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    Chapter 36


    A Beginning, and a Middle


    I was born in an orphanage. My mother gave birth


    to me there—and left me there.


    Some call it abandonment. Others call it fate. I


    often wonder—did she look into my eyes before she turned away? Did her fingers


    tremble on the threshold, or had she already decided before I took my first


    breath? But wondering changes nothing. The past is a forge without heat—it


    shapes nothing unless we feed it with the fire of our own intent.


    Life in an orphanage run by the Consortium of


    Guilds was not what most would call life. We never starved, never shivered


    through winter’s bite. We thrived. We were sharpened. We were not children


    raised with love but resources honed with purpose. They taught us letters and


    numbers, the arc of a blade, the whisper of aether in our veins. Discipline.


    Control. How to shape mana like a blacksmith tempers steel.


    The others embraced these lessons like iron


    taking to flame, bending, reforging, becoming what was expected. I did too—at


    first. But I didn’t just feel the weight of the sword in my grip—I felt the


    weight of the act itself. Every cut, every thrust, every flicker of magic meant


    something beyond its execution.


    To my instructors, these were tools. To me, they


    were questions.


    "Why do we fight? Is survival the only


    truth?"


    The dragon’s hollow eyes gleam in the darkness,


    its breath curling like mist in the still air. It does not blink, does not


    interrupt, but I feel its presence pressing against my words, testing their


    weight.


    "Can a blade know it was meant to kill? And


    if it does, does it grieve?" I continue, my voice quieter now. "If


    mana is life’s breath given form, do we shape it… or does it shape us?"


    Silence stretches, thick as an infinite expanse


    of the void. Then, at last, the dragon speaks.


    "If aether is the essence of all


    existence," it rumbles, each word settling deep in my bones, "then


    who are we to wield it? Or are we merely used by it, like a fiend clinging to


    its daily dose?"


    A smile tugs at my lips. "Yes," I say


    simply. "Exactly."


    I had kept these thoughts to myself for so long.


    The Consortium valued strength, not doubt. Questions had no place in a world


    that demanded obedience. But I was never satisfied with answers that sharpened


    only my body and not my mind.


    And so, I began to seek something more—though I


    had no words for what it was.


    "When I was five, my ley-line


    awakened." My voice is steady, though the cavern shudders with each slow


    breath from the dragon’s maw. "And with it came a sight neither taught nor


    trained. A sight no one else had."


    The dragon watches me—not with patience, but


    expectation.


    I continue.


    "At first, it was simple. A rock in my palm,


    and suddenly, I knew its story—the river that shaped it over centuries, the sun


    that warmed it just the day before. A leaf, and I saw the moment it unfurled,


    drinking golden light for the first time. Small things. Harmless things. Things


    without fear."


    But knowledge, even in its gentlest form, is a


    seed. It grows. It spreads.


    I learned to see beyond the present. Not just


    what something had been, but what it could become. A tree, both acorn and


    fallen husk. A blade, not just steel, but ore in the earth, rust waiting to


    claim it. Time coiled around itself, revealing past and future as one. And I


    stood at the center—adrift, unmoored from the illusion of a single, steady


    truth.


    Then, I turned this sight upon people.


    And that was when I learned the true weight of


    knowing.


    A hand on my shoulder, and I saw the battles it


    had fought long before it ever held a weapon. The hunger, the desperation, the


    quiet hopes turned to dust. A smile, and I saw the fractures beneath it—the


    words unspoken, the wounds left to fester. Every person was a river of choices,


    carving their own fate. And I... I could see the paths they didn’t even know


    existed.


    It was wonder. It was agony.


    The dragon exhales, slow and deep. Heat prickles


    my skin. "Fear is a tool best taken in small doses," he rumbles, his


    voice like grinding stone. "Overindulge, and it will be like swallowing


    raw, untempered aether..." A pause, then, almost amused, "or red-hot


    chili peppers."


    I snort before I can stop myself. Then catch it.


    Swallow it down. "Yes."


    The dragon’s gaze does not waver. "And yet,


    you are still afraid."


    I hesitate. Then nod.


    Because sight does not grant control. To know


    something is not to change it. To see what may come is not the same as shaping


    it.


    And that is the true horror of vision—not the


    vastness of what is seen, but the smallness of one’s power to alter it.


    Like anyone burdened by knowledge—those who chase


    understanding, believing it to be a gift—I, too, sought the truth.


    "I started with animals," I say.


    The dragon rumbles, amusement curling through his


    voice. "Ah, the innocence of discovery. The pursuit of knowledge...


    wrapped in curiosity."


    "Yes," I murmur. "That is what I


    told myself."


    I thought it was harmless. Animals did not think


    as people did. They did not deceive or hide behind words. They were simple.


    Understandable.


    So, I began small. Insects, rodents,


    pests—creatures whose lives flickered and faded unnoticed. But their stories


    were shallow, their fates unremarkable.


    Then, I found the sparrow.


    A fragile thing, trembling in my hands, its wing


    broken by a careless boy’s stone. I only meant to comfort it, to ease its pain.


    But when my fingers brushed its feathers—


    "I saw everything," I whisper.


    "Its birth, its first flight, the moment it learned the wind’s secrets.


    The first time it hunted. The first time it called to a mate." My throat


    tightens. "And then, I saw its end. Not in that moment, not at my feet—but


    the next day, in the jaws of a fox. Its feathers scattered like falling


    snow."


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    Silence stretches between us, heavy and waiting.


    The dragon does not break it.


    I press a hand to my chest, as if I can quiet the


    ache there. "I tried to stop it," I admit. "Tried to change what


    was written." A hollow smile. "But time does not bend for the will of


    a frightened child."


    A low, knowing rumble. "No," the dragon


    says. "It does not."


    My hands curl into fists. "That day, I


    learned that sight is not the same as power. Knowing is not the same as


    controlling." My voice softens, edged with something raw. "But it


    changes you all the same."


    The dragon tilts his head, ancient understanding


    flickering in his gaze. "And the sparrow?" he muses. "Did it


    meet its fate as you foresaw?"


    I lift my chin. "No…" The word is


    barely a breath. "Not that day. Not the next. Nor the next after


    that."


    It lived a week longer.


    Then, one night, a cat slipped into the


    orphanage, silent as the grave. It found the sparrow sleeping atop the


    windowsill, unaware. And just like that, fate came for it in another form.


    I exhale slowly. "Some things cannot be


    changed."


    The dragon watches me for a long moment. Then,


    softly, he says, "No. They cannot."


    The dragon stretches, his massive form shifting


    like a cat settling into slumber.


    “An interesting tale,” he muses. “Yet, I fail to


    see how this involves the signet ring.”


    I smile. “My…” I inhale sharply, feigning


    dramatic offense.


    He exhales, a rumbling sigh. I swear I catch the


    barest flicker of an eye roll.


    “Fine. Continue.”


    A soft chuckle escapes me. “Of all the ancient


    beings in existence, I thought you, of all creatures, would understand—every


    story has a middle and an end.”


    The dragon chuckles in return. “But you cannot


    grasp a good ending without knowing the beginning. Nor weave a worthy tale


    without seeing the full picture.”


    "You''re right." That much I’ve learned. I''ve always


    been caught between knowledge and reality—the cruel, unchanging truth that I


    could see everything yet change nothing. The burden of foresight without


    control.


    "Wise words for someone as young as


    you," the dragon muses, a note of approval in his tone.


    I smirk. "I spent five years—five long


    years—searching for answers to a question I didn’t even have the words for. An


    answer I wished, more than anything, wasn’t true."


    How does one seek what they cannot name? How does


    one chase a truth they hope never to find?


    The dragon exhales, his breath rolling over the


    earth like distant thunder. "To seek without knowing is the burden of all


    who yearn," he rumbles. "The moth does not name the flame, yet it is


    drawn all the same. The river does not question the ocean, yet it carves its


    path unceasingly. Knowledge is not always a lantern. Sometimes, it is the


    abyss—ever widening, ever hungry. And those who chase it must ask: is it truth


    they seek… or merely the end of the search?"


    I meet his gaze and nod. Then, I continue.


    I was ten when the raids began.


    The Blood Raiders came from across the


    sea—trolls, but not like the ones of our homeland. Our trolls are wise,


    shamanistic, perceptive. More human than beast.


    But the Raiders… they were something else.


    Intelligent, yes, but cruel. Brutal. Merciless.


    They took the northern shores, burning villages,


    enslaving those who survived.


    I was among them.


    The orphanage where I grew up lay on the


    outskirts, vulnerable. When the Raiders came, we were nothing but kindling for


    their war machine. They took me, a child, and cast me into their cages.


    And that is where I met her. Selena.


    She was Fox-kin, pregnant, her body frail from


    captivity. She wasn’t from our land but from a distant continent. The Raiders


    had stolen her, used her—to birth warriors for their armies. But her offspring


    were always like her. Fox-kin. Never trolls.


    Her latest pregnancy was her last chance. If she


    didn’t bear them a son, a warrior of their blood, they would end her.


    I knew then what my fate would be.


    I had seen it, in the remnants of her memories.


    The dragon’s gaze sharpens. “You knew you would


    not survive.”


    “Yes.”


    “You saw her death.”


    “Yes.”


    “And you saw yours.”


    I exhale. “Yes.”


    Something shifts in the air. The weight of his


    presence changes. When I lift my gaze, I see him—not as a monster, not as the


    creature spoken of in fearful whispers.


    He is… breathtaking.


    Golden-red eyes gleam in the firelight, his


    obsidian scales shimmering like polished night. And yet, it is not his form


    that steals my breath.


    It is the sorrow in his gaze.


    A single tear falls, lost in the endless black of


    his scales.


    “Go on,” he says, voice softer now.


    I do what anyone would do in that situation.


    “I survived.”


    “You killed.”


    I nod.


    “That,” he murmurs, “is merely one way of putting


    it.”


    “It is the only way of putting it.”


    The dragon studies me, then nods.


    I didn’t escape alone. I freed Selena. Together,


    we fled, though there was no home to return to. The Raiders had burned my


    village to the ground. We wandered for months, fighting for every step forward


    until we reached the nearest city.


    By then, the war had turned. The Magisters and


    the Consortium had joined forces to drive back the Raiders.


    But for Selena, it was too late.


    She went into labor, and despite everything, I


    could do nothing to save her.


    Once again, I was powerless.


    The dragon’s voice is a quiet rumble. “But…”


    “But,” I whisper, “she did something I never


    expected.”


    She named me her next of kin.


    And thus, Selene became my sister.


    “I couldn’t save Selena,” I murmur. “But I saved


    her child.”


    “And?”


    “And… I became intrigued by an idea.”


    The dragon tilts his head. “The child’s fate.”


    “Yes.”


    “What did you see?”


    “Nothing.”


    The dragon stills. “Nothing?”


    “No past. No present. No future.”


    “Impossible,” he breathes.


    I nod. “I thought the same.”


    “And what did you do?”


    I exhale, my fingers curling into fists.


    “What any sane, responsible person would do.”


    A wry smile touches my lips.


    “I experimented on my sister.”