The sky opened around them like a vast, living sea. Roselia glided through the upper currents with practiced ease, her wings cutting through the pale morning light. The air here was thin and cold, carrying the scent of distant storms and the faint metallic tang of high?altitude clouds. Below them, the world was a patchwork of shifting white—the cloud ocean stretching endlessly, broken only by the occasional mountain peak piercing through like a jagged island.

  Oberon leaned forward, trying to peer through the breaks in the clouds. “I still can’t see anything down there.”

  “You won’t,” Roselia replied. “Not from this height. We’re flying the sky?roads.”

  “The what?”

  “The currents Drakens use for long travel,” she explained. “They form naturally between mountain ranges and storm belts. They’re faster, safer, and harder for predators to reach.”

  Oberon blinked. “There are predators up here?”

  Roselia’s frills twitched. “Not many. But enough.”

  He decided not to ask. The wind shifted, brushing against his armor in cool waves. Roselia adjusted her wings, catching a rising thermal that lifted them higher. Her scales shimmered in the sunlight—pale greens and soft golds reflecting like ripples on water. But beneath that beauty, Oberon felt something else.

  Tension.

  Her muscles were tight. Her wingbeats were too controlled. Her tail flicked with a nervous rhythm she probably didn’t realize she was doing.

  “So…” he said gently, “who exactly are we meeting?”

  Roselia hesitated. The sky?road hummed around them, the wind whispering through her feathers. “My parents.”

  That explained everything.

  She continued, “Before we arrive, I should tell you what they mean to me. And what my childhood was like. Otherwise… you’ll be walking in blind.”

  Oberon nodded. “I’m listening.”

  Roselia inhaled deeply, her wings steadying as she prepared herself. “Then let me show you.”

  The clouds dissolved into shadow. The wind fell silent. And Oberon felt the world tilt—not physically, but emotionally—as Roselia’s voice carried him into a memory that felt too heavy to be spoken in the open air.

  The air was thick. Heavy. Wet. A vast marsh stretched in every direction—a labyrinth of twisted trees, stagnant pools, and fog that clung to the ground like a living thing. The sky above was always grey, always dim, as though sunlight refused to touch this place. In the center of the marsh stood a colossal tree, its roots coiling like serpents, its trunk hollowed into a cavernous home.

  This was where Roselia grew up.

  “My father, Six?Claws, and my mother, Retral, were powerful,” her voice echoed through the memory. “Closer to the great ones than any Drakens of their era. Some believed they were the strongest pair born in a thousand years.”

  Inside the tree, the air was cold and stale. The walls were lined with old claw marks—some from training, some from rage. The floor was covered in dried moss and old bones. Roselia appeared in the memory—younger, smaller, her scales brighter and less scarred. She approached her father, who sat sharpening his talons against a stone.

  “Father,” young Roselia said, “can we go outside?”

  Six?Claws didn’t look up. “No, no, no. We risk being found. If the tavern or the other Drakens survived, they’d hunt us down. No fun in that, right, honey?”

  He was talking to someone who wasn’t there. His alter ego. His other voice. His madness.

  Retral drifted through the background like a ghost—silent, distant, her eyes half?closed as though she lived more in dreams than in waking life.

  “She wasn’t comforting,” Roselia’s present voice said. “She wasn’t cruel. Just… absent. I learned early that I had only myself.”

  Young Roselia rolled her eyes. “You’ve said that for thirty years. Can we at least spar? I need something to do.”

  Six?Claws finally looked at her, a grin spreading across his face. “You thirst for battle now?”

  “No,” she said. “But what else is there? I need to see daylight, or I’ll turn into an owl with how nocturnal we are.”

  Six?Claws laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that shook the tree. “That’s my daughter. You’ve gained skill. You train day and night. You’re no slave to weakness. You take after your mother.”

  Roselia’s voice tightened. “He always said that. I hated it.”

  Young Roselia snapped, “Father, I tire of your rambling. Can we hurry?”

  Six?Claws stood, stretching his massive wings. “Very well. We’ll go to the marsh. No tricks. No rash moves. Agreed?”

  Roselia nodded. They stepped out into the fog?choked marsh.

  Oberon blinked, the memory fading like mist. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

  Roselia’s wings dipped slightly as she glanced back at him. “That was my childhood.”

  He swallowed. “Roselia… I—”

  But she cut him off gently. “We can talk more when we land.”

  Below them, the forest canopy opened, revealing a clearing bathed in soft morning light. Roselia descended. The sky?roads gradually dipped toward the earth, and the cloud ocean thinned until the world below finally revealed itself. A vast forest stretched beneath them—ancient, dense, and alive with shifting shadows. The treetops swayed in slow, rhythmic waves, their leaves shimmering with dew that caught the morning light.

  Roselia angled her wings, descending in a smooth spiral. The air grew warmer as they dropped, carrying the scent of pine resin, damp bark, and distant running water. Birds scattered from the canopy as her shadow passed over them, their cries echoing through the branches. She slipped beneath the treeline with practiced precision, weaving between thick trunks and low?hanging branches until she found a small clearing bathed in soft, dappled sunlight. Her claws touched the mossy ground with barely a sound.

  Oberon stirred awake, blinking as the world came back into focus. “We’re… down?”

  Roselia glanced back at him, her frills lifting slightly. “You fell asleep halfway through my story.”

  He winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s fine,” she said, though her voice carried a faint pout. “We needed to rest anyway.”

  She pushed aside a cluster of ferns with her tail, clearing a space beneath a wide?branched tree. The ground here was soft, covered in thick moss and fallen leaves. The air was cool and still, broken only by the distant chirping of insects and the rustle of small creatures moving through the underbrush.

  Roselia curled herself into the clearing, her wings folding neatly against her sides. “Are you sure you don’t need to eat? We have a long way to go, and we won’t be taking many breaks.”

  Oberon nodded. “Yeah… you’re right. I’ll look around. You can sleep.”

  Roselia lowered her head onto her forearms, exhaustion finally catching up to her. “Wake me if anything happens.”

  Within moments, her breathing slowed, her tail curling protectively around her stomach. But even in sleep, her body trembled faintly—a subtle shiver that Oberon recognized now as nerves. She had opened up to him. Truly opened up. And it had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.

  Oberon stepped quietly into the forest, letting the cool air clear his mind. The trees towered above him like ancient guardians, their trunks thick with age, their bark etched with deep grooves and patches of moss. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the canopy, illuminating drifting motes of dust and pollen.

  He gathered sticks and fallen branches, stacking them in his arms, but his thoughts drifted far from the task.

  It’s crazy to think I’ve made it this far…

  He had crossed mountains, fought monsters, survived storms, met beings he never imagined existed. He had seen more in a week than most humans saw in a lifetime.

  But there’s still so much left to do.

  Faces of the fallen flickered through his mind—his brethren, the people who depended on him, the ones he had sworn to avenge. The weight of that promise pressed against his chest like a stone.

  What happens after?

  He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. For now, fate would decide where he went once his quest was done.

  A breeze rustled the leaves overhead, carrying the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. Oberon paused, letting the forest’s quiet settle around him. It was peaceful here—too peaceful, almost. A stark contrast to the chaos of the Stormlands.

  He returned to the clearing with an armful of wood—only to find Roselia curled tightly, her tail wrapped around her body, her wings tucked close. She looked smaller like this. Vulnerable. Her scales shimmered faintly in the dim light, and Oberon noticed the metal?like nails on her wings, the scars along her tail, the faint tremor in her sleep.

  She must have been nervous to tell me everything…

  He felt a pang of sympathy. And something else—something warm and protective.

  He set the wood down and began arranging it carefully, stacking the sticks in a tight bundle. He scraped two crystal shards together, sparks flying into the pile. A tiny flame flickered to life—weak, barely clinging to the wood.

  “I need something to keep it going…” he muttered.

  Before he could stand, Roselia’s head lifted groggily. Her eyes were half?lidded, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Oh… you made a fire?” she murmured. “That’s nice… but I’ll raise you something better.”

  She inhaled deeply, her chest expanding, and then—a thin, controlled stream of fire flowed from her mouth, igniting the outer branches in a bright, roaring blaze. The flames leapt upward, casting warm light across the clearing.

  “Mhm. Much better,” she mumbled, already lowering her head again.

  Oberon stared, half impressed, half amused. “You’re… different when you’re sleepy.”

  Roselia didn’t respond—she was already drifting back into unconsciousness, her tail twitching faintly.

  Oberon chuckled softly. Are these her true colors? He’d have to investigate that later.

  He lay down beside her, but the ground was hard and uneven, the soil packed tight beneath his armor. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, but nothing worked. He glanced at Roselia.

  This might be a strange idea, but…

  He scooted closer and gently rested his head on her forearm. Her scales were surprisingly soft—smooth like polished stone, warm like sun?heated metal. The tiny heart?shaped scales along her arm cushioned his cheek, and the steady rise and fall of her breathing lulled him instantly.

  Much better…

  His thoughts blurred, the fire crackled softly, and the world faded into darkness as he drifted into sleep.

  Dawn crept slowly across the forest, its first rays slipping through the canopy in thin, golden strands. The embers of the fire glowed faintly, casting a soft warmth across the clearing. Oberon stirred, blinking away the remnants of sleep as the world sharpened around him.

  Roselia was still curled beside him, her breathing deep and steady. In the morning light, her scales shimmered like dew?covered leaves, each tiny heart?shaped plate catching the sun in a soft glimmer. Her tail was wrapped loosely around her body, the tip twitching faintly with each exhale.

  Oberon lifted his head from her forearm, careful not to disturb her too abruptly. “Psst… Roselia,” he whispered, tapping her ear lightly.

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  She groaned, then twisted her neck almost all the way around with a series of loud, unsettling cracks. Oberon flinched.

  “How did you sleep, my knight?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep but carrying a teasing lilt.

  “Knight?” He blinked. “I mean… I don’t mind. Just surprised.”

  “Well,” she said, stretching her wings, “if you insist on calling me mistress, then it’s only fair I give you a title in return.” She grinned, her frills lifting. “Hop on.”

  Oberon chuckled and climbed onto her back with practiced ease. “I slept well. The fire helped. I didn’t know you could breathe fire.”

  Roselia took a running start, then leapt into the air, her wings catching the morning breeze. “Most western Drakens are born with fire. Though many can’t project it outside their bodies. Eastern Drakens are mostly electrical. And then there are… special cases.”

  “Like Petal,” Oberon said.

  “Exactly. Synelion’s daughter can control wind. She kept you alive during the ritual. Without her, you would’ve gone out like a candle.”

  Oberon shivered at the memory. “Right… that.”

  They flew in silence for a while, the forest shrinking beneath them as the landscape shifted from dense greenery to rolling hills. The sun climbed higher, warming Oberon’s armor and casting long shadows across Roselia’s wings. Hours passed in quiet companionship.

  Eventually, Roselia dipped her wings and descended toward a darker patch of land ahead. Oberon lifted his head, sensing the shift in the air—thicker, heavier, humid.

  “We’re here,” Roselia said softly as she landed.

  Oberon slid off her back, boots sinking into damp earth. The air smelled of stagnant water and decaying leaves. Towering trees rose around them, their trunks twisted and gnarled, draped in long curtains of moss. Pools of murky water reflected the dim light, and insects buzzed lazily in the thick air.

  “This doesn’t seem like an ideal place to live,” Oberon muttered. “Are you sure this is correct?”

  Roselia nodded. “They live in a tall tree that goes deep underground. At least… that’s how it was a century ago.”

  “A century?!” Oberon stared at her. “Just how old are you—”

  “I’ll never tell,” she said, flicking her tail smugly.

  He sighed, staring down at his mud?covered boots. “Of course.”

  They trudged deeper into the swamp, the mud rising from their ankles to their shins, then nearly to Oberon’s knees. Roselia moved slowly, her claws sinking into the muck with each step.

  “Just a little farther,” she said. “It should be right up ahead…”

  The swamp grew darker, the trees thicker, the air heavier. Finally, Roselia stopped and pointed. “There.”

  A massive, twisted tree loomed before them—its trunk wide enough to house a small village, its branches sprawling like skeletal arms. The bark was dark and ridged, scarred by age and storms.

  Oberon circled it, searching for an entrance. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Can you climb?” Roselia asked, gripping the bark with her strange, thumb?like claws.

  He scoffed. “What kind of question is that? How do you think I reached the tavern?”

  They climbed together, moving from branch to branch with surprising speed. Oberon’s armor clinked softly, but Roselia’s movements were silent, fluid, practiced. At the top, Oberon peered down—and saw a deep, yawning hole descending into darkness.

  “They should be down there,” Roselia said.

  Oberon stepped back, let out a battle cry, and prepared to leap—

  Roselia grabbed him by the collar.

  “Why did you stop me?” he sputtered.

  She peered into the hole. “This place is deeper than you think. You’ll break your legs. Or your spine. Or both. Cling to me—I’ll climb down.”

  Oberon hesitated, scanning her body for a stable place to hold onto. Her head? No—it would block her vision. Her back? Too smooth. Her wings? Too fragile. His eyes drifted to her tail.

  “Mistress…” he said quietly.

  She gave him a blank stare. “Yes?”

  “Would it be alright if I… rode on your tail for stability?”

  Silence.

  Roselia’s face turned scarlet. “W?why?”

  “It’s practical!” Oberon insisted. “You can use your tail for balance while climbing. And it keeps me upright.”

  She covered her face with a wing. “F?fine. But don’t do anything weird.”

  “I swear on the blood of my ancestors.”

  He climbed onto her tail—awkwardly—and Roselia shivered violently, biting back a noise.

  “Are you ready?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “Yes.”

  Roselia dug her claws into the bark and began her descent. The darkness swallowed them quickly, the light fading until only faint glimmers reflected off her scales. Oberon felt her tail curl protectively around him, holding him close as she climbed deeper and deeper. The air grew colder. The tree creaked around them.

  And finally—after what felt like an eternity—they reached the bottom.

  The cavern was enormous, the roots forming natural archways along the walls. The air was still, heavy, ancient.

  Then—

  A voice echoed through the darkness.

  “Ah… I see you have returned, dear Rose.”

  Oberon flinched. There was no one in sight.

  Roselia bowed her head. “Father. It is good to see you well.”

  A massive shape stepped from the shadows—Six?Claws, towering, scarred, and smiling with far too many teeth.

  “Please,” he rumbled. “No need for formality. You are my daughter… not my servant.”

  Oberon swallowed hard.

  Where is the mother?

  He closed his eyes, listening. There—behind him. Soft breathing. Calm. Watching.

  He turned slowly.

  A Draken the same size as Roselia stood in the shadows, her eyes half?lidded, her expression unreadable.

  Retral.

  Six?Claws’ gaze shifted to Oberon. “Ah… so you brought a human.” His lips curled. “Care to explain?”

  The cavern beneath the ancient tree was vast—far larger than Oberon expected. The roots formed natural archways overhead, twisting together like the ribs of some long?dead titan. The air was thick and cool, carrying the scent of damp soil and something older… something metallic and faintly sweet, like dried blood.

  Roselia stepped forward, her claws clicking softly against the packed earth. Her posture shifted—wings tucked tight, tail lowered, frills pressed close to her neck. Not fear. Not submission. Something more complicated. Something that lived between respect and caution.

  Oberon stayed close behind her, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword but not touching it. Drawing steel here felt like inviting death.

  A voice echoed from the shadows. “Ah… I see you have returned, dear Rose.”

  Oberon stiffened. The voice was deep, resonant, and carried a strange warmth that didn’t match the coldness of the cavern.

  Roselia bowed her head again. “Father. It is good to see you well.”

  A shape moved in the darkness—massive, deliberate, and silent despite its size. Then Six?Claws stepped into the faint light.

  He was enormous. Larger than Roselia by several heads, his body a tapestry of old scars and hardened muscle. His scales were a deep, storm?dark crimson, streaked with blackened patches where lightning or claws had carved through him long ago. His six talons—three on each forepaw—were long, curved, and unnervingly sharp, clicking softly as he approached.

  But it was his eyes that held Oberon frozen.

  Bright. Too bright. Alive with a sharp, predatory intelligence that felt like it could peel a person open without ever touching them.

  Six?Claws smiled—a slow, tooth?filled expression that was neither friendly nor hostile. Something in between. Something dangerous.

  “Please,” he rumbled, “no need for formality. You are my daughter… not my servant.”

  He wrapped a forearm around Roselia in a surprisingly gentle embrace. She leaned into it, but only for a moment. Oberon saw the stiffness in her posture, the way her tail twitched with restrained nerves.

  She’s not afraid of him, Oberon realized.

  She’s afraid of disappointing him.

  Six?Claws released her and turned his attention to Oberon.

  The shift was immediate.

  Predatory.

  Focused.

  Hungry.

  “Ah,” he growled, licking his lips slowly. “So you brought a human.”

  Oberon felt the weight of that gaze like a physical force. His breath caught in his throat. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his legs refused to move.

  Roselia stepped between them instantly, wings flaring just enough to block her father’s line of sight.

  “He is under my protection,” she said firmly.

  Six?Claws tilted his head. “Is that so?”

  His voice was calm. Too calm.

  The cavern seemed to tighten around them, the roots creaking softly as though reacting to the tension.

  Oberon sensed another presence behind him—quiet, steady, watching. He turned slowly.

  Retral stood in the shadows, her scales a muted silver?green, her eyes half?lidded and unreadable. She was smaller than Six?Claws but still imposing, her posture relaxed yet alert. She said nothing. She simply observed.

  Roselia’s mother.

  The silent one.

  Six?Claws took a single step forward.

  The ground trembled.

  “Tell me, Rose…” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “Why would my daughter bring a human into my home?”

  Roselia’s frills tightened. “Because he is important.”

  “To you?” Six?Claws asked.

  The question hung in the air like a blade.

  Roselia hesitated.

  Just for a heartbeat.

  But Six?Claws saw it.

  His lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.

  Retral shifted slightly, her gaze sharpening.

  Oberon felt the tension coil around them like a tightening noose.

  Six?Claws lowered his head until his snout was inches from Roselia’s.

  “Then,” he whispered, “you will explain everything.”

  His gaze flicked past her.

  Straight to Oberon.

  “And the human,” he growled, “will answer to me.”

  The cavern seemed to shrink around them, the roots tightening like the ribs of some ancient beast. Roselia stood firm, but Oberon could feel the tension radiating off her—coiled, sharp, protective.

  Six?Claws lowered his head further, his breath warm and heavy against the air. “Explain,” he repeated, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the ground.

  Roselia inhaled slowly. “Father… he is not a threat. He is my companion. My ally.”

  Six?Claws’ pupils narrowed. “Ally? A human?” His gaze flicked to Oberon again, dissecting him with unsettling precision. “Humans are fragile. Loud. Foolish. They die easily. Why would you bring one here?”

  Oberon opened his mouth to speak, but Roselia stepped forward before he could.

  “Because he survived,” she said. “More than most. More than many Drakens.”

  Six?Claws paused.

  A long, heavy silence filled the cavern.

  Then he laughed.

  It was not a pleasant sound. It echoed through the roots like a storm tearing through dead branches—deep, booming, edged with something wild.

  “Survived?” he repeated. “A human survived long enough to stand before me? That is amusing.”

  Roselia’s frills tightened. “It is not a joke.”

  Six?Claws’ laughter stopped instantly.

  His eyes snapped to her, sharp as blades. “I did not say it was.”

  Retral shifted behind Oberon, her presence quiet but suddenly heavier. She stepped forward, her movements slow and fluid, like drifting mist. Her eyes—half?lidded, distant—focused on Oberon for the first time.

  “You brought him here,” she murmured, her voice soft but carrying through the cavern. “Into our home. Into our roots.”

  Roselia nodded. “Yes.”

  Retral blinked once. “Then he must be important.”

  Six?Claws snorted. “Or a mistake.”

  Roselia’s tail lashed once. “He is neither. He is under my protection.”

  Six?Claws leaned down until his snout nearly touched hers. “Protection,” he echoed. “You speak that word as though you understand it.”

  Roselia didn’t flinch. “I do.”

  Another silence. This one colder.

  Six?Claws slowly turned his gaze back to Oberon. “Human.”

  Oberon straightened instinctively.

  “You will answer a question,” Six?Claws growled. “And you will answer truthfully.”

  Roselia’s tail tightened around Oberon’s leg, a silent warning—or reassurance.

  Six?Claws’ eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. “Why are you here?”

  Oberon swallowed. The cavern felt smaller. The air heavier. Every instinct screamed at him to choose his words carefully.

  “I’m here,” he said slowly, “because Roselia trusts me. And I trust her.”

  Six?Claws’ expression didn’t change.

  Oberon continued, “She has saved my life more than once. And I’ve stood by her through danger. I’m not here to harm you. I’m here because she brought me.”

  Six?Claws stared at him for a long, suffocating moment.

  Then he chuckled.

  “A bold answer,” he said. “For a creature so breakable.”

  Oberon forced himself not to react.

  Six?Claws stepped closer, his massive form casting a shadow that swallowed Oberon whole. “Tell me, human… do you fear me?”

  Oberon hesitated.

  Roselia’s frills twitched. Retral’s eyes sharpened. The cavern seemed to hold its breath.

  Finally, Oberon said, “Yes.”

  Six?Claws’ grin widened, teeth glinting like polished bone. “Good.”

  He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that rumbled through the earth.

  “You should.”

  Roselia stepped between them again, wings flaring wider this time. “Father. Enough.”

  Six?Claws blinked, surprised—not by her defiance, but by the force behind it.

  Retral tilted her head slightly. “Rose,” she murmured, “you are trembling.”

  Roselia stiffened. “I am not.”

  “You are,” Retral said softly. “But not from fear.”

  Six?Claws’ eyes narrowed. “Then from what?”

  Roselia hesitated.

  Her tail curled tighter around Oberon.

  And for the first time since they entered the cavern, her voice wavered.

  “Because… I don’t want you to hurt him.”

  The words echoed through the roots like a shockwave.

  Six?Claws froze.

  Retral’s eyes widened—barely, but enough to notice.

  Oberon felt his heart skip.

  Roselia lowered her gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. “He matters to me.”

  The cavern fell silent.

  Completely silent.

  Six?Claws stared at his daughter, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—something ancient, something dangerous, something almost… thoughtful.

  Then he spoke.

  “Rose.”

  His voice was quieter now. Not gentle. But no longer a threat.

  “Step aside.”

  Roselia hesitated.

  Six?Claws’ tone sharpened. “I will not harm him. Step aside.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Roselia moved.

  Six?Claws approached Oberon again—but this time, his posture was different. Less predatory. More… assessing.

  He lowered his head until his eyes were level with Oberon’s.

  “If you matter to my daughter,” he said, “then you will prove it.”

  Oberon swallowed. “How?”

  Six?Claws smiled.

  A terrible, knowing smile.

  “You will survive.”