She pressed her forehead to the floor at once. That was it, wasnât 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 couldnât fathom what he was thinking at all despite having served this same person for centuries.
Then: "Donât worry."
The Consort didnât move. Didnât breathe.
"Phei is going to bring himself right here."
She lifted her head a fractionâjust 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 youâthe one above the seven Legacies? Will he come seeking revenge?" That would be suicidal, which sheâd 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 thisâquiet, certain, smilingâ
"To do the noble thing," the voice continued, dripping with something between
contempt
and
delight
, "and apologize for melting my little baby sisterâs 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 didnât even rank among the founding seven.
Insteadâ
Instead, the boy who had dared take a woman her master had claimed as his would-be bride was still dancing under Harold Maxtonâs thumb. Still bowing and scraping and apologizing for accidents that werenât even his fault.
Why waste time on such a nobody from the Ryujin Tiamat line?
Why does my lord even know that nameâknow the blood that runs in that boyâs veins?
What is Phei Maxton to someone who stands above the seven Legacies like the sun stands above candles?
As if he heard the thoughtâand perhaps he
did
, perhaps thoughts were just another kind of door he had learned to openâthe 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 wasnât 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 charmâall 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 doorâraw, ancient,
hungry
. The power that didnât threaten. Didnât 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 didnât move.
Didnât breathe.
Didnât 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 sheâs playing with a dragon.
She has no idea sheâs already caught in the sunâs 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
, doesnât he?"
The question wasnât really a question. It was a
statement
. A
knowing
. The confirmation that her master had heard everything sheâd heard, seen everything sheâd seen, felt everything sheâd felt while standing on that rooftop being baptized in stolen notesâ
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 darkâ
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 moreâdeep, 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 hadnât moved once during the entire conversation.
Hadnât needed to.
Power like that didnât 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.