The night air was restless.
Even without eyes to see, ears to hear, or a tongue to speak, Bilal could feel it—the world was wrong.
His hands clung tightly to the folds of Penelope's cloak as she carried him on horseback, his body pressed against her chest. Her heart was beating too fast. Not from exertion—but from fear.
Bilal felt it like a tremor in his bones.
He had known Penelope since the moment he was born. She was the one who cradled him when he couldn't sleep, who whispered lullabies long after his hearing faded. They had created a language of their own—touch-signs, traced with fingers on skin. When words failed, hands spoke.
She would write in gentle strokes on his palm.
Safe.
Soon.
I'm here.
And Bilal would sign back.
Why fast?
Where mother?
Scared.
Penelope paused, clutching him tighter. Then, slowly, her hand took his and began to trace letters into his skin.
Your mother is resting. We're going somewhere safe.
His hand trembled. Resting. That wasn't her usual word.
He signed back quickly.
Not feel her. Why? Where?
No answer. Just another shaky hug. Her arms wrapped around him with a desperate kind of strength, like she was trying to shield him from something too large to speak aloud.
The wind tore past them as their horse galloped harder. The rhythm of hooves was muffled to him, but he felt it in his bones. Their speed was wrong. Desperate.
The two knights who flanked them, Sir Kael and Sir Donnel, rode with drawn blades. He had known them since he could remember. Kael always smelled of steel and wet leather. Donnel used to pat him on the head twice, rough and affectionate. They never treated him like a ghost—until now.
Their hands never reached for him. Their focus was forward. Shields raised.
Something had happened. Something he couldn't name. His world, already dark and quiet, had become hollow.
And his mother… she was gone.
Her warmth had always lingered, even in absence. It was the only light left to him. But now, there was nothing. No trace. No feeling. He had searched for it in Penelope's embrace, in the heat of the horse's body—but it was gone.
That absence ached more than any wound.
Penelope's fingers found his again.
I promise. I will protect you. Always.
But Bilal didn't respond. He just clutched her wrist and held it to his chest.
He didn't need to speak to say it.
Don't lie to me.
And she didn't write anything else after that.
They rode for what felt like hours—though time meant little to someone like Bilal. The forest grew colder. The wind sharper. He could feel frost beginning to nip his fingers, and his Spiritual Sense—a strange gut-feeling he'd always had—twitched with unease.
It had always been there, that sixth sense. Ever since his other senses began to fade, he could just feel things others couldn't. The air before a storm. The grief behind someone's smile. The difference between real peace and hollow comfort.
Tonight, that sense was screaming.
And then—it happened.
A jolt shook the horse. The soundless crack of a crossbow bolt piercing its flank. Penelope gasped, her muscles tensing around him. The horse reared wildly.
Another flash of motion. Sir Donnel yelling something. The clashing of steel.
Bilal couldn't hear any of it—but he felt the chaos like fire through his skin.
Penelope twisted in the saddle, trying to shield him. He could feel her blood hot on his neck as something grazed her back. She kissed his forehead once, then again—and then let go.
He flew.
Weightless.
For a moment, there was no ground. No sky. Just the whipping cold and the rising dread as gravity claimed him.
Then branches.
Then pain.
Then the world turned to darkness again as he crashed into the earth—far below, deep in a pit the forest had forgotten.
Darkness.
Not the kind that comes with closing one's eyes, or walking through shadowed halls.
This was real darkness.
Burial darkness.
Bilal couldn't move.
His legs were twisted under him in ways they shouldn't be. His arms throbbed with dull heat, bones fractured or worse. His lips were chapped, sticky with blood. He tasted metal. Dirt.
But none of it mattered.
Because there was no sound. No warmth. No touch.
He was truly alone.
And yet… not alone.
Somewhere deep within the silence, something pulsed. Not a heartbeat—but a hum. It didn't come from outside. It wasn't in the earth, or the trees. It was inside his skull, brushing the edge of thought.
A whisper. No… not a whisper. A presence.
"Come to me."
The words did not pass through ears. They formed directly in his spirit—pressing inward like smoke through cracked glass.
Am I dead?
"No. But soon, unless you reach me."
I can't move. My legs—
"Crawl."
I'm blind. I was born cursed. Mute. Deaf. Alone.
"No. You were born chained. That is not the same."
His hand clawed forward through blood and mud. A pull, like gravity but older. He moved forward by inches. Elbow. Shoulder. Crawl.
Then—
Scale.
Cold. Immense. Unyielding.
The moment his blood touched it, the presence surged.
"Say the oath."
What oath?
"Let me help you remember. Say it now—and free us both."
The words were not taught. They came from the core of his being—spoken by the soul, not the mouth.
"By fire, wind, earth, and sea,
Let ancient bonds awaken me.
By blood, by breath, by fate undone,
Let dragon and child be forged as one."
Blood soaked the scale.
A sigil appeared—a ring of four crowns around a central flame.
The Call of the Four Kings.
Pain ripped through him. His vision burned red.
Then came the visions.
Cities on fire. Mountains collapsing. Chains the size of rivers wrapped around screaming dragons.
"We gave your kind the gift of mana. Breathing. Fire. Form. You repaid us with betrayal."
"But you, Bilal… you are cursed beyond what this world understands. And for that… you are perfect."
A glow bloomed in the air before him. Red. Dancing.
The fire faerie emerged—flickering wings, ember gaze, warmth like a flame just shy of dangerous.
"I am your spirit medium. The pact is done. Your Rite of Mana has begun."
He awoke to sound.
Chirp. Chirp-chirp.
Birdsong.
He cried without shame. His ears worked. His body trembled.
The sunlight filtered above him.
"I can hear," he whispered. "I can see…"
"You're syncing," the fire faerie said, hovering above him.
The voice of D returned, calm and cold.
"That is the world reacting to you. Mana. Element. Spirit. You are no longer empty."
Bilal forced himself upright. Mud clung to his back. His ribs still ached.
But something burned inside his chest.
"Humans form mana cores through ritual. Through spirit bonding. Most access one or two elements. A few, three. Rare ones are blessed with divergents—holy, gravity, space."
"But we dragons… we are born with all. Every element. Every divergence. Every path."
"And now, you carry my breath inside your soul."
The fire faerie hovered closer. "But he's reacting to more than just your breath. Something ancient inside him is drawing mana like a vortex."
Bilal looked at his hands.
Threads of fire danced at his fingertips.
"He is compatible with the Call of the Four Kings," the faerie said, almost in disbelief. "That shouldn't be possible."
"Why?" Bilal asked.
"Because that rite," D answered, "was meant for royalty. Not just dragons. Dragon Kings."
"Teach me," Bilal said.
"You're not ready," the faerie warned. "Even basic dragon breathing would—"
"Then I will teach him the original form," D growled. "The Dragon King's Breath."
A new sigil appeared—gold and black like an eclipse, spinning slowly.
"This form predates kingdoms. It reshapes body and soul. Even your first emperors only inherited fragments of it."
Bilal closed his eyes. Breathed in.
Slow. Deep. Commanding.
Each breath pulled mana into him, like light folding into a blade. His chest glowed. A core—still formless—began to burn.
He saw the world differently.
Spirits moved through the trees.
Mana shimmered in the air.
And for the first time, he saw futures—glimpses of strikes, elemental threads, and soul-born danger. Not instinct. Not guesswork.
Foresight.
It flickered and vanished, but it had appeared.
He collapsed. Breathing hard. Weeping again.
But not from pain.
From clarity.
"I have to find them," Bilal whispered suddenly. "Penelope. Kael. Donnel. They tried to protect me. I don't know if they're alive, but I have to know."
"You will find them," D said. "But first… rise."
Bilal looked at the light above the pit. His body trembled. But his soul—ignited.
And so he stood.
The cursed prince who could not hear.
Who could not see.
Who could not speak.
Now touched by dragon fire.
Now breathing like a king.
Now burning for the world to remember his name.
Bilal.
The boy forgotten by the Empire…
Would one day burn it to the ground.