I awoke to the familiar, comforting weight on my chest. For a moment, suspended in the hazy twilight between sleep and consciousness, I was just a boy in a bed. Then, the low, cosmic purr vibrated through my bones, and the reality of my new life settled back into place.

  Kaelus was a peculiar dragon. According to the ancient lore, dragons slept on mountains of gold and jewels. My brother, however, seemed to have missed that memo. He slept on me.

  I had tried, early on, to give him a proper hoard. I’d allocated a small pocket dimension and filled it with a literal ton of gold bullion and a scattering of flawless, fist-sized sapphires. He had inspected the glittering pile with detached curiosity, then compressed the entire thing into a single point of matter and tucked it away into a sub-dimension, never to be seen again. A waste of perfectly good building materials. His treasure, his hoard, the only thing he seemed to value, was me.

  A soft sigh escaped my lips as I gently pushed at his warm, heavy form. “I’m up, buddy. You’re going to crush my ribs.”

  He lightened his weight with a faint shimmer of anti-gravity, his purr still a steady, comforting rumble. I started to sit up, but was stopped by a second, much smaller weight pinned against my side.

  I lifted the silk sheets.

  There, curled into a tiny ball, was Lyra. She had somehow slipped past the Legionaries guarding my door in the dead of night and burrowed into my bed, a feat of stealth that both impressed and terrified me. She was five years old now, her face having shed its babyish roundness for the first hints of the sharp, elven features of our mother. She was wearing a fluffy, white bunny onesie, and in her arms, she clutched a miniature Mark VII plushy I had commissioned for her, its crimson and black felt a ridiculously cute mockery of my Reaper armor.

  A faint click from the corner of the room drew my attention. Patricia stood there, a fresh tray of tea in her hands, her expression serene and professional.

  “She had a nightmare,” Patricia explained in a low whisper, anticipating my unspoken question. “She refused to go to the Duke and Duchess’s chambers. She insisted only her ‘big bwother’ could protect her from the ‘shadow monsters.’” She placed the tea on the bedside table. “I thought it best not to argue, my Lord.”

  I looked back down at the sleeping form of my sister. The steady, quiet rhythm of her breathing was a more profound comfort than any fortress wall. For three years, I had slept with the cold hum of a dungeon core for a lullaby. This… this was better.

  I reached out and gently pinched one of her rosy cheeks. She stirred, her nose wrinkling in a sleepy protest. She let out a soft, giggling sigh and rolled over, her small body tumbling toward the edge of the bed. I shot a hand out, catching her just before she could fall, and pulled her back to the center.

  “Time to wake up, sleepyhead,” I murmured, nudging her again.

  She mumbled something incoherent, rubbing her eyes with a tiny fist still clutching the plushy. Patricia moved with silent efficiency, helping her sit up and smoothing down her messy silver hair.

  Today was an important day. A day of restoration. I rose and dressed while Patricia helped Lyra, who, upon being presented with a fluffy red dress for the day, had launched a small but determined protest. Her primary demand, relayed with the absolute authority of a five-year-old princess, was that her Reaper plushy also be provided with a matching, custom-tailored red dress. Patricia, with the unflappable poise of a master diplomat, had somehow produced one in minutes.

  When I emerged from my dressing room, Lyra was waiting. She was a vision in crimson fluff, her silver hair brushed into neat pigtails. She was fighting a valiant but losing battle against sleep, her eyelids drooping as she swayed on her feet. Her Reaper plushy, equally resplendent in its tiny, matching dress, was clutched tightly in one hand. Her other hand reached up for me.

  I scooped her into my arms, her small head immediately finding its familiar place on my shoulder, and walked out into the main corridor of the command block.

  The walk to the pocket dimension was a study in contrasts. The corridor was a cavernous space of polished obsidian and glowing crimson data-lines, a monument to cold, hard power. Legionaries in their black Power Armor snapped to attention as I passed, each one slamming a fist to their chest in the Legion salute, their movements sharp and synchronized. They were the hardened elite of my new nation, veterans who had seen me command a war that unmade armies.

  But their gazes, directed at me, were a mixture of absolute, fanatical reverence and something else… a soft, almost paternal warmth. They were not just looking at the Warlord, the Reaper, the Ghost of Wight. They were looking at their Lord, the architect of their salvation, holding a sleepy five-year-old girl in a fluffy red dress who was currently trying to burrow into his neck to escape the bright lights. The sight was so utterly, disarmingly normal, it was a profound testament to the new peace I had forged for them. The Warlord had a family. Their king was human. And their loyalty, already absolute, seemed to deepen into something unshakable.

  We reached a nondescript section of the corridor wall. With a thought, I opened a portal, a shimmering rectangle of white light that led into a pocket dimension I had prepared specifically for the dragons. We stepped through, from the cold steel of the flagship into a vast, open expanse under a simulated twilight sky. Floating islands of dark rock drifted lazily through the air, connected by bridges of pure, solidified light. A gentle breeze, smelling of ozone and clean mountain air, rustled through the crystalline flora.

  Cygnus was there, his colossal form resting on the largest of the floating islands, his sapphire scales already looking healthier. My father stood beside him, a hand resting on the great dragon’s snout. The hundred or so surviving Azure Dragons were scattered among the other islands, their wounds being tended to by my Mark III-B engineers.

  In the center of the main platform, Bob stood waiting. He was out of his armor, clad in the simple, formal black uniform of a Wight knight. He looked smaller, more vulnerable. His face was a mask of tense, nervous anticipation. Opposite him stood Aquarius, his own form a ruin of glorious potential, his shattered horn a stark reminder of the battle he had fought.

  “It has been a long time, my friend,” my father said to Bob, his voice a low rumble of encouragement. “The bond is weakened by distance, but it is not broken. You simply need to remind it of its strength.”

  Bob nodded, swallowing hard. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reached out, not with his hand, but with his soul. Aquarius did the same, his massive, reptilian head bowing slightly.

  For a long moment, there was nothing. Only the silent, waiting dragons, the low hum of the pocket dimension’s containment field, and the quiet, nervous breathing of a knight trying to reclaim a piece of his soul. Then, a single, faint thread of shimmering, aquamarine light appeared in the air between them. It was fragile, tenuous, a bare whisper of a connection.

  . . .

  The thread of aquamarine light pulsed, once, twice, mimicking the rhythm of a heartbeat that had been interrupted but never stopped. Then, it expanded.

  The air in the pocket dimension grew heavy with the scent of ozone and sea salt. The thread widened into a river of mana, a torrent of liquid blue energy that rushed between the man and the dragon. It washed over Bob, soaking into his skin, his bones, his very soul. He gasped, his back arching as the connection snapped fully into place, a bridge rebuilt in an instant.

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  Aquarius roared. It was a sound of sheer triumph. The dragon reared back, his wings spreading wide, shaking the floating island. Water materialized from the thin air around him, swirling in a vortex that healed the dullness of his scales, making them shine with a wet, vibrant luster. The jagged stump of his broken horn didn't grow back, but it began to glow with a fierce, internal light, a crown of honor for a battle survived.

  Bob fell to one knee, his hand pressed to his chest. When he looked up, his eyes were glowing with a faint, blue luminescence. The weariness, the grief, the weight of three years spent piloting a machine to fill the void in his heart—it all evaporated. He was whole.

  “Welcome back, partner,” Bob whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

  Aquarius lowered his massive head until it touched Bob’s forehead. A ripple of contentment washed over everyone present. The Third Knight of House Wight had returned.

  I watched, a lump forming in my throat. Beside me, my father placed a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. He didn't say anything, but the pride radiating from him was warm enough to heat the chilly air. Even Lyra, usually a whirlwind of motion, went still in my arms, her eyes wide as she watched the magical display, sensing the profound gravity of the moment.

  Then, movement at the edge of the platform drew my attention. George stepped forward.

  He looked nothing like the starving, broken slave I had found in the ruins. He had been washed, fed, and clothed in a fresh Legionary uniform, though it hung loosely on his emaciated frame. But his eyes were clear. He watched his brother, the Titan of Steel, the Dragon Knight, and I saw a complex mix of awe and desperate inadequacy on his face.

  He walked past his brother and knelt before me, his head bowed low, his hands trembling slightly against the stone floor.

  “My Lord,” George said, his voice cracking. “I… I have no dragon. I have no magic. I am just a man who held a spear because he had nothing else.” He looked up, his eyes burning with a fierce, desperate need. “But I want to serve. I want to be like him. I want to protect this house.”

  I looked down at him. I saw the potential there, buried under trauma and malnutrition. I saw the same steel that ran through Bob’s veins.

  “Loyalty is the only currency that matters here, George,” I said, my voice steady. “But loyalty without capability is just a tragedy waiting to happen. I will not send you out to die as a meat shield again.”

  I pointed toward the distant, shimmering outline of the main ship visible through the portal. “The Aegis Legionary Academy has been relocated aboard the flagship. It is a crucible. It is harder than anything you have ever faced. It will break you down and rebuild you into something stronger than steel.”

  I swept my gaze over the other retainers who had gathered at the edge of the platform, watching the scene. “This offer extends to all of you. There is no favoritism in my Legion. If you wish to stand beside the Dragon Knights, you must earn the right to wear the armor. Pass the entrance exams, survive the training, and you will be forged anew.”

  George didn’t hesitate. He slammed his fist against his chest, mimicking the Legion salute he had seen his brother perform. “I will not fail you, Lord Alarion.”

  “See that you don’t,” I replied.

  The tension broke as Lyra, finally overcoming her awe, squirmed in my arms. Her eyelids were drooping, the excitement of the morning finally catching up to her. When she got this tired, her usually crisp pronunciation would dissolve back into the soft, adorable babble of her toddler years. She pointed a chubby, accusatory finger at Bob and Aquarius, her words a sleepy mumble.

  “I want one…” she declared, her voice a soft slur.

  We all looked at her.

  “A dwagon,” she clarified, her sleepy gaze finding mine. “Papa has one. You have one. Bob has one. Why can’t I have a dwagon? I want a pink one… wif sparkles…”

  My father chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. He reached out and tickled her tummy, making her squeal. “It’s not that simple, my little princess. You don’t choose a dragon. They choose you. It’s a bond of souls.”

  Cygnus, who had been watching the proceedings with the bored detachment of a king, shifted his massive bulk. He lowered his head, his sapphire eye the size of a dinner plate, focusing on Lyra.

  The King speaks the truth, hatchling, his mental voice spoke, filled with ancient arrogance. Dragons, spirits, and angels… we are discerning creatures. We seek a resonance of the soul. He let out a snort of ozone. Unlike those feathered idiots in the south. Phoenixes are desperate, clingy things. They bond with the first warm body they see after hatching. They have no standards.

  Lyra pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Stupid picky dwagons.”

  I laughed, shifting her weight to my other hip. “Come on. Let’s get breakfast before you start a war with the Dragon King.”

  We walked back through the portal, leaving the knights and dragons to their reunion. The transition from the magical twilight of the pocket dimension to the sleek, sci-fi corridor of The Aegis was jarring, a reminder of the two worlds I bridged.

  As we walked toward the dining hall, Lyra’s head rested on my shoulder, her thumb finding its way to her mouth. She was fighting sleep again, the excitement of the morning taking its toll.

  I looked at her, and a dark thought cast a shadow over my mind.

  House Wight had a weakness. A fatal flaw in our bloodline. We had no innate magic. My father, my ancestors, I… we were all empty vessels until we bonded. Without Kaelus, I was just a man with a genius intellect. Without Aquarius, Bob was just a strong warrior.

  And Lyra… she was defenseless.

  The thought of her being hurt, of that bright light being snuffed out because she lacked a dragon, made my blood run cold.

  I needed a solution. I couldn't force a bond. That was the one thing my technology couldn't replicate.

  Or could it?

  I looked at the smooth, black plating of the corridor walls. I thought of the Mark VII-R Reaper suit, the way it amplified my will, the way it protected me.

  If she can't have a dragon yet…

  A schematic began to form in my mind, overlaying the real world. A suit. Not a massive war machine, but a personal, adaptive exoskeleton. Something light, woven from nanoweave magitech fibers and reinforced with compressed adamantium. A "Mini-Mark."

  Then, unbidden, a horrific image flashed through my mind.

  I saw Lyra, a few years older, giggling with unrestrained glee. She was wearing a small, sleek version of the suit I had just imagined. She pointed a tiny, gauntleted hand at a bulkhead in one of the ship's hangar bays, and a miniature plasma beam shot out, carving a molten, glowing smiley face into the adamantium wall. Explosions, small but worryingly numerous, blossomed across the deck around her.

  I stumbled, missing a step.

  “Bwother?” Lyra asked, lifting her head, sensing my sudden tension.

  I blinked, forcing the vision away. It was a projection of my own anxieties, a fear born of her boundless enthusiasm for "booms." If I did build one for her, I'd have to put safeties on the safeties. It would be like handing a child a loaded gun; the responsibility would be absolute.

  “I’m okay, fire-cricket,” I said, tightening my hold on her. “Just tripped.”

  We reached the dining hall. The doors slid open with a soft hiss. The smell of bacon and fresh bread wafted out, a scent of normalcy that helped banish the dark vision.

  My mother was there, standing by the table. She looked up, her face lighting up with a smile that warmed the room. She rushed over, wrapping both Lyra and me in a hug that smelled of lavender and peace.

  “There you are,” she said, kissing my cheek. “Breakfast is ready. And no working at the table, Alarion. Today, we are just a family.”

  I hugged her back, burying my face in her hair. The vision lingered in the back of my mind, a cold shard of ice, but I pushed it down. I had work to do. I had a suit to design.

  I would make sure she was safe. Even from herself.