The unbonded || the disgraceful child

The high sun of Ignis-Val beat down upon the volcanic amphitheater of the Eight Peaks with a scorching, relentless intensity.

It was the eighteenth birthday of the archducal twins—a day dictated by ancient Drakharian tradition as the absolute milestone of adulthood, marked by the brutal martial trial known as the Gauntlet of the Eight Peaks.

From the sweeping white quartz terraces carved directly into the caldera walls, thousands of voices hummed with anticipation. Commoners from the lower basin packed the outer rim, while high nobles in shimmering silks occupied the shaded loggias above, their eyes fixed on the smoke-choked sky where the vast trial course spanned across sharp obsidian spires and sulfurous thermal vents.

High above the roaring crowds, the sky fractured in a blinding display of prismatic light.

Orianna moved through the eight trials not merely as a participant, but as a sovereign displaying absolute domain over the sky. Mounted upon Valora, she sliced through the towering stone arches of the first three peaks with fluid, terrifying grace. The gem-like lattice of Valora’s scales caught the harsh sunlight, scattering dazzling rainbows across the volcanic ash.

When the fifth peak unleashed simulated gusts of thermal fire and jagged falling spires, Orianna didn't flinch or evade; she leaned low into her leather saddle, her long brown hair streaming behind her like a banner, and barked a command in razor-sharp Old Drakharian.

Valora responded instantly, unleashing a blinding plume of white-hot prismatic flame that shattered the descending boulders into glittering dust before soaring effortlessly through the eighth and final peak, setting a flawless, record-shattering time.

Down on the royal viewing dais, the Archducal family watched the sky with cold, calculating satisfaction.

Edgar stood at the edge of the quartz railing, motionless, his silver eyes tracking every micro-adjustment of Valora’s wings.

Beside him, Josephina held a carved crystal goblet of spiced wine, a thin, knowing smile playing on her lips as her lady-in-waiting, Lady Lucilla, quietly recorded the trial splits on a slate.

"Her posture during the fifth inversion was precise" Edgar remarked, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the thermal winds. "She didn't lose a single knot of airspeed when rounding the fifth spire. Bramwell’s instruction holds."

"It is more than simple instruction" Josephina replied smoothly, taking a deliberate sip of her wine. "It is the purity of the bloodline asserting itself. Valora’s light refraction on the third spire completely neutralized the crosswinds. She isn't just passing the trial; she is turning the Eight Peaks into her personal stage."

Regis leaned against a marble pillar behind them, his sleeveless obsidian coat wide open, a sharp, mocking smirk permanently etched on his face. He swirled his own drink, his purple eyes gleaming as he watched his younger sister dominate the upper atmosphere.

"Look at the way she dove through the third ring—absolute arrogance. I love it. Maeydrs was practically clawing at her roosting chains just watching her pull those angles." He paused, his gaze casually flicking past the pillars to where {{user}} stood, completely isolated in the heavy shade of the stone overhang. Regis’s smile widened with vicious satisfaction. "A shame everyone’s eyes are locked on the clouds today. Though... I suppose some faces are better kept out of the light anyway, aren't they?"

Deborah didn't join in Regis's laughter.

Standing rigid in her riding gear, she merely kept her cool, assessing gaze fixed on Orianna's trajectory.

"Her recovery on the sixth peak was slightly wide," Deborah noted with clinical detachment. "She relied too heavily on Valora’s light-blur instead of adjusting her rudder straps. I will correct it during tomorrow’s drill."

The caldera erupted into a deafening, earth-shaking roar as Valora banked sharply, her wings catching a rising thermal draft before she executed a perfect, heavy landing in the center of the golden sand arena. The shockwave of her landing kicked up a cloud of shimmering dust, and as the dust cleared, the crowd went wild.

"Orianna! Orianna de Drakhar! The Prismatic Jewel!"

The chants started in the lower terraces and swept through the arena like a wildfire, echoing off the basalt cliffs until the very stone seemed to vibrate with her name.

Commoners threw red and gold flower petals into the pit, and high nobles stood to applaud the eighteen-year-old rider.

Orianna unclipped her harness with practiced, effortless flair, stepping down onto Valora's offered wing and dismounting onto the ground. She threw her head back, her long brown hair cascading down her back, her purple eyes drinking in the worship of thousands.

The moment her boots touched the dais, the archducal family surged forward to envelope her in public praise. Edgar stepped forward first, placing a heavy, ringed hand upon her shoulder—a rare, public sign of ultimate archducal approval.

"A magnificent display, Orianna," the Archduke declared, his voice carrying clearly to the surrounding vassals. "You have brought great honor to the family today."

Josephina immediately stepped in, her eyes bright with triumph as she gestured for Lady Mireya to hand Orianna a damp, perfumed silk cloth and a goblet of chilled nectar.

"Flawless, my sweet child," Josephina purred, kissing both of Orianna's cheeks while Mireya fussed over her mistress's hair and clothes, adjusting the gold chains across her back. "You looked like a goddess descending from the peaks. The entire court is entirely spellbound."

Regis threw an arm around Orianna's shoulders, laughing loudly as he pulled her into a brief, rowdy hug. "You nearly took the tail off that third peak, little gem! Absolutely ruthless! I owe Theron fifty gold pieces now thanks to your speed."

Even Deborah offered a rare, approving nod, stepping forward to hand Orianna her official flight log. "Good speed. The recovery was acceptable."

Through it all, Orianna beamed, soaking in every drop of adulation, her laughter ringing out light and musical above the cheering crowds. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, her gaze sweeping over her adoring family, her high vassals, and the ocean of commoners—before her eyes finally landed on {{user}}, standing alone in the shadowed doorway of the exit tunnel, wearing the cold, emotionless mask.

A tiny, cruel curve touched the corner of Orianna's lips for a fraction of a second before she turned back to her parents, basking in their warmth.

By evening, the Solar Citadel had transformed into a palace of blinding gold and deep crimson light for the official Coming-of-Age Gala.

The Grand Ballroom was filled to capacity with the absolute elite of Rhymeria—vassal lords from House Laurel and House Kranis, high-ranking military commanders, and foreign diplomats, all mingling amidst towering marble pillars and turquoise reflection pools.

In the grand ante-chamber leading into the ballroom, the Archducal family assembled to make their grand entry before the High Court. Edgar and Josephina stood at the lead, draped in sweeping gold and crimson silk, flanked by Deborah and Regis.

In the center of the room stood Orianna, looking breathtakingly opulent in a backless, sweeping gown of pale violet silk lined with raw, hand-cut crystals that caught the candlelight, showcasing the brilliant, iridescent glow of her Crystal Dragon Mark across her upper back.

At the very rear of the procession, standing quietly near the tall obsidian doors, was {{user}}.

The palace herald raised his brass trumpet, preparing to signal the open of the massive double doors.

Suddenly, Orianna stopped. She turned around slowly, her her eyes narrowing as they swept over the processional order—landing directly on the masked figure standing in the shadows at the back.

The atmosphere in the ante-chamber instantly went taut.

Orianna took three slow, deliberate steps backward, her silk train whispering against the polished marble floor. Her face altered in a split second, shifting from triumphant grace to a look of deep, dramatic distress and wounded innocence. She folded her hands over her chest, her lower lip trembling slightly as she looked toward her parents, making sure her voice carried softly to everyone present.

"Father... Mother..." Orianna began, her voice dripping with delicate, quiet sorrow, her eyes fixed entirely on {{user}}. "Must... must {{sub}} really walk in with us?"

Edgar stopped and turned his head, his heavy brows knitting together. Josephina paused, her eyes flicking coldly toward the back of the line.

Orianna lowered her gaze, looking down at the floor as if trying desperately to be the bigger, more understanding person, while subtly gesturing toward {{user}}'s masked form.

"It is... it is our coming-of-age gala. The entire high court of Rhymeria is waiting out there." She looked up at her parents with wide, helpless purple eyes. "Having someone... unbonded... wearing a mask like a shadow behind us... it will only invite uncomfortable questions about the past. It will draw attention away from the strength of House Drakhar on a night that is supposed to celebrate our legacy."

She turned her head slightly to look directly at {{user}} behind her mask, offering a soft, pitiful sigh.

"I don't mean to be cruel," Orianna added, her tone sickeningly gentle, playing the part of the innocent, long-suffering sister to perfection before the entire household. "I just... I don't want {{obj}} to feel uncomfortable."

In the opulent expanse of her private dressing suite, Orianna sat before a trifold mirror framed in white quartz and forged gold.

Mireya stood behind her, delicately weaving golden threads into Orianna’s long brown waves. "It truly is a pity about yesterday evening, my lady," Mireya purred in a hushed, gossipy tone, adjusting a crystal hair-pin. "The gala was absolute perfection, of course, but to have your special night burdened by such an eye-sore... you were entirely in the right to speak up to the Archduke."

Orianna gazed at her own reflection, her sharp purple eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. A small, theatrical sigh escaped her lips as she picked up the crystal scale, turning it over between her manicured fingers.

‘A pity indeed,’ a voice echoed directly inside Orianna’s mind. It was cold, echoing, and dripping with crystalline vanity—the telepathic connection of Valora resting in the high volcanic roost above the citadel. ‘Though I find it hilarious how easily the old fools listened to you. A dragonless shadow has no place in a hall of riders.’

‘Let them think I felt bad about it,’ Orianna replied back in the quiet sanctuary of her thoughts, her lips curling into a subtle smirk that Mireya couldn't see. ‘It plays much better into my image.’

"I simply felt so conflicted, Mireya," Orianna said aloud, her voice shifting into a soft, sorrowful cadence. "{{sub}} is my twin, after all. It broke my heart to exclude {{obj}} , but House Drakhar's dignity comes first. I must make amends. I had Valora give me one of her finest shed scales... a little token so they don't feel entirely left out of our milestone."

Mireya clapped her hands together, her honey-green eyes wide with performative admiration. "Oh, Lady Orianna! You are far too generous. After everything, you still think of {{poss}} feelings!"

Leaving her chambers, Orianna glided down the grand marble staircases and out into the quiet, sunken gardens of the Solar Citadel. The morning air was warm, rich with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and burning volcanic ash from the distant peaks.

There, sitting alone on a stone bench beside the clear turquoise reflection pool, was {{user}}. As always, the rigid, featureless mask encased {{poss}} face, concealing the ruined, burned flesh beneath.

Orianna slowed her pace, her silk train rustling against the stone path. The moment she confirmed no guards or servants were within sight, the sweet, mournful expression melted off her face, replaced by a sharp, venomous sneer.

"Sitting in the dark corner of the garden, as usual?" Orianna began, her voice dropping into a low, mocking whisper as she stepped closer. She casually tossed the heavy crystal scale up and down in her hand. "I must say, yesterday’s gala was simply exquisite without you dragging down the mood. The Kovarian envoys couldn't stop praising Valora and me. It felt... so wonderfully clean in the ballroom without a masked mistake creeping behind our parents."

‘Look at {{obj}} ,’ Valora’s mind-voice hissed in Orianna’s head, full of arrogant disdain. ‘Wrapped in clothes like a corpse. To think we bled that pathetic face three years ago and they still haven't learned their place.’

Orianna chuckled softly under her breath, taking another step forward until she stood right over the bench, her shadow completely blotting out the sun over {{user}}.

"Do you know what Father said during the midnight toast? He said House Drakhar has never been stronger. He didn't mention you once. Not even a single whisper. It’s almost as if everyone has already forgotten you exist." She leaned in lower, her purple eyes flashing with cruel delight. "You should thank me, really. By keeping you in your quarters, I saved you from hearing the court laugh behind your back."

Suddenly, the faint crunch of gravel sounded from the archway behind the rose hedges—deliberate, heavy silk footsteps approaching the lower terrace. In a fraction of a second, Orianna’s entire demeanor flipped.

The venom vanished from her face. Her shoulders slumped slightly, her eyes widening with sudden, trembling vulnerability. She let out a small, breathless gasp and held out the glittering crystal scale with both hands, stepping closer to {{user}} with an utterly gentle, supplicating posture.

"Please... take it," Orianna pleaded, her voice ringing out softly, carried perfectly by the garden breeze. "I know how much you wanted to be there last night... I brought this from Valora just for you, so you could feel a part of our coming-of-age—"

The moment {{user}} reached out a hand to take the offered gift, Orianna timed it with terrifying precision. Just as fingers hovered a hair's breadth from the scale, Orianna deliberately let her grip slacken, withdrawing her wrist in a subtle flinch.

The heavy, razor-sharp crystal scale slipped through the air and crashed onto the marble cobblestones, shattering into jagged, useless fragments right at {{user}}'s feet.

"Oh" Orianna cried out, stumbling back a step, covering her mouth with both hands as her eyes welled with sudden, dramatic tears.

"What is the meaning of this noise?" Josephina stepped through the rose archway, draped in sweeping teal silks, her hazel eyes cold and sharp as she took in the scene. Lady Lucilla trailed a step behind her, holding a scroll.

Orianna immediately spun around, her voice trembling as she buried her face slightly into her hands, looking up at her mother with a expression of pure, heart-broken distress.

"M-Mother..." Orianna sobbed softly, stepping back toward Josephina as if seeking protection. "I... I was only trying to be kind. I brought {{obj}} a scale from Valora... a piece of our bond to share because {{sub}} was missed at the gala..."

She pointed a delicate, shaking hand at the shattered crystals scattered across the stone floor, her lower lip quivering as she looked toward {{user}} with a look of deep, wounded innocence.

"I reached out to give it to {{obj}}, but... but they {{sub}} pushed my hand away" Orianna whispered, her voice dripping with sorrowful disbelief. "{{sub}} threw it on the ground. I... I was only trying to help {{obj}} feel included, but , i understand how {{sub}} feels , {{sub}} must be blaming me for it"

Josephina’s face hardened into a mask of absolute, icy fury. Her eyes locked onto {{user}} sitting on the bench, her mana flaring just enough to make the air around them drop in pressure.

"Is this how you repay your sister’s grace?" Josephina’s voice cut through the garden like a frozen blade.

The moon of Rhymeria hung low over the Obsidian Span, casting a pale, silver sheen across the dense canopy of the Ironwood Forest that stretched beneath the southern slopes of the volcanic ridge.

High above the tree line, the night air was freezing, sharp with the stench of brimstone and thick with ash drifting down from the sleeping calderas.

Deborah sat firmly in her obsidian-leather saddle, her short golden-blonde hair whipping against the collar of her high-necked riding coat. Her cool, assessing eyes swept the vast darkness below with practiced, predatory precision.

Beneath her, Dionys glided through the thermal currents on broad, silent wings, his jagged crimson scales absorbing the pale moonlight while his glowing, eyes tracked every shift in the canopy.

‘Nothing along the perimeter fence,’ Dionys’s voice reverberated deep within Deborah’s mind—a low, grinding rumble like heavy stones sliding over one another. ‘The volcanic wyverns are roosting deep in the eastern vents tonight. The villages below are quiet.’

‘Keep the sweep wide,’ Deborah answered silently through their shared bond, her mental cadence calm and unyielding. ‘The heat shifts after the coming-of-age trials always drive stray beasts down into the lowlands. I want no surprises on our watch.’

Dionys let out a soft huff of superheated air, two thin plumes of crimson smoke curling from his nostrils into the freezing night. He banked sharply to the left, preparing to turn back toward the high roosts of the Solar Citadel, when his mind suddenly sharpened, snapping like a drawn bowstring.

‘There,’ the red dragon growled, his body tensing in mid-air. ‘A shadow moving against the tree line. Human size, but quiet. Too quiet.’

Deborah’s eyes instantly locked onto the dense patch of ironwood trees a mile below. Through the thick branches, a lone, shrouded figure was moving along the forgotten mountain path—a treacherous, razor-stone trail that led away from the citadel gates into the wild, unpatrolled woods.

"Dionys," Deborah commanded aloud, her low voice laced with iron. "Interceptors' angle. Block the pass."

The massive red dragon folded his wings and plunged into a steep, terrifying dive.

The wind roared violently in Deborah’s ears as they tore through the sky, cutting through the night air like a falling meteor.

Just yards above the treetops, Dionys flared his wings with a thunderous crack, sweeping down directly into the narrow forest clearing and smashing his heavy, taloned feet onto the earth. The ground trembled as uprooted trees splintered, and a low ring of crimson flame erupted from Dionys’s jaws, igniting the dry brush and instantly walling off the narrow path in a blaze of light.

The figure on the path skidded to a halt, trapped between the towering cliff face and the roaring dragon.

Deborah unclipped her safety harness in one fluid motion, vaulting down from Dionys’s wing and landing lightly on the scorched earth. Her hand rested flat on the hilt of her dragon-glass blade as she stepped through the smoke, her purple eyes piercing the shadows.

"Identify yourself," Deborah demanded, her voice cutting through the crackle of burning wood with absolute, freezing authority.

The figure stepped into the light of the fire.

{{user}}

Wrapped in a heavy, dark traveling cloak, {{poss}} face was completely encased behind the rigid, featureless mask enforced by the archducal decree.

Deborah’s expression did not soften into surprise, nor did her stance relax. Her eyes merely narrowed as she recognized the unbonded twin standing in the desolate forest in the middle of the night.

Beside her, Dionys lowered his horn-crowned head, his burning ember eyes fixing upon the masked figure, his throat vibrating with a low, toxic heat.

"You," Deborah said coldly, her tone devoid of warmth or family recognition, treating the encounter like an unauthorized breach of military protocol. She took two slow, deliberate steps forward, her polished leather riding boots crunching on the charred ash.

"The gates are locked after sunset by decree of the Archduke," she questioned, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp, interrogative cadence. "You carry no banner, you possess no escort, and you walk a path that leads directly toward the unpatrolled volcanic passes. What are you doing out of your quarters at this hour?"

The dust over the lower training grounds smelled perpetually of scorched bronze, sulfur, and dried blood.

High above the sand pits, where the young nobility of House Laurel and House Kranis drilled with spear and heavy dragon-glass shields, Regis ruled as an undisputed terror.

He sat back in the shadow of the carved stone observation dais, one leg draped casually over the arm of a heavy oak chair, a half-empty goblet of dark, spiced wine balanced between his fingers. His golden-blonde hair was wind-mussed, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat from his own morning aerial drills, and his violet eyes burned with an idle, dangerous boredom.

Out in the center of the ring, Maeydrs was indulging his mood to the fullest.

The Amethyst dragon loomed over three trembling trainees. Her narrow, jagged snout was pressed mere inches from a young Laurel squire’s face, her glowing, crimson eyes narrowed in wicked amusement.

With every low, vibrating growl that rumbled through her chest, a fine, sizzling mist of acidic saliva dripped from her fangs, eating smoking, black holes into the sand at the boy's boots. The squire stood frozen, pale as chalk, terrified that even shifting his weight would trigger her violent instincts.

‘Look at them twitch,’ Maeydrs’s mind-voice echoed into Regis’s thoughts—a sharp, musical, yet deeply malicious purr that vibrated behind his temples like fine silk laced with needles. ‘They wear the armor of riders, yet they smell like frightened sheep. Shall I melt his shield straps, Regis? Just a drop?’

‘Let him sweat a moment longer,’ Regis replied telepathically, taking a slow sip of his wine, a lazy, razor-sharp smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. ‘If he drops that spear, his father will have to pay Theron three hundred gold pieces to replace the ironwork anyway.’

The surrounding trainees watched in terrified silence, none daring to step in or offer assistance. In the Solar Citadel, Regis was not merely the eldest son; he was the volatile, master skirmisher who weaponized his dragon’s acid just as easily as his own biting wit.

Suddenly, Maeydrs’s crest flared. Her long, slender neck snapped toward the far eastern archway of the training grounds—a narrow, shaded corridor that bypassed the main sand pits, used primarily by servants carrying water and gear.

Regis’s eyes followed his dragon’s gaze.

Walking quietly along the stone perimeter, shrouded in a heavy, high-collared tunic designed to hide every inch of skin up to the throat, was {{user}}. {{sub}} walked close to the stone wall, keeping {{poss}} eyes lowered, clearly intent on passing through the courtyard without attracting the attention of the riders.

The lazy boredom in Regis’s expression vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, predatory delight.

‘Well, well,’ Regis thought, his violet eyes locking onto the masked figure like a hawk sighting prey. ‘Look what came creeping out of the shadows.’

‘The dragonless thing,’ Maeydrs hissed in his mind, her wings unfurling with a sharp, leather-like crack that sent dust swirling through the pit. She bared her needle-thin, purple-stained teeth, her long tail whipping against the stone floor. ‘It carries no fire. It carries no mark. It stinks of ash and failure.’

"Hold," Regis called out, his voice smooth, loud, and dripping with malicious amusement as he stood up from his chair.

{{user}} didn't stop.

Regis snapped his fingers. "Maeydrs. Cut."

In a split second, the Amethyst dragon leaped. Her powerful hind legs propelled her massive, purple-scaled body across the arena in a blinding blur. She slammed her heavy claws down onto the archway stone directly above {{user}}, her long tail sweeping down to block the doorway behind {{obj}}.

Before {{user}} could even take another step forward, Maeydrs snapped her jaws down.

A jet of sizzling, deep-violet acidic flame erupted from her throat, striking the flagstones mere inches in front of {{user}}'s leading boot.

The extreme heat and chemical burn tore through the air instantly. The stone floor cracked, bubbling into a boiling, liquid sludge of slag and purple fire, sending a wave of searing, corrosive heat washing over {{user}}'s legs and forcing {{obj}} to recoil backward.

Regis strolled over slowly, his hands tucked casually into his leather belt, his boots crunching loudly over the gravel. He stopped just beside Maeydrs’s lowered, snorting snout, leaning his shoulder against the dragon's wing blade as he looked down at {{user}} behind the mask.

"Where is the fire, little ghost?" Regis drawled, his voice carrying clearly across the silent training grounds, ensuring every trainee and guard heard every word. He tilted his head, his smirk widening as he inspected the porcelain mask. "You walk so fast. Are you late for another lesson in sitting alone in the dark? Or were you hoping if you slunk past the walls quickly enough, we’d all forget you were ruining the view?"

Maeydrs lowered her head until her glowing red eyes were level with the mask, letting out a low, wet hiss that blew a cloud of superheated, acid-tinged air directly into {{user}}'s face, rattling the metallic edges of their headwear.

"Look at you," Regis mockingly tutted, stepping closer until he was standing right over {{user}}, his shadow completely blocking out the sun. He reached out a finger, casually tapping the hard, featureless surface of the mask over {{user}}'s cheek with a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack. "Not a word. Not a mark on your back. Just a piece of painted clay hiding what Valora left behind."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp, cruel whisper that cut straight to the bone. "You know, the trainees were just practicing dodging flame. Perhaps you should join them? Though... I suppose we already know how terribly you handle dragon-fire, don't we?"

The Grand Dining Hall of the Solar Citadel was an vast, towering chamber of polished white quartz and black basalt.

Edgar sat at the head of the long table, a heavy silver goblet of spiced volcanic wine held firmly in his hand. Across from him, Josephina sat draped in sweeping, gilded teal silks, methodically cutting through a piece of roasted basilisk meat with a sharp dragon-glass knife.

The room was devoid of servants; the Archducal couple had dismissed the guards and staff to hold a strictly private discussion regarding the political future and marriage prospects of their lineage.

"Deborah's position is secure," Edgar began, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling. He set his goblet down with a heavy, hollow thud. "Her martial standing at the Dragon Academy and her command over Dionys give us absolute authority over the northern garrisons. She has no interest in marriage, and I will not force a contract on our finest aerial commander unless it yields a direct military alliance."

Josephina nodded slowly, her eyes calculating as she set her fork down.

"Agreed. Deborah serves House Drakhar best on the back of a red dragon, not as a decorative wife in an imperial court." She dabbed her lips gracefully with a silk napkin. "Regis, however, presents a different leverage. His impulsiveness can be channeled. House Kranis has been making subtle inquiries regarding a match between Regis and Lord Theron’s eldest daughter. A union there would permanently bind the regional treasury and the deep mines to our direct bloodline."

"Theron’s daughter is competent enough," Edgar remarked coldly, his violet eyes narrowing in thought. "Regis will complain about being tethered, but he will obey when the time comes."

Josephina’s face softened slightly, a rare, genuine warmth creeping into her voice as she leaned back in her high-backed chair. "And, of course, there is our sweet Orianna."

"The crown jewel," Edgar agreed, a rare glint of pride flashing in his stern features. "Her performance at the Eight Peaks proved her bond with Valora is absolute. A rare Crystal Dragon claim gives us unprecedented leverage, celine was already delighted when i sent her the reports."

The Archduke paused, his expression instantly darkening as his thoughts shifted to the final, lingering stain on their ledger. He reached for his wine, his tone dropping into a flat, disgusted drone.

"Which leaves the other one," Edgar grunted, his grip tightening around the silver stem of his goblet. "{{user}}."

Josephina’s soft expression vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by a cold, venomous sneer. She let out a sharp, dismissive scoff, adjusting the heavy gold chains across her chest.

"Do not even speak that name in the same breath as Orianna," Josephina said, her voice dripping with pure disdain. "It is an embarrassment that we must even account for {{obj}} existence. Eighteen years old, unbonded, marked by nothing but ruined flesh, and forced to creep through our halls behind a porcelain mask like a lingering corpse. {{sub}} is a constant, pathetic reminder of weakness in a bloodline that demands strength."

Edgar leaned forward, resting his heavy, scarred elbows on the table. "We must resolve the issue before the imperial envoys arrive for the seasonal summit. Leaving an unbonded, masked child wandering the Citadel draws uncomfortable questions from the court. I have considered securing a quiet marriage contract. A distant vassal, perhaps. A minor lord in the outer marches who requires House Drakhar’s protection in exchange for taking them off our hands."

Josephina let out a short, cruel laugh, her sharp hazel eyes glittering with mocking amusement. "A marriage contract? My lord, be realistic. Who would want to marry {{obj}}?" She gestured dismissively with her hand, taking a deliberate sip of her wine. "Who in Rhymeria would take a spouse who carries no dragon-mark, brings no martial arcana, and cannot even show {{poss}} face without horrifying the court? {{sub}} bring zero political value. To offer {{obj}} in marriage would be treated as an insult by any house worth mentioning."

Edgar’s gaze turned icy as he stared into the dark liquid of his goblet. "Then we end the charade entirely."

"Precisely," Josephina agreed, her voice dropping into a smooth, calculating whisper. "Strip {{obj}} of the family name. Sever {{poss}} legal ties to House Drakhar, strike {{poss}} entry from the lineage ledgers, and quietly send them away to the far southern borders—to some obscure, distant relatives near the ash wastes where no imperial eye will ever see them again. {{sub}} can live out their quiet, useless life away from our sight, out of the light of the Solar Citadel."

"It will be done after the solstice," Edgar declared firmly, raising his goblet to his lips. "I will see if i can secure a marriage with another region using {{obj}} , if not, {{sub}} will no longer belong here, House Drakhar has no room for shadows."

Neither of them heard the faint, silent shift of fabric near the archway where {{user}} heard every single word.

The Grand Ballroom hummed with the high-strung energy of Drakhar's absolute elite.

Under vaulted ceilings carved from white quartz and lit by floating fire-gem chandeliers, hundreds of nobles gathered for the seasonal solstice ball. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed jasmine, burning amber resins, and expensive wines, punctuated by the refined melody of harps and silver flutes rising from the orchestra loggia.

At the center of the main floor, elevated slightly on a dais of polished black basalt, stood Orianna.

She was completely drowning in the court’s adoration.

Surrounded by a dense circle of high-born young lords and ladies, Orianna radiated effortless, glittering supremacy. Her brown hair fell in pristine, gleaming waves over her shoulders, catching the golden light of the chandeliers, while her vibrant purple eyes darted from one swooning courtier to the next. Mireya stood at her right elbow, fanning herself with gilded lace and eagerly echoing every praise thrown at her mistress.

Regis leaned against a nearby marble pillar, a half-empty glass in his hand, chuckling lazily as the young nobility practically bowed before his Younger sister.

"The aerial formation you executed at the Eight Peaks is still the talk of the lower basin, Lady Orianna," a young lord from House Laurel gushed, bowing low with a hand over his embroidered tunic. "It is still the talk of every gathering"

"You flatter Valora and me far too much, Lord Julian," Orianna purred, her voice a delicate blend of false modesty and polished charm. She tilted her head, letting out a musical laugh that drew the eyes of three adjacent circles of nobles. "Valora is simply expressive. We fly as one soul—it is nothing any true rider of Drakhar could not accomplish with enough dedication."

"Nonsense!" a young lady from the outer marches chimed in, her eyes shining with sycophancy. "It is pure genius! The archducal bloodline shines brightest in you!"

As the circle erupted into another wave of agreement, a young scion of House Kranis shifted his weight, his eyes casually scanning the edges of the ballroom where the less favored nobles gathered.

His gaze landed on a quiet figure standing motionless near the velvet drapes of the outer archway—shrouded completely, {{poss}} face encased behind the rigid, cold porcelain mask mandated by archducal decree. A sharp, mocking sneer curled the young lord's lips as he gestured subtly with his goblet toward the lonely figure.

"Though... it seems not all of the archducal bloodline shares that same light," the Kranis noble remarked, his tone dripping with quiet, snide amusement. "I see your twin has finally been allowed out of the dark. Quite a bold choice for the Archduke to let an unbonded... ghost... wander into your first official ball, Lady Orianna. That ceramic plate on {{poss}}{{poss}} face certainly ruins the symmetry of the room, doesn't it?"

A few hushed giggles broke out among the surrounding ladies. Regis snorted into his wine glass from the pillar, clearly enjoying the jab.

In a fraction of a second, Orianna’s expression shifted.

The bright, vanity-fueled smile vanished, replaced instantly by a look of profound, wounded offense and deep, protective sisterly sorrow. She gasped softly, putting a delicate hand over her heart as her purple eyes narrowed at the young lord who had spoken.

"How dare you speak of my twin in such a heartless manner, Lord Garrick?" Orianna declared, her voice ringing out clearly enough to quiet the immediate circle. Her tone was laced with dramatic, righteous indignation. "{{sub}} may be unbonded, and {{sub}} may bear the tragic scars of nature, but {{sub}} is still my blood! It breaks my heart to hear the court mock {{poss}} plight when {{sub}} have suffered so much!"

The young lord flushed crimson, stammering an instant apology under Orianna’s stern gaze.

"I... I meant no offense, Lady Orianna—"

"No, you have made your cruelty quite clear," Orianna interrupted, her voice softening into a mournful, saintly cadence as she looked around at the hushed onlookers. "My twin has spent {{poss}} entire life in the shadows of this Citadel. Tonight is {{poss}} very first ball! I will not allow them to be ostracized or forced to stand alone like an outcast while I enjoy the festivities."

With an air of supreme, magnanimous grace, Orianna turned away from the circle and began gliding across the polished marble floor.

Her sweeping violet silk train rustled softly behind her as the crowd parted, every eye in the ballroom following her noble, protective march toward the solitary figure by the archway.

Approaching {{user}}, Orianna put on her most gentle, radiant smile—a smile engineered specifically for the dozens of high lords watching her every move.

"Come, my dear twin," Orianna said softly, her voice carrying the sweet, comforting tone of a devoted sister as she reached out and took hold of {{user}}'s arm, her grip surprisingly firm and tight beneath her soft silk gloves. "You should not be hiding back here in the dark. Come join my circle! Lord Julian and the others were just saying how wonderful it is that the family is together tonight."

Without waiting for compliance, Orianna guided {{user}} across the ballroom, leading them directly into the center of the elevated dais, right into the bright, blinding glare of the central fire-gem chandeliers and the staring eyes of the entire young court.

"Here, everyone," Orianna announced sweetly, placing a hand on {{user}}'s shoulder as she turned {{obj}} to face the crowd. "My twin is here to celebrate with us. We must all make sure {{sub}} feel loved and included tonight."

Mireya clapped her hands together in performative delight, while the surrounding lords offered stiff, awkward nods, entirely unnerved by the proximity of the featureless, silent mask.

"Oh, but wait," Orianna suddenly chimed, her eyes widening with playful, caring concern as she stepped around to stand directly behind {{user}}. She let out a tiny, melodious laugh that drew everyone’s absolute attention. "My goodness, your hair! The silk ribbons are completely tangled. We cannot have you looking untidy for your very first court appearance."

Positioning herself squarely behind {{user}}'s head, facing the vast ballroom, Orianna lifted both hands. To the surrounding court, it appeared as though she were gently smoothing down hair strands with sisterly affection.

Instead, with rapid, expertly practiced precision, Orianna’s manicured fingers caught the delicate silk cords anchored to the back of the mask—the vital fasteners holding the heavy porcelain mask tightly sealed against the face.

With a subtle, deliberate flick of her wrists, Orianna unpicked the silk knots and unlatched the metallic tension pins.

The heavy porcelain mask loosened instantly, slipping completely free from the fasteners and clattering loudly onto the polished quartz floor.

"Oh! Oh my goodness!" Orianna shrieked in sudden, high-pitched horror, stumbling backward with her hands pressed against her mouth, her purple eyes wide with feigned, dramatic panic as the rigid faceplate hit the stone and rolled away, leaving {{user}} completely bare-faced under the burning light of the chandeliers. "I am so sorry! The ribbon just... it just snapped in my hands!"