths, bending situations—and people—to preserve the illusion of an idyllic life. So far, she'd been successful.

  Reality was a fire she preferred to warm herself by from a safe distance.

  As she and Rezal found their way back to Nod, he was kneeling in the snow, metallic blue sheen all over him.

  The Vulgnis had crossed the deepest gate of .

  She hurried to embrace him, only realising what he'd been guarding after she bent.

  Odraud held in his arms the legacy of a mythical creature.

  Three cubs nestled against the dead fire fox, each no larger than Odraud's hand. White fur balls, yet distinct by the hues upon their chests, tails, and ears: one marked with the deep crimson of old wine, exactly like Viperyan's hair; another in green like pine needles; the last touched with the soft grey of storm clouds.

  Their ears were sharply pointed, their tiny paws matching the white of their fur. Six delicate tails unfurled from each cub—twice the length of their small bodies—yet no flames flickered from them.

  "What shall become of them?" Nod asked.

  His heart—softer than his bulk suggested—had already claimed them.

  Sitting beside them, Rezal cradled the green one in his lap. The creature instinctively curled its tail around him.

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  "What do you mean, Odraud?" Viperyan teased.

  The brothers looked at her simultaneously—furrowed brows, mouths slightly open.

  "If only the princess allowed you to keep them." She beamed with delight.

  "Is she—"

  "Are you—"

  They chorused, their voices bright with the wonder of children witnessing something miraculous.

  "It must be your destiny!" She scooped the grey cub into her arms. Its fur was impossibly soft, warm against her palms.

  "What will Gregoria say when their tails start bursting into flames inside her castle?" Rezal worried, now holding the red cub.

  "Please, Rezal. It won't. In two months they'd already be smarter than us." She shot back, glancing over her shoulder.

  "Oh, there are a few I wouldn't mind seeing burn!" Laughter erupted among the three, echoing through the forest after Odraud's words.

  "What are the odds of stumbling into a creature no living soul has seen for centuries?" Viperyan remarked, her tone sharp with impatience.

  The brothers exchanged puzzled looks.

  "By the ancients, you're fools!" she exclaimed, throwing up one hand. "Those creatures are said to birth nothing but one offspring. Haven't we found three?"

  The boys stayed silent, bemused.

  "I bet you're quicker with girls."

  They looked at each other with sheepish grins as she rose, her single platinum strand catching the sunlight and gleaming like the snow beneath their feet.

  "Three Vulgnis..." she said simply. "Like the Rellum offspring."

  Both brothers stared, slowly understanding.

  "You believe these are ours..." Odraud murmured.

  "I'm certain," she said. "The winter fox is your Dom sigil. Your Triad is complete. These three are the protectors of both you and your sister."

  Viperyan didn't wait for a response. Still holding the grey one, she turned back towards the castle. She had no intention of being late to meet Inafret.

  The brothers' murmurs echoed behind her, softly in the background.

  Few Magicals were blessed with a Triad. Fewer still at such a young age.

  Gregoria stood alone amongst the ones chosen by her creature, Cyrillus, before her Mekchala.

  Every Magical was meant for the bond, but not all were ready for it. For some, not even a lifetime could prepare them.

  At eighteen, each child of the old blood rose to adulthood—. The ceremony unfolded beneath the granite pillars of Yewsia's Temple, the heart of Inverdon. It was more than a passage of age; it was the moment when magicals became ready for the burdens of blood and fate.

  Nobles celebrated their rites in private gatherings honoured by the Queen's presence, whilst the common-born gathered at the temple once a year, on the first Sunday after —the Day of Forgiveness.

  Gregoria often used the festivities to recruit potential warriors. Inafret was seen in one of the celebrations, her name spoken before the six sacred candles.

  The tradition itself predated the Age of Chains. Little after the Age of Myths, there were Twelve Kingdoms and twelve Kings. When the temple rose. When the first animals appeared. When the Five Great Doms were founded: Thorne, Wisefair, Swan, Rellum, and Amberstand.

  "Your grandmother summons the three of you to the Crystal Cell."

  Cherstin's voice cut through Viperyan's contemplation. They'd already reached the gates. As they half-stepped in, Gregoria's steward stood in a fur-lined dark cloak that brushed the snow.

  The three of them kept silent, as if caught doing something wrong.

  "Your uncle," Cherstin continued, turning towards the brothers, "the Lord Warden, arrived in Inverdon early this morning, accompanied by his Owls." His words fell colder than the wind.

  Odraud placed a hand on Rezal's back. Cherstin's tone softened as he shifted focus.

  "I see some unexpected visitors have blessed the Queen's lands." He petted the dark-green cub in Rezal's arms. "Best leave your new companions within the castle. Come. I'll ask Scribe Eltry to see them to your chambers. Meet you at the Crystal Chamber."

  As smoothly as he'd arrived, Cherstin vanished up the ramps, the gait of someone accustomed to answering impatient commands from his Queen.

  Viperyan noticed the knot forming in Rezal's neck, the way his muscles tensed beneath his cloak, the uneven rhythm of his breath as they descended towards the dungeons. Too much effort to appear steady.

  She reached out and clasped his hand. Rezal squeezed back, tightly.

  "I'll leave the intruder in the third vault." Rezal hexed the floating body to follow the curse through the corridors until the iron sign of the lower vaults came into view.

  Not long after, the brightest chamber in that castle greeted them. The sight inside was unsettling: four knights, a queen, and a closed coffin.

  Before anyone could speak, a hollow thump echoed from inside the coffin.

  "Is Lord Faelan Slate dead?" Viperyan asked.

  "No, he's not," the Queen replied sharply, looking at the Lord Warden, who offered her a shallow nod.

  Unlike the other dungeon cells, the walls here were transparent, offering a view of the brook and the woods outside. Daylight poured in, unforgivingly bright, reflected off every surface.

  "Your uncle," Gregoria said, turning to the Rellum brothers, "had an encounter with the ancestors—the B?llards."

  "Shit," Viperyan murmured, piecing it together.

  "Language, Viperyan," Gregoria chided.

  Gregoria gestured towards Oiregor, prompting him to recount what had transpired. His tone carried both exhaustion and fear. He spoke clearly, retelling the events that had almost taken his life and filled the Rift's depths with corpses.

  When he finished, Gregoria ordered Rezal, "You shall be entrusted with finding a cure for Alwin."

  The golden boy nodded.

  "Souglaves?" Viperyan's voice came out louder than intended, echoing. Fear bleeding through.

  A heavy thump sounded from within the coffin, followed by a low, guttural growl that shook even the chamber's magic windows. The sound vibrated through her chest, making her teeth ache.

  "History, lads! We're witnessing history in a cell, not in a field!" Baaron mocked.

  Oiregor, Gregoria, and the rangers grasped the hilts of their swords. Rezal and Odraud lifted their wands. Talon moved cautiously towards the wooden box, pushing the lid aside.

  From where they stood, the interior remained shrouded in shadow.

  Driven by curiosity, Viperyan took a step forward.

  With unnatural speed, Alwin rose, landing on his knees. Baaron stepped in front of Viperyan, shielding her without thought.

  She couldn't look away. Whatever crouched before them had forgotten humanity. Had forgotten how to die.

  A grotesque shape hunched before them—wrists bound behind his back, fists knotted white, eyes rolled back as though they had forgotten how to close. A faint, guttural hiss escaped his throat, as if something burnt from within. The stench reached her then—rot and something metallic, like copper left too long in the sun.

  That same electricity slithered down her spine. Again.

  "I found it!" Alwin cried.

  Before anyone could react, he leapt from the coffin, tearing a dagger free from the strap around his ankle.

  Viperyan raised her hand—just two fingers would have been enough to stop him, as she had done in the woods. But Gregoria and Oiregor moved first. The Queen's motion was fluid, almost divine; she seized the edge of the coffin and pivoted it between them, forcing Alwin to turn.

  "Grab him... bind him... Goddess... bloody men," Gregoria muttered.

  Baaron grabbed Viperyan by the waist, pulling her back. She twisted from his grip, and with a flick of her wrist, she disarmed her brother. His dagger clattered to the granite floor, the sound barely audible in the chaos.

  "Here!" Alwin's voice carried a resonance no longer human.

  "What is here?" Viperyan's tone commanded with an authority that startled everyone in the chamber.

  "The b—"

  They never knew what Alwin was about to say.

  The words died in his throat.

  Lost forever.

  Before Viperyan could blink.

  A single arc of silver—Gregoria's longsword, Hope—cut through the air and severed Alwin's head.

  The blood struck her face, warm and thick, then cold. Colder than the snow falling outside. The taste of iron and rot flooded her mouth. She wrinkled her nose against the stench of death.

  Disgusting.

  For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

  All eyes turned to the Queen.

  Silence pressed down on them like a burial shroud.

  Gregoria turned pale beneath her composure, eyes shining with something deeper than rage. Terror.

  "I could've handled it!" Viperyan screamed.

  "I decide who lives and dies in my bloody kingdom!" Gregoria's tone cracked, unsteady, nothing like the woman they knew. "I decide who can handle!"

  The room froze.

  Viperyan's knuckles were white from the strength with which she clenched her fists, her brows drawn tight.

  Gregoria's chest heaved, her nails pressing hard against her palms around her sword hilt.

  "I must be surrounded by fools!" she shouted. "Clearly one of your own was under a Souglave's will. And you did nothing! What happens when these creatures manipulate someone into lowering Inverdon's wards?"

  Everyone present lowered their heads.

  Everyone except Viperyan.

  The girl defied her in silence, holding her grandmother's green gaze without flinching.

  And Viperyan was too fond of mythology for her own good.

  The Queen wiped Hope on Oiregor's cloak before turning away.

  "Clean this mess, Cherstin." The Queen strode out of the cell.

  Oiregor followed in her wake.

  Rezal and Odraud exchanged incredulous glances.

  Talon, Baaron, and Gunther began gathering what remained of Alwin. The wet sounds of their work made her stomach turn.

  Viperyan stood still, the scene repeating again and again in her mind. Her grandmother had never been reckless with steel, and what she'd said made no sense.

  Yewsia's Temple was the shield against the Souglaves' corruption. They were unable to cross its sanctified wards. Its waters surrounded Inverdon's lower wells.

  The hair on her neck shivered, and cold coiled around her bones.

  Gregoria had not left Alwin's body intact out of duty, but out of fear. Definitely a motive beyond what she allowed them to know.

  "It seems I won't be working on a cure any longer."

  Rezal's words found a depth even Hope could not reach.