<b>Volume 2 Chapter 8: The Thief, The Book, and The Lie </b>–


    Drakon stepped out of Drakenspire Keep and onto the grand stairway, where the night air was thick with the roar of the crowd. Thousands had gathered beneath the towering fortress, a sea of banners and torchlight, voices rising in fervent worship.


    "Azhad Drakhan!"


    "Lead us into glory, Azhad Drakhan!"


    The title, once an honorific of ancient Draconis warlords, now belonged to him—a name spoken in prophecy, whispered in the halls of power for centuries. Azhad Drakhan, the warlord who would vanquish all foes and secure a dynasty that would last a million years. The people had made their choice. His legend grew with every battle, every victory. The most popular bards sang his praises across the hypernets, their compositions turning skirmishes into sagas. The press, always eager for blood, surged forward, bombarding him with questions.


    "Lord Drakon! A word on the campaign against House Auroxa four months ago—"


    "Lord Drakon! Reports claim you personally led the skirmish in the Vale! What of the accusations of war crimes? Civilian casualties—"


    "Lord Drakon! Do you deny—"


    He ignored them, descending the stairway with the unhurried confidence of a man untouchable. The Draconis Guard moved in, armored figures pressing back the more desperate reporters, subduing those who came too close. A few struggled, but the guards were swift and thorough. The sea of voices blurred into meaningless noise. Drakon had no need to explain himself. The strong did not answer to the weak.


    "My lord! My lord!" A bright, eager voice cut through the chaos.


    Aeliana Shatterscale stood at attention beside his waiting transport, her posture rigid, her silver-and-crimson armor polished to perfection. She was young, her short obsidian hair neatly kept, her violet eyes alight with enthusiasm. A knight-in-training, sworn to his service. His squire.


    "How did the council go?" she asked, the words spilling out quickly before she caught herself. She coughed, straightened. "I mean—did it proceed as expected, my lord?"


    Drakon barely spared her a glance. "As expected."


    She beamed, undeterred. "And—oh! Who’s your new friend?"


    Drakon stiffened. His new "friend."


    Lyrius walked beside him, the reanimated husk of his brother, his gait eerily smooth, too measured. His silver hair shimmered beneath the glow of Drakenspire’s firelit banners, his face bearing an easy smile.


    "Oh! Right, I should introduce myself!" Lyrius grinned, clapping Drakon on the back like an old drinking companion. "Lyrius Draconis. Though I suppose you already knew that." He laughed, too lighthearted for a corpse.


    Drakon’s entire body tensed. He turned sharply, his gauntlet humming as he prepared to materialize his mace—


    Then he stopped.


    The undead thing wore Lyrius'' face. It smiled at him without a care in the world. Just like before. Before the wars. Before the blood and the betrayals. Before Drakon had sent him away, thinking it would protect him from the council’s predations. Before everything fell apart.


    "Brother," Lyrius said, his tone easy, casual.


    Drakon exhaled sharply, fingers twitching, but he let the weapon go. His chest ached with something unspoken, something unwanted.


    He turned away.


    "Get in the transport. We leave immediately."


    The mission was clear. Dragan’s words echoed in his mind.


    "You shall take him with you. Make use of him well."


    Find and obtain a Starforge.


    By any means necessary.


    "The people call out to you, my lord. They call you Azhad Drakhan." Aeliana practically vibrated with excitement, eyes gleaming. "Isn’t it amazing? The legend, the prophecy—you’re living it! A dynasty lasting a million years, and you’re at the heart of it!"


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    Drakon exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don’t have time for myths, Aeliana."


    "Oh, but myths have time for you, my lord!" Lyrius chimed in, strolling beside them, hands clasped behind his back. "You really should lean into it more. Maybe give a rousing speech next time, something about fire and blood—"


    Drakon shot him a glare. "Shut up."


    Lyrius merely chuckled. "See? That’s exactly the kind of brooding, reluctant hero energy people eat up. Keep it up, and you’ll have entire religions forming in your name."


    Drakon paused and gave him a disapproving look. Lyrius just kept smiling at him without a care in the world.


    They reached the clearing within the Keep grounds, where their transport waited—a beast of legend encased in cold steel. Shadowfrost stood motionless, its massive black scales glistening under the sunlight,, jagged icy protrusions jutting from its spine like frozen obsidian. Its head, encased in draconic power armor, bore the sigil of House Draconis, its eyes glowing with artificial luminance. Luminite afterburners, affixed to its plated wings, hummed faintly, augmenting its speed for straight flight.


    Lyrius let out a low whistle. "Well, that’s new. My first time seeing a ‘Terran’ dragon."


    He tilted his head, as if processing the thought, then chuckled. "Then again, it’s my first time outside the Necrotech Research Facility. At least, I think it is. Hard to say—I don’t remember a damn thing from before my death. Maybe I’ve seen one before, maybe not. Feels like I should have, though."


    Aeliana beamed with pride, stroking Shadowfrost’s armored neck. "We of House Shatterscale don’t make very good necromancers," she said, grinning. "But we make damn good dragon riders."


    She tugged on the rope ladder that led up to the reinforced cockpit—a steel-clad platform affixed to the beast’s back where rider and dragon were neurolinked. One by one, they began the climb.


    Drakon placed his boot on the first rung, but before he could ascend, a hooded figure brushed past him, their shoulder knocking against his.


    "Pardon me," she murmured before slipping away into the crowd.


    His fingers twitched. Something felt… off.


    Then he noticed.


    His purse was gone.


    His gaze snapped back to the retreating figure.


    "Thief," he growled, and without another word, he took off in pursuit.


    The thief moved like liquid shadow, weaving through the castle grounds with an unnatural grace. Guards lunged at her, but she twisted, ducked, and leapt over their outstretched arms as if she had rehearsed the motions a thousand times. Drakon was close, his armored boots thundering against stone, but she was faster.


    She reached the outer gates and, without hesitation, leapt off the cliff’s edge.


    Drakon skidded to a stop, peering over the ledge. The city sprawled below, its neon lights flickering against the abyss.


    Then, impossibly, she rose—wind swirling at her feet, her cloak billowing like a specter’s shroud.


    Magic.


    Drakon clenched his jaw, preparing to cast his own gravitational magic to give chase, but a roar cut through the air. Shadowfrost descended from above, Aeliana gripping the reins. "Hop on! We’re not letting her get away!"


    Drakon vaulted onto the saddle. "Keep up."


    Aeliana grinned. "Oh, we’ll do more than that. Try to outfly this!" She activated the afterburners.


    It was a mistake.


    The speed was too much, overshooting their flight path while the thief plummeted into a café below, disappearing into the crowd.


    Drakon cursed, leaping from Shadowfrost, using gravitational magic to break his fall. He scanned the faces around him. Then he saw her—already climbing the stairway to the Drakonheimr Grand Library. She turned, held a finger to her lips, and vanished inside.


    Drakon stormed into the Drakonheimr Grand Library, the towering doors shutting behind him with a muted thud. The world outside faded, swallowed by the dim, golden glow of lumen-crystals suspended in midair. Rows upon rows of ancient tomes, digital archives, and holographic displays stretched into the darkness, a maze of history and secrets bound in ink and light.


    His boots were deafening in the hushed sanctum as he prowled forward, eyes sweeping the vast chamber. The thief was here. Somewhere.


    Drakon circled the ground floor once, twice—then a third time, his frustration mounting with each pass. His grip on his gauntlet tightened. No sign of her. No fleeting shadow or rustling fabric. Just silence, the faint hum of archived knowledge filling the void.


    A staircase spiraled upward to the upper tiers, where narrow walkways and hidden alcoves crisscrossed between towering shelves. He ascended, methodically patrolling each level, pulling open curtains, scanning behind statues, pacing the endless rows of texts. Time stretched thin. Minutes blurred into an hour.


    Then, a voice, lilting and amused, drifted through the stillness. "You chase well, but you search like a man who’s never lost anything before."


    Drakon whirled, but the source of the voice remained unseen. His pulse quickened, rage mingling with something else—curiosity.


    A soft clink echoed in the silence. His purse landed at his feet, tossed from a slender hand. A figure emerged from the shadows between the shelves—a woman with fiery red hair tumbling past her shoulders, green eyes glinting with mischief. A playful smirk curved her lips, as if she found amusement in his frustration.


    Drakon frowned, crouching to retrieve it. The weight was the same, untouched. His jaw tightened. "What is this? Some sort of game?"


    A book dropped beside it with a dull thud.


    Drakon’s gaze flicked to the worn leather cover. The True History of House Draconis.


    His brows knit together. He had never seen this book before. He flipped it open, scanning the yellowed pages, the ink dancing with truths he did not recognize. His fingers stilled on a passage that should not exist. A record unspoken in the halls of his ancestors.


    His eyes lifted, demanding answers—but the thief was gone.


    Vanished like smoke between the shelves, leaving only the weight of a revelation waiting to be read.