She pressed her forehead to the floor at once. That was it, wasn't it? No matter what he was becoming, no matter the changes or the threats he held the seven boys with... to her, Phei was still an insect that would end even from her aura alone.

Much less her master.

An insect indeed, pausing as a dragon.

"I spoke out of turn. I beg forgiveness."

Another laugh, warmer this time. Almost fond.

"Your dramatics never fail to amuse me."

Silence returned.

Heavier now. Thoughtful. The silence of someone running calculations too complex for lesser minds, seeing patterns in chaos, finding threads in darkness. Consort couldn't fathom what he was thinking at all despite having served this same person for centuries.

Then: "Don't worry."

The Consort didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"Phei is going to bring himself right here."

She lifted her head a fraction—just enough to show confusion flickering across features that were usually carved from ice. "How, my lord?"

The question hung in the air.

"Does he know of you—the one above the seven Legacies? Will he come seeking revenge?" That would be suicidal, which she'd welcome and end the boy once and for all before the Destined Day arrived.

A low chuckle. The sound of someone holding a secret they found genuinely, deeply amusing.

"Yes and no."

A beat.

"He knows the seven boys answer to someone. He does not know who. Does not know what power I wield just like the seven fools. Does not know that the Legacy families he thinks are the ceiling are barely the foundation of what exists above them."

Another beat.

"But he will walk through our doors all the same."

The Consort waited.

Because when the One Above spoke like this—quiet, certain, smiling—

"To do the noble thing," the voice continued, dripping with something between contempt and delight, "and apologize for melting my little baby sister's ice birthday swan sculpture."

The Consort stared at the red door. She was expecting something big and glad.

Disappointment settled over her like dust on a forgotten relic.

And insect indeed... so much for her expectations.

She had imagined Phei arriving amid thunder and schemes. A worthy storm. A dragon descending with fire in his eyes and vengeance in his heart. Something interesting. Something that would justify the attention her master was paying to a seventeen-year-old boy from a family that didn't even rank among the founding seven.

Instead—

Instead, the boy who had dared take a woman her master had claimed as his would-be bride was still dancing under Harold Maxton's thumb. Still bowing and scraping and apologizing for accidents that weren't even his fault.

Why waste time on such a nobody from the Ryujin Tiamat line?

Why does my lord even know that name—know the blood that runs in that boy's veins?

What is Phei Maxton to someone who stands above the seven Legacies like the sun stands above candles?

As if he heard the thought—and perhaps he did, perhaps thoughts were just another kind of door he had learned to open—the voice beyond the red door chuckled again.

"You should know by now."

The words were gentle. Almost a caress.

"Something has changed in Phei. He would not be this handsome, this suddenly popular, this interesting in just a week if nothing had happened."

The Consort considered this.

She had watched him. Had listened to his music. Had felt, against her will and her better judgment, something stir in her chest at the sound of his pain learning to sing.

Changed, her master said.

Yes, she thought. Something has definitely changed.

But what? And she could feel something else he wasn't telling her. Something big maybe? But who was she to question him?

"And as for Sierra..."

The playful lilt vanished.

Gone in an instant, like a candle flame snuffed by a hurricane. The warmth, the amusement, the boyish charm—all of it evaporated, leaving behind something that made the Consort press herself even lower against the floor.

The air itself seemed to frost over.

Dangerous pressure leaked through the red door—raw, ancient, hungry. The power that didn't threaten. Didn't need to. It simply existed, and everything else arranged itself around that existence like planets orbiting a sun that could consume them whenever it wished.

"I will take her back from that nobody."

The words were quiet.

Almost soft.

And absolutely, terrifyingly certain.

The Consort didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Didn't do anything that might draw the attention of whatever was coiling behind that red door, waking from its amusement into something far more dangerous.

Sierra Montgomery, she thought. The Hell Bitch Queen. One of Paradise princesses.

She was his.

Meant to be his before the boy stole her.

And he wants her back.

The pressure eased. Slowly. Like a fist unclenching.

"Continue watching," the voice said, pleasant once more. Boyish. Charming. As if the last thirty seconds had never happened. "Report anything... interesting."

The Consort bowed deeper.

"Yes, my lord."

She rose only when the silence told her it was safe.

And as she stepped back into the night, slicing the sky open once more with effortless grace, one thought lingered like a bad taste.

Poor Sierra.

She thinks she's playing with a dragon.

She has no idea she's already caught in the sun's gravity.

And the sun is hungry.

"And Consort?"

"Yes, my lord."

She lifted her head just enough to acknowledge the address, spine rigid, heart still hammering from the near-miss of his displeasure.

"The music."

A pause.

"He plays beautifully, doesn't he?"

The question wasn't really a question. It was a statement. A knowing. The confirmation that her master had heard everything she'd heard, seen everything she'd seen, felt everything she'd felt while standing on that rooftop being baptized in stolen notes—raw, aching, defiant notes that had made even her ancient blood stir.

"Yes, my lord," she said, voice steady despite the chill crawling up her spine. "He does."

"Good."

Another pause. Longer. The silence of someone smiling in the dark—wide, slow, the kind of smile that promised nothing good for the person on the receiving end.

"I look forward to hearing it myself. When he comes to apologize."

The Consort rose.

Bowed once more—deep, reverent, the bow of someone who knew exactly how thin the ice was beneath her feet.

And vanished into the shadows she had emerged from, leaving the room empty except for the incense, the old blood, and the presence behind the red door that hadn't moved once during the entire conversation.

Hadn't needed to.

Power like that didn't move.

It waited.

And eventually, inevitably, everything else came to it.

Crawling.

Begging.

Bleeding.

The Dragon thought he was rising.

Poor little Dragon.

He had no idea the sun was already watching.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.