Chapter 39 Dragon Sword of Valyn
Serafina
We were not merely husband and wife—nor simply mates. We were a union forged for the restoration of balance itself.
And my magic… it was not a chain. Not a command. I could wield it willingly.
I ate quietly after Azerath finished speaking.
The food was warm. The bread was soft beneath my fingers. The eggs were perfectly salted. I tasted everything and nothing at once.
My thoughts were not here, not at the table, not in the quiet comfort of the morning. They were still tangled in Azerath’s words.
All my life I had been taught there were three. Aetherion. Arcanis. Lunara. And then there was the whisper of a fourth—the Lost Kingdom—spoken like a child’s tale told to frighten apprentices who failed their Imperial exams.
But Dragonia had been real.
Ember had been real.
Dragons had ruled their own courts. Celestials had shaped fire beside them. Not servants. Not weapons. But as equals.
The world had once been balanced.
Dragons corrected while Celestials stabilized. They had not dominated the world. They had sustained it.
And mortals had destroyed them for it.
I glanced at Azerath as he sipped his tea.
He sat with his back straight, composed, the morning light catching against bronze skin and igniting the faint ember-glow in his eyes. If I did not know better, I might have mistaken him for nothing more than a powerful man with an ageless gaze.
But I knew what those eyes had witnessed.
A purge.
Dragon bodies falling from the heavens.
Celestials killed.
His dragon-rider kneeling.
The image would not leave me. A newborn child held at blade-point. An Emperor using innocence as leverage.
To threaten a baby. To threaten a helpless infant to secure obedience.
It was vile.
My fingers curled against the edge of my plate.
I had always disliked the Empire. I had feared it. Resented it. But this—this history—shifted something deeper inside me.
They had not risen to protect the world.
They had risen to control it.
And they had been willing to erase entire peoples—dragons—to secure that control.
I thought of Elias Valen. A man who had sacrificed his name, his legacy, his pride so that his son could live. History would remember him as the Celestial who bent the knee.
But I knew better now.
He had chosen love over glory.
He had chosen his child over reputation.
My throat tightened unexpectedly. I understood that choice. I would have done the same for my brother.
Across from me, Azerath set his teacup down carefully. He looked at the window, but he wasn’t really seeing it. He was deep in thought, focused on his memories rather than the room around him.
He had sacrificed too.
All the dragons were gone. Slaughtered. And now, only he remained.
I studied the sharp line of his profile as sunlight brushed his cheek.
There was fury in him. It wasn’t wild or reckless. He held it in, controlled it, letting it burn quietly beneath the surface.
A steady, enduring heat. I could feel it because it mirrored something inside me.
We were not so different, he and I.
He had lost his kind.
I had lost my parents.
He had watched his closest friend kneel before a tyrant. Then he had been forced into slumber, into silence, into hiding.
I had watched Enforcers take my parents under imperial decree. My brother and I dragged to Dust, hidden away like contraband.
We were both severed from the people we loved.
But Azerath could have chosen differently.
He could have burned the Empire to cinders after Elias died. He could have risen from hibernation and set the world ablaze.
He was powerful enough.
But he hadn’t. He had waited.
Until I found him.
Until I offered my blood freely.
Until I awakened him.
Now he sheltered me. Protected me. Fed me. Spoke to me of history with patience instead of command.
When I first met Azerath, I saw him as a terrifying being—a massive, dangerous creature made of fire and scales. But now I saw something else: a calm, controlled steadiness that unsettled me more than his fire ever had.
He cared enough about this fractured world to protect it—even from himself.
And that realization stirred something deep inside me.
“I understand you were few. I understand many died when their dragons were killed. But if the remaining Celestials were powerful… why didn’t they fight, Azerath?”
Azerath was silent for a long moment.
“Every ambush did not only take two lives, Serafina,” he said at last. “Every weapon forged to pierce scale ended a bloodline.”
A flicker of ancient fury burned through his eyes—brief, controlled, but unmistakable.
“They did not challenge us in open war. They hunted us. Dragons are visible. We are bound to land and sky. They tracked us. Cornered us. Struck when we were divided.” His jaw tightened. “It was strategic. Cunning. Ruthless.”
His gaze darkened, something heavier settling beneath the anger.
“And those who remained powerful enough to fight understood the cost. Had they answered slaughter with annihilation, there would be nothing left for you to inherit. No kingdoms. No oceans. No sky untouched by flame.”
A quiet breath left him.
“So the last of them chose to end the war differently.” His eyes met mine, steady and unflinching. “They conceded their era of dominanace. Leaving one pair to live on. Elias… and me.”
The doubt must have shown on my face, because his expression hardened almost instantly.
“Do not confuse mercy for weakness, Serafina. It was the hardest choice we ever made," he snapped.
I froze. It was the first time he had ever used that tone with me—sharp, almost dangerous. I swallowed and quickly changed the subject.
“Tell me about Elias,” I said softly. There was a weight in his voice when he spoke of him—love mingled with loss, the way one feels for a true friend.
A flicker of warmth passed through Azerath’s gaze as it met mine.
He lifted his tea cup once more, sipping slowly, before he spoke.
“He was tall,” Azerath began, a faint smile curving his mouth. “Taller than most men. Broad-shouldered. Strong without effort. He could drink ale endlessly and remain clear-minded, which was a trait most Celestials enjoyed to the irritation of mortals.”
Despite myself, I smiled slightly.
“He had striking red hair,” Azerath continued, studying me. “Much like yours—though his was shorter. Less… rebellious.”
I raised a brow. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
Azerath laughed. “I like rebellious. Actually, I love it, Serafina," he assured me. “But unlike your emerald eyes, his were blue. They shifted with the light—pale beneath the sun, dark beneath the moon. He was boisterous. Proud. But during one sparring session, a ball of fire struck him squarely in the face, and it wiped that eternal, satisfied smug right off him.”
I blinked. “Really?”
Azerath’s smile widened.
“He lost both eyebrows for nearly a month. Refused to admit it hurt. Walked about the courts pretending nothing had happened while every Celestial struggled not to laugh.”
The image startled a laugh out of me before I could stop it.
Azerath’s laughter followed—deep and genuine. It filled the hut in a way that made it feel less like a refuge and more like a home.
“He was the only son of the High Celestial,” Azerath continued once his laughter settled. “A woman named Althea, who was brilliant, kind, and gentle. The position of High Celestial— meant for Elias—had belonged to his father first. His father answered a divine calling and never returned, leaving his mother to carry the mantle until Elias was ready.”
“So he was raised to lead,” I murmured.
“Yes.”
“And instead, he bent the knee.”
Azerath’s expression sobered, though it did not harden.
“It was a worthy choice,” he said simply.
I nodded slowly.
“Elias wedded Constance,” Azerath continued. “She had olive skin, white hair, and silver eyes. Some said it was as if the Moon Goddess herself had shaped her. She was calm and insightful. Far more politically perceptive than Elias ever was."
“That sounds important,” I said.
“It was,” Azerath replied. “Together they bore a son—Elric. The Valyn line had only ever produced boys, generation after generation.”
I stilled.
Azerath’s golden eyes held mine.
“Elias made a vow,” he said quietly, “which may have sounded like a joke at the time, but it meant something to me. That if the Valyn line ever bore a daughter, she would be my mate.”
“That’s me,” I said.
“Yes, Serafina. You are mine."
My cheeks flushed at his words. I looked away, suddenly shy beneath his piercing gaze.
"What happened to Constance? Did she die?" I asked, needing the subject to shift slightly.
Azerath shook his head. "She was not a dragon-rider, so she survived the Collapse. Constance had the gift of foresight and became an Imperial Seer while Elias rose to general of the Imperial Army."
“Did you and Elias bond quickly?”
Azerath exhaled softly, a ghost of nostalgia flickering across his features.
“We were young. Reckless. Both convinced we understood the world better than we did. We made… questionable decisions.”
“That sounds both thrilling and dangerous.”
“It often was. Like two teenage boys getting into trouble.” His eyes gleamed faintly. “One of those decisions became Elias’s sword. What the Empire later called the Dragon Sword of Valyn.”
“Sword?”
“It was forged from one of my claws,” Azerath said calmly. “Strong enough to pierce dragon scale.”
My mind leapt. “The idea came from Arcanis, didn't it?"
“Yes. The Dark Prince proposed harvesting dragon remains for their structural resilience so Aetherion could forge weapons from them. Elias believed that with such a blade, he could stand against those who would misuse that knowledge. It was the first of firsts.”
“So they copied it,” I murmured.
“They improved it,” Azerath said quietly. “They captured one of my younger kin, killed her, and used her remains to forge weapons of war. Before I went into hibernation, the gods granted me a wish: that every trace of my kin’s remains—and every weapon forged from dragon scale, tooth, blood, or claw—be erased. Except my own.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Azerath was clever.
“And where is this Dragon Sword now?” I asked.
Azerath tilted his head slightly. “Do you not have it?”
I paused, eyes wide.
“The sword I pulled from the bag?” I said slowly. “That sword?”
“Who else would it answer to?” he asked, calm but certain.
“I… I thought it was just a sword,” I admitted, a hint of apology in my voice.
“There are three relics originally forged by Emberborn hands that survive,” he said. “The Ranking Orb. The dragon-scale bag you carry. And Elias’s sword.”
“The things I carry are centuries old,” I murmured, awe in my voice.
“As I said, the bag was crafted from my scales,” Azerath replied evenly. “Time does not erode dragon-forged relics the way it erodes mortal steel.”
I leaned back in my chair. “The old woman… she gave me the bag,” I whispered. “Could she be a long-lost relative, perhaps?”
“No,” Azerath said, dashing my hope. “Perhaps a friend of your parents.”
“Can the sword slice through steel?” I asked.
Azerath nodded once. “It can pierce nearly anything.”
Nearly. The word lodged in my mind like a warning.
I rose abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the floor.
“Time for training,” I said.
Azerath lifted a brow.
“If I carry a weapon that can pierce nearly anything,” I continued, “I should probably know how to use it.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“Do you intend to practice throwing?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes.”
He rose smoothly. “Very well. Gather the sword and meet me outside.”
I moved to the small chest where I had placed the bag. It felt ordinary in my hands. Worn. Familiar.
But it wasn’t ordinary.
I reached inside and felt the hilt immediately, as though it had been waiting for me. I drew it from the scabbard, perfectly balanced and intact.
Light glimmered along the edge in a way that felt… aware. Old. Patient.
This blade had witnessed the Great Collapse. Seen dragons fall. Survived empires.
And now it rested in my hand.
I slid it back into its scabbard, draped it across my back, and hurried outside.
Azerath was ready with targets and a mannequin. Blink lay beneath a tree, ears perked and alert.
Azerath stepped beside me.
“You will start with balance,” he said. “Power without control is wasted.”
I nodded.
The anger I carried toward the Empire did not vanish. The grief did not vanish. But something else had settled alongside them.
Purpose.
If the Empire had built itself on imbalance, then balance would frighten them more than flame ever could.
“Show me,” I said.
And this time, when Azerath stepped closer, I did not flinch. I welcomed his presence...
And his touch.