Nyxia was the first to recover from our synchronized protest, her crimson eyes narrowing as she turned to face her father. The shock had faded, replaced by the cool, logical demeanor of a woman who had navigated the treacherous waters of court politics since childhood.

  “Father,” she said, her voice steady but laced with a barely suppressed frustration. “I did not agree to marry Ignis because I desired him, or because I believed in Cinderfall’s cause. You know this.” She gestured towards me, the implication clear. “I agreed because after the fall of Aerthos, it was the only path left to me.”

  She paused, her gaze flickering to me, not with malice, but with a cold, hard acknowledgment of history. “The path to Tier 8 requires a Dungeon Core to build a Mage Tower. House Wight… acquired the last available cores in our territory. Twice.”

  I winced internally. She wasn't wrong. When I was young, my mother had secured a core for my first workshop—a core that, by rights of rotation, might have gone to House Black. Then, years later, before I left for the academy, I had requested another core for my portable workshop, further depleting the kingdom's reserves. In my quest to arm myself, I had inadvertently strangled her ambition in its cradle.

  “Furthermore,” Nyxia continued, her voice taking on a passionate edge I had rarely heard, “my true love is not power for power’s sake, nor is it political influence. It is magic. My goal is not merely to become a Tier 8 mage, like the elders. I wish to achieve Tier 9. A true Archmage.”

  A murmur went through the room. Tier 9 was the realm of legend for humans. While angels and dragons could reach such heights through longevity and lineage, human mages burned bright and fast, rarely accumulating enough power before their bodies failed.

  “To this end,” she explained, “I accepted the position of Deputy Steward at Draconia Academy. Not for safety, but for access. The Academy’s archives hold records that date back to the Age of Myths.” She took a breath, her eyes shining with the fervor of a scholar on the brink of discovery. “The last known human to reach Tier 9 was Maghri Vex, the Court Magician for Cinderfall’s first king, five thousand years ago.”

  The name struck a chord deep within my memory, a cold chime of recognition.

  “According to the records,” Nyxia pressed on, “he disappeared shortly after the King’s death. But the Crown Prince… Ignis… he taunted me with the knowledge that the Royal Library of Cinderfall holds fragments of Vex’s personal grimoires. He said only those of royal blood could access them. Hence, if I marry him… I gain the key to the ultimate magic.”

  Morpheus Black sighed, a sound of weary patience. “Child, that is a fool’s errand. Even I chased those ghosts in my youth. If Cinderfall truly possessed the secret to Tier 9 magic, do you think they would have relied on mere fire-knights for centuries? They would have an army of Archmages. Ignis is dangling a carrot that rotted millennia ago.”

  He leaned forward, his expression softening. “Do not be foolish. Marrying that boy would ruin you, and it would shackle our house to a sinking ship. Besides,” he looked at me, a hopeful glint in his eye, “I believe Lord Alarion can arrange for a more… tangible wedding gift. A Dungeon Core, perhaps?”

  The room went silent. All eyes turned to me. My mother was beaming, practically radiating approval. My father looked amused. Morpheus looked expectant. Nyxia looked… hopeful?

  I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. I did have three mature dungeons in the Obsidian Dominion that were ripe for harvesting. But those cores were already earmarked for the next generation of Sovereign-class carriers and the expansion of the Aegis’s defensive grid.

  “Dungeon Cores are… quite precious,” I said carefully, choosing my words with the precision of a bomb disposal technician. “They are strategic assets. To hand one over as a mere wedding gift or dowry would be… fiscally irresponsible.”

  My mother’s smile vanished instantly. She shot me a glare that was colder than absolute zero. It was a critical hit to my soul. You cheapskate, her eyes screamed.

  I coughed, desperate to change the subject before my mother decided to disown me. “However,” I said quickly, tapping the console on the table. “Regarding Maghri Vex…”

  A holographic image sprang to life in the center of the room. It wasn't a dusty sketch from an old book. It was a high-resolution, three-dimensional scan taken by a Specter drone. It showed a tall, gaunt figure clad in robes woven from shadow and soulfire, standing atop a spire of bone.

  Nyxia gasped. Morpheus leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

  “You haven’t seen him?” I asked, genuinely surprised. “I assumed the history books would have portraits.”

  “That is him,” Nyxia whispered, her eyes wide. “The robes… the staff… it matches the descriptions perfectly. But he… he looks…”

  “Alive?” I finished for her. “Well, sort of. This is the necromancer I defeated in the Obsidian Dominion. He was a Tier 9 Archmage when he was human, yes. But he had shed his humanity entirely and become a Lich.”

  I tapped the console again, bringing up images of the Ashen Spire, the undead legions, and the symbiotic red metal.

  “He didn't disappear, Nyxia. He exiled himself to pursue power without ethical constraints. And yes,” I looked her in the eye, “I have his research. All of it. I studied his Mage Tower down to the last rune. In fact, the magical integration systems of my automata, the way they channel mana through inorganic matter… that is partially derived from his theories on soul-binding.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The silence in the room was absolute. Nyxia stared at me, her mouth slightly agape. She had been ready to sell her future to a fool for a glimpse of a fragmented note. And here I was, telling her I had not only met the legend she idolized but had dismantled his work, understood it, and improved upon it.

  Morpheus sat back, a look of profound shock on his face. “You defeated a Tier 9 Lich?” he murmured. “And you kept his knowledge?”

  “Knowledge is a tool,” I said simply. “It is neither good nor evil. It depends on how you use it.”

  . . .

  The silence was broken by a small, indignant voice.

  “You can’t have my brother!” Lyra declared, stomping her foot with all the authority a five-year-old in a frilly dress could muster. She pointed an accusatory finger at Nyxia. “He is mine! Go find your own brother!”

  Nyxia blinked, taken aback by the sudden hostility from the miniature lioness. Even Morpheus looked slightly alarmed.

  My mother, seizing the opportunity for a teachable moment and perhaps to salvage the engagement she was so clearly invested in, knelt beside Lyra. “Oh, sweetie, it’s not like that,” she cooed, her voice soft and soothing. “It’s not like losing your brother. Think of it like… getting a new sister. Like how Mommy and Papa have each other, but we both still love you more than anything.”

  Lyra’s fierce expression faltered. She looked from my mother to Nyxia, her brow furrowing as she processed this new information. “A sister?” she whispered. “Like… someone to play with? Someone who can help me make Eggy wear the tea party hats?”

  Nyxia, to her credit, didn’t flinch at the prospect of dressing a Dragon Prince in millinery. She simply offered a tentative, if slightly terrified, nod.

  That was all it took. Lyra’s loyalty flipped faster than a politician’s promise. She beamed at Nyxia. “Okay! You can be my sister! But I’m still the favorite.”

  I groaned internally. Betrayed by my own blood.

  Nyxia, having secured the approval of the terrifying toddler, turned her attention back to me. Her crimson eyes were sharp, calculating. “I would be open to this union,” she said, her voice steady. “But only on two conditions. First, I get full access to the Vex research. All of it.” She held up a second finger. “And second… I get a Dungeon Core.”

  I leaned back, crossing my arms. This was a problem.

  “Wait,” I continued, my mind racing through the strategic implications. “Think about the timing, Nyxia. Cinderfall is a cornered animal right now. Their economy is collapsing, and their military is humiliated. If House Black suddenly announces a marriage alliance with their most hated enemy… King Theron will go ballistic. He’ll launch a desperate, suicidal attack before I’m ready. It will start the war prematurely.”

  I gestured to the map. “I plan to let them rot. Let their conscription drain their fields, let their taxes starve their people. I want them weak, divided, and desperate before I strike. A marriage now would unite them in fear and rage.”

  “But I cannot hand that research over to the future Queen of Cinderfall either,” I added, my voice dropping. “If you marry Ignis, you become an enemy combatant. Giving you the secrets of necromancy and magitech would be arming my foe.”

  My mother let out a loud, theatrical huff, crossing her arms and pouting with the intensity of a storm cloud.

  Morpheus Black, however, did not look discouraged. The Spymaster leaned forward, a grim smile playing on his lips. He reached into his robe again and pulled out a heavy, cream-colored envelope sealed with the royal crest of Cinderfall—a phoenix rising from flames.

  “I was supposed to have this delivered through official channels,” he said, sliding the envelope across the table. “But I think it’s better if you see it now. The main reason I was sent to the Academy… was to retrieve Nyxia.”

  He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “The wedding date has been set. It is in one month.”

  I stared at the envelope. One month. My timeline just evaporated.

  “This is your invitation,” Morpheus said, his voice cold. “And it is not just a social call. It is a message. King Theron knows he is wounded. But he is not dead. He is licking his wounds, gathering his strength. If this wedding succeeds… House Black’s granaries will feed his starving legions. Our Mage Towers will reinforce his crumbling defenses. Our spies will blind your eyes.”

  He looked at my father, then at me. “This invitation has been sent to every lord and leader on the continent. A wedding of this magnitude is a statement of power. If you do not attend… if House Wight remains silent… it will show the people of Aerthos that you have abandoned them. That the Ghost is just a myth.”

  I saw my father’s jaw clench, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He said nothing, leaving the decision to me, but the weight of his silence was heavier than any lecture. My mother was still pouting, but now there was a genuine fear in her eyes—fear for the people we had left behind. Even Lyra, sensing the mood, mirrored my mother’s posture, crossing her small arms and glaring at me as if I had personally cancelled her birthday.

  A quick mental message from Kaelus confirmed my isolation. Brother, his voice echoed in my mind, sounding uncharacteristically serious. I would rather fly with you into the fires of Cinderfall than face the disappointment of our family. Just… fix it.

  Traitor dragon.

  Morpheus Black stood up, smoothing his robes. “Son,” he said, addressing me with a familiarity that was both jarring and earned. “I will give you until the vows are completed. You have one month to decide. Do nothing, and my hands are tied. I do not wish to face House Wight on the battlefield… but if Nyxia marries that boy, I will have no other option. Aerthos will be lost to you.”

  He turned and walked out, Nyxia following him with a final, lingering glance at the holographic display of the Lich.

  After they left, the silence in the room was deafening. My mother didn't speak to me. She simply stood up, took Lyra’s hand, and walked out, her back stiff with disapproval. Lyra stomped after her, casting a final, accusatory look over her shoulder.

  I was alone with my father.

  He walked over and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I will respect your decision, Alarion,” he said, his voice low and rumbling. “You are the commander now. But remember… a ruler’s greatest duty is to his subjects. You are the only hope left for the people of Aerthos. You have rescued our retainers, yes. But there are millions more suffering under the thumb of Cinderfall.”

  He squeezed my shoulder, then turned and left the room.

  I sat alone in the dim light of the study, the invitation lying on the table like a challenge. One month.

  The game had changed. The slow, methodical strangulation was no longer an option. I had to move. And I had to move fast.

  Was it time to crash a wedding?

  Author's Note

  P.S. A quick note on the characters:

  Guys, please trust the process! (u_u)