[location: castle valvoral infirmary]
—————
Thalia didn't say anything when Alteria entered.
Not at first. She stood beside the bed with her arms crossed, eyes hard, face unreadable.
The room was silent except for the slow rhythm of Raze's breathing. Shallow, steady, but strained.
He looked pale under the candlelight.
His fire had dimmed somewhere deep inside and hadn't found its way back yet.
Alteria stepped closer.
"I heard," she said.
"Of course you did," Thalia replied.
"I didn't know he would—"
Thalia cut her off. "Collapse?"
Alteria held her ground. Thalia stepped back from the bed and turned to face her fully now.
"They had him speak the oaths like a seasoned knight. All three."
Alteria looked down. "I wasn't consulted."
"That's not an excuse."
A beat.
"You stood there, Alteria,"
Thalia said, voice tightening.
"You watched him say he'd die for you. For this house. For your father. And you said nothing."
Alteria's expression didn't break.
Her silence did.
"I didn't agree with it," she said. Quiet. Firm. "But disagreeing doesn't stop my father. You know that."
Thalia shook her head.
"I know what it means to let something happen because it's easier than stopping it."
She glanced back at the bed.
"He's not a soldier. Not yet. He doesn't even know what he is. And you let them treat him like something they own."
Alteria's hands curled at her sides.
"I don't see him like that."
Thalia arched a brow. "Then what do you see?"
Alteria didn't answer immediately.
She remembered the courtyard.
The moment he stopped dodging.
When he started moving. Not like prey but like someone trying to claim something.
She remembered the words.
The words she spat at him when he challenged her.
"You're not just a weapon. You're my Drakos."
And she'd meant it. Even if she hated how it sounded now.
"I see him," Alteria said finally. "And I see what he's becoming."
Thalia looked at her for a long moment.
Then nodded, just once. Not approval.
Not forgiveness. Just a warning shelved for later.
"You can try waking him. He'll need to walk on his own soon enough."
She turned toward the door. Paused.
"You want to protect him? Then stop acting like that bond was ever meant to protect him."
And she left.
— later in the valvoral infirmary
The first thing he noticed was the quiet. Not silence.
There was breathing, it was his, shallow and slow and something softer across the room.
But everything else felt stilled, like the walls were holding their breath for him.
He opened his eyes.
White ceiling. White curtains.
Light spilling in through a window, just enough to remind him that time hadn't stopped.
Time never stops.
His body felt broken. No. Not broken.
His body felt used. Just … spent.
Raze shifted his head to the side. Alteria sat in a low-backed chair, gloves folded on her lap.
Her posture wasn't perfect. Not like usual.
Her shoulders were relaxed.
Arms resting loosely at her sides. She saw him.
"You're awake."
He didn't speak at first.
Just blinked again, letting the room settle.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Think so."
Alteria stood, crossing the floor with soft steps. She didn't hover, didn't reach for him. Just stood within reach if he needed it.
"You passed out," she said, calm. "After the oaths."
Raze sat up—slowly. His muscles responded, just enough.
"Guess the system didn't like what I wrote."
She tilted her head. "So you admit it?"
"I figured you'd find it."
Alteria pulled a folded parchment from her coat.
"I wasn't looking for it," she said. "But you left it where someone would."
She handed it over.
Raze unfolded the page.
> I don't owe them that.
He let the paper sit between his fingers.
"Do you still believe it?" she asked.
"I didn't stop," he said. "Even when the pain hit. So yeah. I do."
Her eyes didn't narrow. Didn't flicker. Just watched. "Do you think that makes you disloyal?"
Raze looked up at her—tired, steady. "I think it makes me real."
She didn't answer right away. "I called you mine once," she said. "But I don't want a title that turns you into something you hate."
Raze stood, legs stiff. He didn't sway this time. "I'm going for a walk," he said.
Alteria didn't stop him.
"The west wing's empty after curfew," she said quietly. "Third corridor past the archway."
He paused at the door. Glanced over his shoulder. "You're not your father," he said.
"I know," she replied.
And he left.
He turned down the corridor.
The corridors now filled with nothing of importance—guards. A fleet of them, truthfully. Perhaps they had only come to keep a check, or maybe get a look at the new royal Drakos. Most didn't say anything.
A few nodded, or tilted their heads just slightly.
None saluted.
Their eyes lingered a little too long. Not hostile. Just… measuring.
He ignored them.
The hallway opened wider the farther west he walked. The walls lost their polish. Paintings became older. Dust claimed corners that hadn't seen foot traffic in years. There was a smell—not foul, not rot—but old parchment and memory.
Eventually, the sound of boots faded behind him.
And he was alone.
He stepped beneath an archway carved with the Von Rimu crest—horns curling inward around a jewel. The west wing swallowed him in quiet.
No patrols. No footsteps. Only portraits. Oil and dust, frame after frame. He stopped in front of one.
The figure was dressed in armor. Light silver plate with red undertones. The eyes were dark—too dark for detail—but steady. Familiar.
A Drakos. Unnamed.
The plaque beneath it had eroded to smears. Just a single word remained:
"Lesprin, The Shield."
Raze stared at it for a long time. Something about the shape of the stance. The tension in the shoulders. Like whoever they were… they had been tired too. Like they had been stuck as a piece in this chess game of the Von Rimu family…
"You're not the first."
A voice behind him. Soft, sharp, sure of its place.
Raze turned.
She leaned against the edge of the archway, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded.
Not a soldier's posture—but she didn't look casual either.
Her hair was loose around her shoulders, pin straight. Her eyes were the same green as Alteria's, but colder somehow.
Measured. Strategic.
She stepped inside.
"They fought in the final campaign against House Ivalene," she said, nodding toward the painting.
"Dragged through every battle the crown could think of. Once the war ended, they were thanked. Bowed to. Then discarded. Just as the other Houses Drakos were."
Raze kept his eyes on her.
"No title. No statue. No name."
She smiled slightly.
"Of course not. They were Drakos."
She moved closer, brushing dust from another frame beside him. Another nameless face. This one looked even younger.
"They served like weapons. Died like weapons."
Her tone shifted.
"But some of us remember."
Raze didn't speak.
She offered a hand—not stiff, not rehearsed. But it will flourish. Like someone who enjoyed introductions more than small talk.
"I am Nyra Cirelia Von Rimu, but…"
Her voice drops down a decimal.
"You can call me Nyvina Damaris."