Chapter 62 Old Friend, Old Enemy
Andreas
I ran through the alley toward a rundown brick house that overlooked the main road and the gates. The structure leaned slightly toward the neighboring buildings, its walls stained dark with soot and age. A narrow staircase clung to the outside wall, its iron railing rusted and bent in places.
It would serve.
I climbed quickly, taking the steps two at a time until I reached the roof. Broken tiles shifted beneath my worn slippers as I moved across the uneven surface. At the far corner sat a stack of old wooden crates, their boards warped from rain and neglect.
I slipped behind them and crouched low.
From here I could see much of the street below.
And then the change began.
It always started in the bones.
A dull ache spread through my arms and spine, followed by the familiar pull that signaled the end of borrowed flesh. The illusion I had worn for hours began to unravel.
Heat stirred beneath my skin. Light traced faint cracks across the surface of the small body I had been wearing.
The little girl dissolved.
Her thin arms faded first. The rags slipped away as if it had never existed. My body stretched and reformed, the bones lengthening, muscles shifting back into their natural place.
I exhaled slowly as the transformation completed.
When I stood again, the disguise was gone.
My hands were my own once more—old, lined, and steady. White hair fell across my shoulders, brushing the collar of my coat. My beard followed the line of my chest, long and thick.
Anyone looking at me would see a frail old man.
They would be mistaken.
My eyes remained sharp, my body strong despite the appearance of age. Strength still lived in my bones. For me, age had never been an unavoidable truth.
It was a decision.
And at this very moment, I had chosen to be myself.
I looked down at the cloak lying on the dirty roof. It was the only trace left of the small body I had worn. Dragon and Celestial magic were uncanny things. They reminded me that once, long ago, we had lived beneath powers far greater than our own.
I stepped forward from the crates and looked out over the district.
Chaos had begun.
Stone shattered somewhere in the distance. People screamed as horns echoed through the streets near the gates. Lantern light flickered across the narrow roads as doors burst open and families poured outside.
Dust was awake.
And Serafina Valen had done it.
A small smile crept across my face. “I knew you would come,” I murmured quietly.
I had been waiting for her ever since Lio returned from the edge of death. That day had confirmed something her mother and I had suspected.
Serafina was the one who would awaken the dragon.
Every night since then, I had walked the streets disguised as a ragged little girl. It was the perfect disguise. No one questioned a filthy child wandering the alleys of Dust.
I slept in abandoned corners. I listened to drunken conversations in taverns. I followed collectors and patrols without anyone noticing.
And I waited.
When I heard the heavy beating of wings above the gray clouds earlier that evening, I knew the moment had finally come.
I had looked up just in time to see the massive shadow crossing the sky.
A dragon.
My heart had nearly stopped.
“Serafina,” I whispered.
I returned to the old shack where she had once lived, certain she would come there first.
And she had. But she had not come alone.
The man with her was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black. Even beneath the dim light of the street I could see the confidence in the way he moved.
When he spoke, something unusual caught my attention.
White smoke drifted from his mouth and nose.
At first I assumed it was the night air. But the temperature was not cold enough to fog one's breath.
Which meant something else produced that smoke.
I stepped out from my hiding place when I saw the tears in Serafina's eyes and the faint light forming beneath her fingernails. She was angry. Hurt. The fire inside her was beginning to stir.
I grabbed her wrist before she could lose control completely. The heat beneath her skin surprised even me.
For centuries after the Great Collapse, the Empire had not seen a firestarter. And now the first in a millennium stood in front of me.
Serafina reached into the bag I had given her and pulled out a cloak.
I watched carefully. The bag was no ordinary thing. Only Godwin Valen, her father, had ever been able to use it before, and even he had struggled to draw the exact object he needed.
Serafina showed no such hesitation.
She reached inside and withdrew the cloak at once—exactly what she needed, exactly when she needed it.
A warm feeling settled in my chest as I watched. It pleased me to see the bag serving its purpose once again.
While I spoke to her, my attention kept returning to the man beside her. His face remained mostly hidden beneath his cloak, but when I shifted slightly, I caught a glimpse of his eyes.
Fire moved inside them. Not light. Not reflection. Flames.
My lips parted slightly. I had never seen anything like it.
The man noticed my stare and smiled.
It was not a cruel smile. It was calm. Reassuring, even. The flames in his eyes shifted as his pupils glowed faintly red.
Who was he?
Then the thought struck me. The dragon.
Could it be possible? Could a dragon take mortal form?
The idea unsettled me. If the dragon had truly arrived in Dust, the Warden should have noticed. From that cursed tower of hers she could see nearly everything that happened in the district. Yet earlier I had watched her walking through the market stalls, calm and unaware. She had shown no sign of alarm.
Which meant she had seen nothing.
If the man standing beside Serafina was truly the dragon in mortal form, the consequences would be unimaginable.
At the old factory, I watched through the windows as Serafina and the mysterious man freed the children.
In the center of the chaos stood Serafina—the girl who should never have existed, the girl the Empire would burn kingdoms to capture.
Her cloak snapped behind her as she raised both hands. Light burst from her palms—Lumenflare. For a brief moment the factory blazed with brilliant white light.
Beside her, the man fought with a sword of flame. He moved with frightening speed, deflecting the silver spheres hurled at him and cutting through four men as though they were nothing.
And together they had opened the gates.
Suddenly, a voice drifted behind me—smooth, feminine, and amused—pulling me from my thoughts.
“Andreas, old friend, why are you lurking in the dark?”
I didn’t flinch. Very little surprised me anymore.
But Elyndra’s appearance?
That earned a reaction.
When I turned, the old Imperial Seer stood as I remembered her decades ago—young, radiant, with hair as black as midnight and lips carved into a smug little smirk.
Elyndra hadn’t merely drained youth from someone. She had stolen it so thoroughly that she glowed with it.
“Elyndra.” I eyed her carefully. “Please tell me the girl you siphoned your youth from is still alive.”
“No,” she said cheerfully. “She is dead. Poor thing. But I must say I saved her from a life of hell. Fucking Magnus on a daily basis would have taken its toll.”
She leaned against a barrel, examining her polished fingernails.
“And now, I will use her energy to help the dragon binder and the dragon," she grinned.
I chuckled. Elyndra always smiled when saying the most horrifying things.
“Magnus searches for you and the boy,” she continued. “I hope you have hidden him well.”
“I have,” I said, voice cold. “He has no way of finding him."
Her eyes gleamed. “Of course. But you need my help, Andreas. The world is shifting, and the girl is the axis.”
I huffed. “How, pray tell, do you intend to help the dragon binder?”
Elyndra straightened, her youthful face suddenly sharp.
"I will help tame the dragon for her," she purred. "He and I were once... friends. And I will help search for the Lost Continent. Perhaps we may find the Sword of Elias there.”
I froze.
“You know where it is?” I asked.
“No,” she said, smiling again. “But I know where to begin.”
Heat prickled the back of my neck. This was not a woman who claimed certainty lightly.
“I took a peek at the maps strewn on Magnus’s table,” she continued lightly. “He is also searching for the Lost Continent.”
I frowned. “And has he found it?”
“No,” she said. “But I know where we can look." She tilted her head, studying my face. “You agree to this, yes?"
“Yes,” I said after a moment. “Come. We should return to the boy. Once he is reunited with his sister, we can decide our next step.”
Elyndra’s smile widened. "Very well. Let us go."
She extended her hand toward me, preparing to cast a teleportation spell strong enough to warp the ground at our feet.
But the moment the magic formed—
It snapped.
Like a chain pulling taut.
Elyndra gasped. I felt the crushing pressure lock around us both—cold, iron-hard, unmistakable.
Binding magic.
No.
Not just any binding magic.
Magnus.
We turned as one.
He stood behind us, his long crimson coat rippling with heat, eyes aflame with a power stolen from a hundred unwilling sources. His smile was thin, cruel, familiar.
“Running somewhere?” he asked softly.
Elyndra cursed under her breath. I began forming a spell, but the magic around us tightened further.
Magnus chuckled.
Another figure stepped from the shadows beside him.
The Mistress. The same woman who had sent Serafina to Aetheria.
“You’ve done well, Nyxara,” Magnus said, tossing a pouch heavy with gold into her waiting hands, “enough to rectify your mistake in losing the girl.”
She caught it quickly. As she did, Magnus grabbed her wrist.
“Not a word to Elara or the Emperor," he murmured. "Or I will hand you to Arclight myself."
She glared. “It was hard to track this one. He shifts between old woman and child in one breath.”
My eyes narrowed. She had trailed me. So that was how they’d kept pace.
She continued, “What about the girl? Sera?”
Magnus scoffed. "She is not of your concern,” he said. “You may leave.”
The Mistress hurried away, clutching her gold like a starving dog.
Magnus turned toward me, stepping in close enough that I smelled the metallic tang of magic burning in his veins.
“Andreas,” he murmured, voice like silk soaked in poison.
His eyes gleamed.
“Lead me to the Valen boy,” he whispered, “or I will ensure every last descendant of yours is branded a traitor.”
I felt the old rage flicker to life inside me—wild, primal, ancient. My family had been hunted enough. I would not bend. Not to him.
Not ever.
I met his gaze firmly.
And prepared to fight.
Even if it killed me.