The path to the clearing was marked on no map. It had to be earned, sensed, allowed to guide. Virellia walked in silence, Garlan and Marenna at her heels. With every step, the forest grew older, more still, more watchful.

  When they arrived, a shiver ran through the air. The place was vast, perfectly circular, encircled by colossal, twisted trunks. The sky above seemed higher than anywhere else. Moss lay thick on the ground. The silence… profound.

  But they were not alone for long.

  A mist rose slowly from the ground. Shapes took form: draconic silhouettes clad in ancient armor, ritual masks, oaths frozen in the ether.

  The Guardians of the Clearing.

  One stepped forward, its white gaze fixed on Garlan.

  — You carry fire… but you are no dragon.

  Another turned to Marenna.

  — Your mana is gentle, but it is not ancient.

  The first continued:

  — Blood is not enough. Presence is not enough. Who are you to demand audience with the Council?

  The mist tightened around them, vibrating like a cage. Virellia did not move. She only observed.

  Garlan turned to Marenna. They had not foreseen this. But she reached out her hand, wordless. And he took it.

  A shared breath rose. Unprepared. Unspoken.

  She released her aura of life, deep green. He released his heat, his fire. Their mana fused into an intense halo. Then a breath.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  A surge.

  They opened their mouths together, and a draconic exhalation burst toward the sky—braziers and pollen, red and green intertwined.

  The Guardians recoiled. Some fell to their knees. The mist split. Space opened.

  And the circle of ancients stirred.

  Skjoldür appeared in a column of frozen mist. Kazuhan, as an updraft from no direction. Darak’Thar, rising from a root turned stone. Virellia stood among them, at their height.

  The Council was gathered.

  — Why summon us, half-dragon? Skjoldür asked.

  Garlan bowed. Not in submission. In respect.

  — I want to know if my father is alive. And if he is… where I can find him.

  He paused, then added more softly:

  — I don’t know his face. Not even an image. I could have passed him without knowing. If any of you have seen him… tell me what he looked like.

  He drew a long breath.

  — And if he lives… then where is my mother? Why did she leave me in that village? What am I truly meant to become?

  A long silence.

  Kazuhan observed. Darak’Thar rumbled low.

  At last, Skjoldür spoke:

  — None of us ever saw his face clearly. He hid it, even from his peers. He was young, and yet… feared.

  Kazuhan added:

  — He wielded fire without being consumed. And wind without effort. As if the boundary between elements no longer mattered to him.

  Darak’Thar, grave:

  — We do not know where your mother is. But she was one of us. A dragoness of fire and wind, daughter of Ignir, granddaughter of Kazuhan. She refused oaths. She never wished to leave you… but she could not remain.

  Another silence. Less empty. More weighty.

  — Her trail is faint. Old. She has not resonated in our spheres for a long time.

  — But it is not extinguished, Virellia said softly.

  — Perhaps someone has seen her, murmured Kazuhan. An ancient flame of steel and light. One who once faced the Shadow.

  Garlan raised his head.

  — Arcalion?

  — He may know what you do not. If he still lives.

  The Council slowly dissolved, each Primordial drawn back into their element. Only Virellia remained.

  — Go, she said. But know this: you have been recognized. All that remains is to become what you are.

  She paused, then added, almost in a whisper:

  — Your mother was fire and wind, free and untamed. If she still walks this world, you will not find her by seeking. But the wind knows her. And life has not forgotten her.