Silver ran.
Not walked.
Not stormed.
Ran.
His boots struck the wooden halls of the Egg Tree hard enough to shake the floorboards. He passed everyone’s rooms without seeing them. Ray’s door. Arcade’s. Topsy’s. Hughes’s. Past the sugar-glass windows where autumn light fractured into amber and pink across the corridor walls.
Anywhere.
Anything to get away from her.
Anything to get away from that voice.
His breath came too fast.
Too sharp.
His vision narrowed at the edges.
He tripped once on a raised root.
Caught himself against the wall.
Kept going.
Tripped again near the turn into the older west hall.
Didn’t care.
The panic was already inside his ribs, clawing upward.
Too much.
Too fast.
Every dragon instinct in his body was screaming at him.
Kneel.
Submit.
Look.
Want.
Run.
Fight.
Mate.
Flee.
The words crashed over one another until none of them made sense.
His claws scraped against the wall as he rounded the corner, leaving pale lines in the polished wood.
He must have looked ridiculous.
A noble lord of House Arcturus fleeing down a corridor like a frightened kitten because a girl had spoken Caerfaenic at him.
A dragon.
A funny little dragon.
The thought came so absurdly that, for one hysterical second, he almost laughed.
Then he reached his room.
The door slammed open.
Then shut again so hard the hinges rattled.
Pressed his back against it.
And stopped.
Silence.
No Celeste.
No glowing wings.
No ancient voice.
No blue-white fire.
Only his own breathing.
Too loud.
Too uneven.
Too broken.
Silver squeezed his eyes shut.
And the memory hit him.
Not the library.
Not Celeste.
The Council Hall.
Years ago.
The day he was supposed to take his oath.
The great chamber had been packed from wall to wall with nobles, officials, academy students, and old families who had come to watch the spectacle of Silas Arcturus presenting his heir.
Silver remembered the polished floor.
The banners.
The smell of wax and old money.
The sharp whispering from the noble daughters in the upper gallery.
He remembered standing at the centre of the hall while every eye in Caerfaen seemed fixed on him.
He had worn white and silver.
His hair had been braided.
His hands had been sweating inside his gloves.
Silas had stood above him on the dais, cane resting beside one polished shoe.
The oath had been read.
Silver had heard every word.
Duty.
Order.
Obedience.
House.
Council.
Blood.
Then came the command.
“Kneel.”
And his body locked.
Not from defiance.
Not at first.
From instinct.
Something old and draconic had risen inside him like a blade drawn from a scabbard.
His ears had heard the word differently.
Not as ceremony.
As insult.
A dragon insult.
Never kneel unless you are defeated in battle.
The thought had arrived whole.
Certain.
Burning.
Silas’s expression had hardened.
The hall had begun to murmur.
“I said kneel.” his grandfather had said again.
Silver had tried.
Stars, he had tried.
But his knees would not bend.
Tears had streamed down his face before he understood he was crying.
Then the words had left his mouth.
Not loud.
Not shouted.
Barely more than a whisper.
“You are unworthy.”
The Council Hall had gone silent.
Dead silent.
Then—
pain.
The memory snapped forward.
His legs breaking.
The sound was worse than the pain at first.
A wet, horrible crack that seemed to echo forever inside his skull.
Then the pain caught up.
Unbearable.
White.
Endless.
His claws scraped uselessly against the tile as he collapsed, trying to pull himself away from the hands holding him down. His breath came in broken animal sounds he had not meant to make. Blood spread beneath him, dark and warm.
He remembered the smell.
Blood.
Bone.
Sweat.
Polished stone.
And in front of his face—
his grandfather’s shoes.
Perfectly shined.
Perfectly still.
The cane tapped once against the floor.
Silver flinched even in the memory.
Then the cane pressed down between his shoulders.
Hard.
Forcing his head to bow before the council.
“You will remember your place.”
Then his face was forced against the tile.
Silver had tasted blood on the marble floor.
Silas’s voice came from above him.
Cold.
Disgusted.
“You are an Arcturus.”
The cane pressed harder.
“Not a dragon.”
Silver had tried to breathe.
Couldn’t.
“You will bow to order.”
Pressure.
“You will kneel to this Council.”
More pressure.
“And you will never act like a Hybrid again.”
Then cheers.
Applause.
The noble families rising to their feet as Silas declared that this was order. This was discipline. This was what House Arcturus demanded.
This was the way things should be.
The memory burned.
Silver had sworn it.
Through clenched teeth.
Through broken bones.
Never again would anyone make him kneel.
Not council.
Not mythic.
Not dragon.
Not anyone.
He had built his entire life around that promise.
And in one single moment—
She had undone everything.
Silver couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
The memory and the present tangled together until the walls of his room seemed to tilt.
His hands flew to his throat.
His chest heaved.
Smoke spilled from his mouth.
Then flame burst from his nose without permission.
Scales crawled across his face, thin silver-gold plates flashing over his cheekbones and jaw.
Silver staggered to the desk.
Gripped the edge.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
His claws dug deep into the wood.
The panic crested.
Held.
Then slowly—
painfully—
his breathing steadied.
A little.
Enough.
Silver lifted his head.
For a moment—
silence.
Then he lost control.
A violent burst of dragonfire shot from his mouth, scorching the stone wall.
“HOW DARE SHE!”
A table went flying across the room.
Scrolls scattered across the floor.
A chair shattered against the far wall.
Silver paced like a caged animal, smoke curling from his breath.
“How dare she.”
His claws dragged across the desk, leaving deep gouges in the wood.
“She made me kneel.”
The words tasted like poison.
“I swore…”
His voice cracked with fury.
“I swore no one would ever make me kneel again.”
Another plume of flame escaped his mouth.
“And that peasant—”
He slammed a fist into the wall.
“—made an Arcturus kneel.”
He paced.
And paced.
Growling low in his throat.
Hissing through his teeth.
His tail lashed behind him, striking the furniture hard enough to knock books from a shelf.
“No. No, no, no.”
His coat suddenly felt too tight.
Too heavy.
Too hot.
Silver tore it off and flung it across the room.
His fingers went next to his shirt collar, yanking at the buttons with shaking hands. One snapped free. Another tore loose. He dragged the fabric down over his shoulders, breathing hard as heat rolled beneath his skin.
Scales were crawling up his throat.
Over his jaw.
Toward his mouth.
“No—stop—”
He slapped a hand over his lips as another burst of flame forced its way between his fingers.
It scorched the air.
Silver staggered back, eyes wide.
His body was trying to cover his mouth.
Trying to armour him.
Trying to turn every breath into fire.
The pressure beneath his skin built and built until he could barely think through it.
The rune.
His suppression rune.
If he removed it—
just for a moment—
perhaps the pressure would stop.
Perhaps everything inside him would stop clawing to get out.
His hand went to the back of his neck.
He hesitated.
Only for a second.
Then he tore the rune free.
The release hit him like a storm.
Silver gasped.
His back arched.
Then his wings erupted from his shoulders in a burst of starlight and silver-gold flame.
Not memory.
Not illusion.
Real.
Huge.
Glowing.
The constellation runes across the membranes flared bright enough to light the entire room, blazing through the dim air like a beacon.
His horns followed.
Curling out from his temples with a deep, aching pressure that made his knees buckle. They were longer than before. Sharper. Heavy enough to make him feel crowned by something ancient and dangerous.
Silver grabbed the desk to steady himself.
Then froze.
An urge slammed through him.
Immediate.
Overwhelming.
Headbutt something.
Rub his horns against something.
Mark.
Scrape.
Press.
He didn’t understand it.
He didn’t want to understand it.
But the desk was right there.
Silver lowered his head and dragged one horn hard along the edge of the wood.
The sound was rough.
Deep.
Satisfying.
A shudder ran through him.
He did it again.
Harder.
Wood splintered beneath the pressure.
The strange ache in his skull eased just a little.
Silver breathed out, shaking.
Smoke curled from his lips.
Then he slowly lifted his head.
And caught sight of himself in the cracked mirror across the room.
He went still.
Draconic eyes stared back at him.
Bright.
Slitted.
Burning turquoise and gold.
Golden scales covered far more of his face now, glimmering along his cheekbones, jaw, throat, shoulders, and chest. His wings stretched behind him, luminous and vast, runes pulsing across them like stars calling through fog.
His horns looked longer.
Proud.
Terrible.
Even his hair seemed to fall differently around his face, longer and wilder than it had moments ago. His muscles stood out more sharply beneath the scales, his whole body drawn into something broader, brighter, more unmistakably dragon.
For one suspended second—
the image pleased him.
Not vanity.
Not quite.
Something deeper.
Something that settled in his chest with a warm, dangerous certainty.
Yes.
Silver stared at himself.
Breathing slowly.
Almost calm.
Almost—
“No.”
His hand flew to the rune.
He shoved it back into place.
The reaction was immediate.
His wings vanished in a rush of collapsing light.
His horns receded.
The scales withdrew in painful ripples beneath his skin.
Silver stumbled forward, catching himself on the ruined desk.
His breath came ragged and sharp.
Then fury returned.
Hot.
Humiliating.
Terrified.
“What in the stars is wrong with you?!”
His voice cracked against the walls.
He stood there half-dressed, shaking, one hand braced on the gouged desk, the other pressed hard against the back of his neck as though the rune might betray him again.
The room smelled of smoke.
Scorched wood.
And something wild he refused to name.
His hands went to his hair.
“I cannot have her do that again.”
His voice broke into something almost frantic.
“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”
His mind fractured into the voices he knew too well.
His cat instincts hissed first.
It was fear.
Soft.
Tight in his chest.
You trusted her.
You thought she was gentle.
Safe.
Silver stopped pacing for a moment, both hands gripping the edge of the desk.
His claws trembled slightly.
You thought she was soft.
That she would not hurt you.
The voice wavered.
Now look what happened.
His breathing grew uneven again.
You let your guard down.
You believed her.
You stood close enough for her to break you.
Another thought followed immediately.
Sharper.
Protective.
Then we must not let that happen again.
Silver straightened slightly.
His shoulders squared.
We must look strong.
We must not show weakness.
If we look strong…
If we stand taller…
She won’t hurt us again.
Then his noble upbringing spoke.
Cold.
Calculated.
Cruel in the way polite rooms often were.
The Heir Regent of Caerfaen knelt before a street Hybrid.
Silver’s jaw clenched.
If anyone finds out…
The Council will never allow you to lead.
The other houses will tear you apart.
Your authority will vanish overnight.
His claws dug deeper into the desk.
This cannot go unanswered.
She must learn her place.
His lips pulled back from his teeth.
Because if she doesn’t—
If she realises what she did to you—
She will know she can break you.
And Silver Arcturus could not afford to be breakable.
Then—
the third voice.
The one that made his spine tense.
The dragon.
It did not rage.
It purred.
Low.
Satisfied.
She is a High Dragon.
Silver froze.
Rare.
Powerful.
Her aura…
His breathing slowed without his permission.
Beautiful.
The memory surged through him again.
Blue-white fire.
Ancient authority.
The way the air itself had bent around her presence.
The way her scales had shimmered like starlight under water.
The way her horns caught the light.
The way her wings opened.
Huge.
Iridescent.
Radiant.
Like the sky had remembered how to pray.
The dragon inside him rumbled with quiet admiration.
Her flames felt like the Weave.
Ancient.
Pure.
Silver’s tail stopped lashing.
For one dangerous second, it swayed.
Almost gently.
A creature like that…
The voice curled through his thoughts like smoke.
…would make a worthy mate.
Silver’s breath caught.
Your bloodlines would be unmatched.
High Dragon and Alpha Dragon.
The dragon purred louder.
Your kittens would be legendary among dragons.
Born with power older than the Council itself.
For one dangerous second—
Silver felt the sound in his chest.
A low, involuntary purr of approval.
Happiness.
Peace.
Clarity.
The thought flashed through his mind in vivid detail.
Celeste beside him.
Those blazing wings.
Those impossible flames.
Power meeting power.
We should feel that again.
We should be closer.
We should make her notice us.
The dragon’s voice deepened.
We must make her notice us.
Silver’s eyes widened.
She demanded it.
“NO.”
He slammed both hands onto the desk.
Hard.
“That is not happening.”
His dragon side purred again.
His tail moved from side to side, slow and pleased.
But you felt it.
Silver shut the thought down violently.
His tail lashed.
His ears twitched with agitation.
“…She humiliated me.”
He said it out loud.
Trying to anchor himself to anger.
“She made me kneel.”
But the memory betrayed him again.
Her aura blazing.
Her voice commanding.
The instinctive pull of ancient hierarchy.
The terrifying certainty that she outranked him.
And something else.
Something he refused to name.
Silver’s ears flattened.
His face flushed.
“…Stars.”
He pressed a hand over his eyes.
“I hate this.”
Because beneath the humiliation—
beneath the anger—
there was another truth he would never admit aloud.
When she roared…
it had taken his breath away.
