The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the practice hall, scattering threads of gold across the marble floor. Outside, the great gardens of the Spirit Palace were still damp with dew, and the crisp scent of mountain air drifted in. Illyria stood barefoot on the polished stone, eyes closed, her breathing steady. One hundred years of training had taught her patience, but patience didn't make the mana in her veins any less restless.
Around her, wisps of golden and dark-blue mana curled like twin rivers, colliding and parting with each movement of her will.
Across from her, Seraphine stood with her arms folded, the faintest smile curling her lips. The Dragon Queen's presence filled the space like a quiet storm — steady, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. She watched as Illyria coaxed a thread of mana into her palm, shaping it into something bright and living. It flickered, almost perfect, before shattering into sparks.
"Again," Seraphine said, her voice carrying neither irritation nor indulgence. Only the calm firmness of a master who expected nothing less than success.
Illyria inhaled, gathering herself. Her bloodline was a knot of contradictions — Spirit and Dragon. From the Spirit side came the gift of Creation: the ability to weave matter and essence from pure mana. From the Dragon side came Memory Manipulation, the dangerous gift to slip into the fabric of another's mind, to take, alter, or plant memories as if rearranging the threads of a tapestry. And beneath that lay the more volatile inheritance — the power to absorb mana from others and bend it to her will. But Seraphine had warned her from the beginning: if she took in more than she could control, it would unravel her from the inside, leaving only destruction in her wake.
Control. Balance. Precision. Those were the words Seraphine drilled into her every day.
They moved through the training forms, Seraphine correcting the angle of her stance, the focus of her gaze. Sometimes the Queen's advice seemed like mere technical instruction, but Illyria had learned better. The things Seraphine said now — about holding back, about not striking before you understood the field — were the sort of wisdom that would echo in her later years, when she would stand alone in far colder courts.
She had spent decades learning to keep them apart. Now, for the first time, she tried to guide them together. A thread of gold wove into a ribbon of deep blue, spinning into a sphere that pulsed between her hands. It flickered like a living thing, its energy seeking to devour itself even as it grew. Sweat beaded her brow, but her expression did not falter.
A sharp crack split the air — the sphere collapsed into a ripple of harmless light. Her shoulders sank.
Halfway through the session, Illyria paused, wiping the sweat from her brow. For a moment, her chest tightened. A sharp, almost mournful pull rose deep inside her — like a voice calling from far away, though no sound reached her ears. It came without warning, fading as quickly as it struck. She shook it off, forcing her focus back to Seraphine's voice. But she did not see the way the Dragon Queen's gaze lingered on her, as if she too had felt that unseen thread.
When the lesson shifted to mana absorption, Seraphine watched her closely. The girl's hands glowed faintly, pulling in the ambient magic like water flowing into a vessel. She was careful now — learning to stop before the vessel overflowed.
"You're steadier than you were fifty years ago," Seraphine remarked. "Most would have torn themselves apart trying to master both creation and destruction. Perhaps you're the only one who will ever hold them together." She stepped closer, her golden eyes narrowing in quiet calculation. But you're still a child, she thought. Let me stay until this kitten learns she's a tiger. Or perhaps… until the dragon in her learns to spread its wings.
The princess glanced at her. "You're staring again."
Seraphine smirked. "I'm calculating whether you'll survive long enough to win the next spar."
"You sound confident."
"I am. In my victory."
It became a dance of easy banter, much like it had been a hundred years ago. For a while, they tossed lighthearted remarks back and forth — jabs about her clumsy control, exaggerated gasps at Seraphine's laziness, the occasional puff of mana meant purely to startle. In those moments, the weight of her lessons, her titles, her bloodlines felt far away.
Later, after the drills had ended, the two sat in the palace courtyard sharing a simple meal of steamed rice and mountain herbs. Illyria leaned back on her hands, watching the clouds drift past.
"You know," she said suddenly, "for someone so terrifying, you're easy to eat with."
Seraphine's brow arched. "Terrifying?"
"Well," Illyria grinned, "you are the most powerful being in this realm. But you're still patient enough to put up with me."
The Queen's lips quirked into something that was not quite a smile. "Don't mistake patience for softness. The day you stop listening, I'll show you how dragons teach."
It was an old, familiar exchange, and though her tone was cool, Seraphine never missed the faint laugh Illyria tried to hide. Some things — the rhythm of shared mornings, the comfort of another's presence — remained the same no matter how many years passed.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting the training hall in amber light, Seraphine dismissed her for the day. Illyria left with the easy stride of someone who had earned her rest, her mind already turning over the lessons she had learned. Somewhere deep inside, that strange, unshakable pull stirred again — faint, but persistent. A call she could not yet name.
Far behind her, Seraphine stood at the window, arms crossed. One hundred years had passed since this child had taken her as a teacher, and though she had grown stronger than most warriors could dream, Seraphine knew the real battles were still ahead. And when they came, Illyria would need every ounce of control, every lesson, every word she had ever been given.
***
When the session ended, the night had already deepened. Lanterns gave way to moonlight as she walked the palace corridors toward her private chambers. Her mother was waiting in the inner garden, seated beneath the white plum blossoms, her gown pooling like silver water.
"You've improved," the Queen said, offering her a cup of tea.
"Not enough," the princess murmured, sitting beside her.
There was a pause, the kind that carried more truth than any immediate answer. "Mother," she asked quietly, "what happens if… one day… I can't protect our kingdom? What if there comes a moment where even my power isn't enough? What is the last thread to hold on to?"
Her mother's gaze drifted to the moon. "Survival is not shame. Even a queen may retreat, if it means her people live another day. Hope is not something given by the world — it is something you carry in your own hand, no matter how heavy it becomes. Promise me this: even if you lose every crown, every fortress, you will never lose that."
The princess lowered her eyes, the words settling deep into the quiet parts of her mind.
Somewhere far from the palace, deep in the forbidden mountains, the night wind shifted. The ground trembled as if exhaling after a thousand years. In the heart of a cavern, the ancient seal that bound the First Dragon bore its first hairline crack.
That night, her sleep was restless. She dreamed of footsteps echoing through an endless hall — someone drawing closer. She ran. Sometimes away, sometimes toward, unable to decide which urge was stronger. Something in her blood answered to the presence, a strange pull like remembering a song she had always known. A flicker in her chest, in her mana, in the oldest part of herself — familiar, and yet impossibly distant.
The last thing she felt before waking was the certainty that whatever it was… it had always been hers.