The tavern is dimly lit, smelling of alcohol and smoke and something sweet I can't identify. Michael leads us to a corner table, away from the other patrons, and signals a server with practiced ease.
"So," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Travelers from elsewhere. That's code for 'we came through the veil,' isn't it?"
I don't confirm or deny. Just watch him with steady eyes.
He laughs. "Relax. I'm not going to report you to anyone. The veil's been dormant for millennia. If it's active again, that's fascinating, not threatening." He accepts a drink from the server and takes a long sip. "Besides, you're clearly not here to conquer anything. You're observing. Learning. Which means you're smart."
"Tell us about Aerox," Ghatak says, his tone making it less a request and more a command.
Michael doesn't seem bothered. "What do you want to know? The political structure? The species hierarchy? The scandalous affair between the Pure-Blood Council leader and his sired mistress?"
"Start with the hierarchy," I say.
"Ah, the practical question." Michael sets down his drink. "Aerox is ruled by vampires. Sired vampires are at the top and everyone else arranged by usefulness and power are in the middle class. Elves and dwarves are citizens—free to own property, practice magic, all that. Humans are..." He waves a hand dismissively. "Slaves. Property. They breed fast, work hard, and don't live long enough to cause real problems."
There's no apology in his voice. No moral discomfort. Just stating facts.
Perfect.
"What happen to the pure blood vampires." Ghatak asked casually.
Micheal frown for the first time. " They are nearly extinct l. The ones that are alive are still in hiding. No ask more. That topic is taboo.
"And this system works?" I ask.
"Has for thousands of years," Michael confirms. "Humans get food, shelter, protection. We get labor, blood sources, and a stable population to draw from. Everyone knows their place. It's efficient."
Ghatak's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing once. He hears it too—the echo of what we were just discussing. The practicality of it.
"What about other species?" I ask. "Magical beings?"
"Depends on their power level," Michael says. "Strong enough, and you're a citizen. Weak enough, and you're a slave. It's a meritocracy, really. Just based on magic instead of money."
A meritocracy.
The word settles in my mind, turning over and over. That's what I want for Draconis. Not equality—equality is a lie that weakens civilizations. But a clear hierarchy based on power. On usefulness.
Dragons at the top. Always. But below that? A structured system where everyone knows their place and serves the greater whole.
"You're thinking about something," Michael observes, his red eyes glinting with curiosity. "Something you like."
"Just appreciating efficiency," I reply smoothly.
He grins. "You'd fit in well here. We appreciate people who understand how the world really works."
"Tell me," Ghatak says, changing the subject, "has anyone else come through the veil? In recent history?"
Michael's expression shifts—still amused, but with an edge of intrigue. "Not recently. But there are stories. Legends, really. About a mad woman who appeared nearly two thousand years ago. Silver hair, they said. Iridescent skin. Completely mad."
My heart skips a beat. Silver hair. Iridescent skin.
"Mad how?" I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
"Violent. Chaotic. She appeared out of nowhere, caused absolute havoc for a few decades, and then vanished just as mysteriously." Michael leans forward, clearly enjoying the tale. "Some say she was a demon. Others claim she was a fallen angel. A few old texts suggest she might have been something else entirely—something that came through the veil and couldn't handle the transition."
The realization hits me like a physical blow. It has to be one of my sisters.. Silver hair, iridescent skin—those are dragon traits. Royal dragon traits.
One of my sisters came through the veil. And something went wrong.
"What happened to her?" Ghatak asks, his voice tight.
Michael shrugs. "No one knows. She disappeared. Some think she died. Others believe she's still out there somewhere, hiding. There are occasional rumors—sightings in remote areas, stories of a silver-haired woman with no memory of who she is." He takes another drink. "Personally, I think she's dead. Two thousand years is a long time, even for powerful beings."
No memory.
The words echo in my mind. If Bia came through the veil and it damaged her—corrupted her mind the way it clearly corrupted her magic—she might not even know who she is. Might not remember her family, her home, her purpose.
She could be alive. Somewhere on this planet. Lost and alone and broken.
The thought sends rage through my veins, hot and vicious. Not at Bia. At whatever did this to her. At the veil, at Sadie, at the entire fucking universe that keeps taking everything from me.
But I don't let it show. Don't let Michael see the fury building inside me.
"Interesting story," I say instead, my voice perfectly calm.
"Isn't it?" Michael grins. "I love a good mystery. Especially one that might involve dimensional travel and ancient magic."
She wakes.
The first thing she feels is wrong*. Everything is wrong. Her body, her mind, the* world*—*
She doesn't know where she is. Doesn't know who she is. There are no memories, no context, just a vast emptiness where her identity should be.
And pain. Gods, the pain*.*
She tries to move and realizes she can't. Something is wrapped around her—warm, scaled, protective. She forces her eyes open and sees gold*. Bright, serpentine gold staring back at her.*
A face. Not human. Not anything she recognizes. Slitted pupils in eyes like molten metal, watching her with an intensity that makes her want to flee and stay all at once.
"You're awake," the creature says, and his voice is rough, like he hasn't spoken in centuries. "Finally."
She tries to speak, but her throat is raw. Damaged. She manages a sound—barely a whisper.
"Who..."
"I don't know," he says, and there's frustration in his voice. "You appeared here months ago. Fell through something. You've been unconscious ever since."
Months.
She looks down at herself and sees her body—changed. Swollen. And she knows*, somehow, that there are eggs inside her. Dozens of them. Maybe more.*
Terror crashes through her. She doesn't know how. Doesn't know why*. Just knows that something happened while she was unconscious, and now she's carrying—*
"They're ours," the creature says, and there's something in his voice. Something that sounds like awe*. "I don't understand it either. But they're ours. Yours and mine."*
Ours.
The word should mean something. Should trigger recognition or understanding. But there's nothing. Just emptiness and fear and the overwhelming need to escape*.*
She pulls away from him, scrambling backward, and realizes for the first time that they're in a pit. A prison. Green lightning crackles across the walls, and she can feel the magic holding this place together—ancient, powerful, wrong*.*
"Where am I?" she manages to rasp.
"My prison," he says simply. "I've been here for three thousand years. And now you're here too."
Three thousand years.
The number is incomprehensible. She looks at the walls, at the lightning, at the creature watching her with those golden eyes.
And she makes a decision.
She has to get out. Has to protect the eggs growing inside her. Has to find somewhere safe*—*
Even if she doesn't know who she is or where she came from or why any of this is happening.
Survival first. Understanding later.
"You're quiet," Michael observes, pulling me back to the present.
I blink, refocusing on the tavern. "Just thinking."
"About the silver-haired woman?" He grins. "I knew that story would intrigue you. Everyone loves a good mystery."
"Do you know where the sightings have been?" Ghatak asks. "The rumors about her still being alive?"
Michael waves a hand vaguely. "All over, really. Remote areas mostly. The desert to the east. The northern forests. A few reports from coastal villages." He leans back. "But like I said—I think she's dead. If she were still alive and sane, she'd have made herself known by now. And if she's alive and insane..." He shrugs. "Well, that's someone else's problem."
The desert to the east.
I file the information away, my mind already calculating possibilities. A silver-haired woman. The timeline fits—two thousand years ago, right when the civil war was reaching its peak. When my siblings went missing.
But which one?
Astria, the eldest daughter? Minerva with her strategic mind? Eira, who always had a gift for survival? Electra, Laverna, Bia—any of them could have been pulled through a corrupted veil. Even Silvanus or Orcus, though Michael said "woman."
The frustration burns through me. I have no way of knowing without more information. No way to identify which of my seven older siblings might be alive and broken somewhere on this planet.
But if even one of them survived...
They're royal bloodline. Powerful. Exactly what I need to rebuild our species, to reclaim what was stolen from us.
Even if they don't remember who they are.
"Thank you for the information," I say, standing. "It's been... enlightening."
Michael stands as well, that perpetual grin still in place. "Leaving so soon? I was just starting to enjoy the mystery of you."
"We have things to attend to," Ghatak says, his tone making it clear the conversation is over.
"Of course, of course." Michael executes another theatrical bow. "But if you're staying on Aerox for any length of time, look me up. I know everyone, and I love trading information with interesting people."
Useful.
"We'll keep that in mind," I say.
We leave the tavern, stepping back into the sunlight. The settlement continues around us—elves and dwarves going about their business, humans scurrying to fulfill their duties, the whole system functioning with mechanical precision.
"One of them," Ghatak says quietly once we're away from listening ears. "One of your siblings."
"Maybe," I reply. "The timeline fits. The description fits. But I don't know which one."
"If they're alive—"
"Then we find them," I finish. "We bring them home. We help them remember who they are."
And we use them.
The thought is cold, calculating, but I don't shy away from it. Whoever this silver-haired woman is—Astria, Minerva, Eira, any of them—they're my family, yes. But they're also a resource. Royal dragon bloodline. Power that could help us rebuild our civilization, repopulate our species, reclaim our place in the universe.
Sentiment is a luxury I can't afford. Not when there's so much at stake.
"What about Aerox?" Ghatak asks. "This system they have—"
"Is exactly what we need," I say. "A template. A proven model for organizing a multi-species civilization with clear hierarchies and efficient resource management."
He nods slowly. "You want to replicate it on Draconis."
"With modifications," I clarify. "Dragons at the top, always. But below that? A structured system where everyone has a place and a purpose. Where the strong lead and the weak serve. Where efficiency matters more than sentiment."
"We'll need to recruit," Ghatak says thoughtfully. "Build a population from scratch. Establish the hierarchy before it can form organically and create chaos."
"Exactly," I agree. "We study how Aerox does it. Learn what works. Then we implement it on Draconis with dragons as the apex. Clear stratification based on power and utility. No room for the kind of ideological division that destroyed us before."
A civilization that serves us.
The thought sends satisfaction through me, dark and sweet. This is what I was born for. Not just to survive, but to rule. To build something that will last millennia. To ensure that dragons never face extinction again.
And if that means enslaving humans, stratifying species, creating a system based on power and utility rather than equality and compassion?
So be it.
I didn't survive two thousand years and wake to a dead world just to rebuild the same broken system that failed us before.
This time, we do it right.
"We should return to Draconis," Ghatak says. "Report what we've learned. Start planning."
"Soon," I agree. "But first, I want to see more of this world. Understand how their system functions in practice. Learn what works and what doesn't."
"And find whoever she is," he adds. "The silver-haired woman. Whichever of your siblings survived."
"And find her," I confirm.
We walk through the settlement, observing everything with new eyes. Not as visitors, but as students. Learning from a civilization that's perfected what we're trying to build.
And as we walk, I feel my magic humming beneath my skin—chaos and void intertwined, hungry and eager and ready.
Ready to claim what's ours.
Ready to build an empire.
Ready to ensure that nothing and no one ever threatens our people again.
This is just the beginning.