The Jefferson Estate was unusually quiet that afternoon.
Elsa sat in the sunroom, the golden light pouring through stained glass, casting fractured rainbows across her lap. A cup of untouched tea steamed quietly on the table.
She hadn't slept much.
Too many thoughts. Too many shadows. And now, something else…
A name she hadn't heard in years had resurfaced that morning. Not in whispers. Not in rumors.
But in a letter.
A simple ivory envelope sealed with wax, delivered by a man in gloves who left without a word.
To: Elsa JeffersonFrom: Silas Kade
She hadn't opened it yet.
Didn't need to.
The name alone dragged her heartbeat into her throat.
Silas Kade wasn't just an ex. He was the ex. The man who once made her believe love could override legacy. The man who disappeared into smoke and silence right before everything in her life got real.
He was supposed to be gone.
Dead, even.
But now… he was back?
And for what?
As if summoned by her dread, her phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown number.
"Tell your husband I'm in town. Would be rude not to say hello."
Across the city, Chess leaned against the railing of Veloria Heights, a rooftop lounge reserved for people who usually owned the buildings they drank in.
He stared at the skyline, quiet.
Until someone spoke behind him.
"Same view. Same city. Still feels like the jungle underneath, doesn't it?"
Chess didn't turn.
He already knew who it was.
The air had changed.
Colder.
Sharper.
"I wondered when you'd show your face," Chess said.
Silas Kade stepped into view, dressed in a charcoal grey suit that looked tailored by angels, with a calm, amused expression on his face. His slicked-back hair, pale eyes, and unreadable aura made him look more diplomat than devil—but Chess knew better.
"Would've come sooner," Silas said, "but I figured I'd let you get settled into your little fairy tale first."
Chess didn't smile. "What do you want?"
Silas looked out over the city.
"I heard you married Elsa," he said. "Arranged. Classic Jefferson play. Sacrifice one queen to protect the king's kingdom."
"She's not a sacrifice."
"She's always been one," Silas replied, glancing sideways. "The question is… to whom?"
Chess finally turned. "You're wasting your time."
Silas chuckled. "Oh, I'm not here for her."
He stepped closer.
"I'm here for you."
Chess's expression barely shifted, but his stance changed. Just enough for trained eyes to see.
Silas noticed. He smiled wider.
"You think you're the only one who walked away from fire? You think your past is deeper than mine?"
Chess said nothing.
"You're a dragon, sure. But don't forget…" Silas whispered. "Some of us learned to breathe that fire before we had wings."
Then he turned and walked off, smooth as silk.
Leaving only silence in his wake.
Back at the estate, Elsa finally opened the letter.
Inside was a single photo.
Old. Torn.
It was her. And Silas. On the beach. Laughing. Arms around each other.
On the back, scribbled in clean penmanship:
"Don't pretend ghosts don't bleed.— S."
Her hand trembled.
She didn't know if it was fear… or something else.
Meanwhile, in a hidden dojo beneath the city, Hubert Golding—Chess's old master—lowered his sword.
He had sensed something shift in the ether.
He looked toward the north and whispered:
"Two dragons now walk Veloria. One born in silence… one born in smoke."
He closed his eyes.
"And when dragons meet… the world burns."