I sat cross-legged on the bed, the journal balanced across my thighs.
The robe hung loose around my shoulders, sleeves trailing past my wrists. Comfortable. Easy. I hadn't bothered with anything else.
At some point, my knees had drawn in closer, one hand resting lightly just below my collarbone.
I didn't think about it.
The pages had started to bend from how often I flipped them back and forth. Some were observation. Most, at first.
Cycle 0, Day 112:
Magic remains stable. Subject shows consistent recovery after surge events. No further physical complications. Instinct remains suppressed.
Cycle 0, Day 349:
Minimal activity. Subject avoids confrontation. Refuses to engage in extended channeling. Surges continue to occur only under duress.
Cycle 2, Day 89:
Resistance to transformation persists. No recorded loss of control. However, subject avoids deeper reflection or discussion of draconic traits.
The spacing between entries began to shrink.
Cycle 5, Day 227:
Pain response triggered a frost flare. Subject apologized afterward. No signs of injury, but her demeanor changed. Withdrawn. Guarded.
Cycle 6, Day 33:
She asked if this place had always been so quiet. I said yes. She didn't respond.
Cycle 6, Day 132:
Beginning design for the focus piece. Something personal. Functional. The idea has... potential. She doesn't know yet. I'll finish it soon.
Cycle 6, Day 175:
I explained what it's for. She understood. I think. I hope it helps.
I froze.
What?
My eyes narrowed. I read the line again.
I explained what it's for.
But I didn't remember that.
No flicker. No vague impression. Just empty space where something should've been.
That's not possible.
I would've remembered.
Cycle 9, Day 255:
Her body has stabilized again. She doesn't speak of the pain anymore, but I see it in the way she moves. The cloak she favors now is one I left out. She hasn't replaced it. There's weight in her silence. She holds it like armor. I think she believes that's strength. It might be. But it's a lonely kind.
Cycle 9, Day 272:
She touched the pendant today. Didn't say anything. Just stared at it for a while. I don't think she remembers what I told her. Or maybe she's trying to. I don't know which would be worse. The focus isn't strong enough to anchor much. It's not meant to be. But it should help.
Cycle 9, Day 284:
I don't know how to tell her our time is ending. I've failed at too much already to fail this, too. She's not what I expected. Not what any of us expected. There's something in her—something sharp and sad and still growing. I want her to keep growing. I want her to remember. Not just me. Not just this place. Herself.
I stared at the page, my chest tight.
Wouldn't I?
I set the journal down carefully, like it might break if I moved too fast.
My gaze slid to the desk.
The pendant sat in its usual place—smooth, cool, shaped like a crest I didn't recognize. Three sharp lines cutting through a spiral.
Beautiful. Meaningless.
I picked it up.
Not metal. Not stone. It felt old—too light to be bone, too solid to be anything else I recognized. The runes on its surface caught the light, almost too fine to see.
I squinted. Tried to trace them.
The second heartbeat stirred.
And then the pain hit.
A sharp throb behind my eyes, sudden and brutal—like something had driven a spike straight through my skull. My breath caught. I staggered back a half step, jaw locked.
Stop. Just stop.
I pressed my thumb against the surface, tried to force the memory.
It didn't come.
The harder I pushed, the sharper the pain became.
I let the pendant fall back to the desk.
I didn't move.
The ache pulsed through my skull in waves, dull now but lingering. Every throb felt like a warning.
Not that way. Not yet.
I sank back onto the bed, hand still braced lightly against my temple. The robe slipping slightly from my shoulder.
Outside the door, the silence stretched too long.
Then—movement. A quiet shift.
Someone was always there. A guard, maybe. Or just a watcher. They never spoke. But they were always listening.
I let out a breath and pushed the journal further across the bed.
What am I even trying to remember?
If it is just a focus, then wearing it and channeling should work.
The second heartbeat had only stirred for a moment… but that was all it took. It no longer burned but I could still feel the chill it left behind, like frost spidering beneath my ribs.
No more. Not today.
Nothing is happening.
A soft knock broke the quiet.
Not cautious. Not hesitant.
The runes on the door deactivated with a low, humming click, and the door opened without waiting for a response.
Vaelith stepped inside.
She didn't pause. Didn't announce herself. She simply crossed the threshold, eyes sweeping over the room like she was already measuring it for flaws.
Her gaze lingered on the pendant. Then shifted to the journal. Finally to me.
She didn't speak right away. Just stood there in that too-still way of hers, gaze cutting over everything without a word. The kind of silence that didn't ask for permission—just claimed space and expected you to move aside.
Her eyes didn't linger long. A flick to the pendant. The journal. Then to me.
"I was told to begin your training."
Of course, how could I forget.
I didn't look up.
Her tone didn't carry malice. Didn't carry anything, really. Just the cold certainty I was starting to associate with a daughter of Sythriss.
"Now?"
Vaelith tilted her head slightly. "Mother gave the order. I trust you will obey."
That part wasn't said cruelly either. But it didn't have to be. The expectation was already there.
I closed the journal, slowly, fingers brushing the creased edge of the last page. My eyes stayed on it a second longer than necessary.
Then I stood, moving with practiced care. My joints didn't ache, but something else inside me did—a dull pressure I couldn't place. Not physical. Just… weight.
Vaelith had already turned, clearly expecting me to follow. I did.
The corridor narrowed as we walked. Stone underfoot. Quiet enough that I could hear her steps and mine echoing back in uneven rhythm.
I kept my distance behind her, but not too far. Just enough to think.
Left turn. Ceiling dipped. Old cracks in the arch.
Mark that.
"This won't take long," she said without glancing back. "Today's just about control."
I didn't answer.
I was too focused on the paths. The shapes. The way the walls sloped or shifted when we passed under carved sigils.
A habit from before. Couldn't turn it off.
Vaelith didn't slow. "Draconic magic isn't like mortal spellcraft. You don't learn it. You remember it."
I frowned slightly at her back.
"It's instinctual," she continued. "Born from blood. Old as we are."
My foot clipped a shallow groove in the floor. I caught myself before stumbling.
Why's it that shallow?
She raised a hand, gesturing loosely. "You and I were born of ice. That part isn't optional. It's inherited from our mother. The affinity, the resistance, the way your body wants to move when magic floods it."
I shifted my gaze to her shoulders, to the way they didn't rise or tense when she spoke.
"But the way it manifests—that part's yours alone," she added. "Shape. Purpose. Method. It's as individual as a heartbeat."
My fingers brushed the wall again as we passed. Different stone. Coarser here. More recent repairs.
They've reinforced this part. Why?
"So I can't copy yours," I murmured.
"No," she said. "And you shouldn't try."
We rounded a final bend. She stepped through a wide archway, and I followed.
The chamber beyond was circular. Rough-hewn, but reinforced with pale bone-white pillars. The walls bore scorched runes and deep gouges like claw marks. Some fresher than others.
My eyes swept the space quickly. Three exits. Two sealed. One still open behind us.
Kill zone. No cover. Bad footing near the outer ring. Too even. Could ice over fast.
Vaelith walked to the center. Her steps slowed only slightly as she turned to face me.
"This is where we'll begin."
Her eyes held that same practiced calm, but there was a glint beneath it now—focused, analytical. Watching.
She raised her hand and gestured, palm open. "Tell me what you've learned. From the caves."
Caves? Does she mean the fortress? No, that is mine.
"I survived," I said flatly.
Vaelith tilted her head. Waiting.
I shifted slightly, dragging my eyes along the edge of the room. Not out of nerves. Just... measuring.
"I learned how to pull the magic in. A little." I raised my hand, curling my fingers slowly. "It's like a second heartbeat. Distant, but always there. Sometimes I can match its rhythm. When I do, it moves with me. Makes me stronger. Faster."
She said nothing.
I kept going. Might as well give her something true.
"But I burn through it. If I'm not careful, it sputters. Wild. Wasted."
"And?" Vaelith asked.
I exhaled. "I started carving runes. Bone. Stone. Things I could hold. Focuses."
Her gaze flicked down to my hands, then back up. "Primitive."
"It worked."
She didn't argue. Instead, she folded her arms behind her back. "And when you lost control?"
I blinked. "What?"
"In the caves," she said. "What were you? What did you become, when instinct took over?"
I hesitated.
Not because I didn't know. Because I did. Or maybe because I was finally beginning to.
My mouth opened, then closed again.
The first time...
I hadn't thought of it as losing control.
I remembered striking the doors—again and again, controlled, deliberate. My movements then had purpose. Precision. I remembered the ache in my arms, the way magic burned low and steady like coals beneath the skin. That was discipline.
But that wasn't what she meant.
She meant before that. The beginning.
The memory stirred—unbidden, vivid.
The impact.
Crashing through a wall, of rooms of ice and gore. The crunch of stone underfoot. Screams. Chaos. Claws wet with blood. Magic surging through every limb—not shaped, not focused. Just raw. I tore through them. Nestlings. Defenders. The Broodmother herself.
I remembered how her skull gave way beneath my grip.
How I leaned in close.
How I listened for her final breath... and smiled when I didn't hear it.
The sensation was still there, coiled somewhere deep—beneath thought, beneath guilt. It curled up my spine like smoke.
Suddenly, I could hear the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
I blinked slowly, and my tongue ran over my lips before I caught myself.
Vaelith didn't flinch. But her eyes sharpened.
I straightened.
"My first time," I said softly. "I didn't hesitate. I moved. Killed. Broke through walls like they were paper. Massacred them, crushed them barehanded. I got close, not because I wanted to, I needed to. I wanted to feel it."
It's beginning to beat faster. Calm down, breathe!
A flicker. Her gaze shifted slightly. Was she smiling?
No. Just the barest twitch.
Vaelith laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't forced.
It was quiet, almost delighted—the kind of laugh that came from recognition. From satisfaction. A low sound that curled like smoke in the cold air, darker at the edges than it had any right to be.
"There you are," she said, almost lovingly.
Her eyes glittered. Not with amusement. With hunger.
She took a step forward—not threatening, not imposing—just close enough that I could feel the weight of her presence, the aura of something that had never needed to raise its voice to dominate a room.
Her smile widened.
It was sharp. Too sharp. Not cruel, exactly—but it held no mercy.
"You say it like it should frighten you," she said softly, tilting her head. "But that feeling? That pulse in your chest? That is the most honest you will ever be."
Her eyes glowed.
Faint at first—then brighter, gold flaring behind her irises like light refracting through ice. Not a flare of magic. A promise of it.
"I can't wait to meet you," she said. "The real you."