I stretched my neck, a satisfying pop echoing in the quiet of my new sanctuary. Setting up a workshop from scratch was usually a tedious affair, a litany of calibration and power conduit routing. But this time, it felt… therapeutic. A return to the familiar rhythm of creation after the chaotic symphony of destruction.

  I took a moment to admire the space. This new pocket dimension was smaller than the original workshop in the Obsidian Fang, more intimate. Currently, it houses only two suits of Power Armor. The Mark VII-R Reaper stood in its bay, a silent, crimson sentinel of war. Beside it, encased in a display case of reinforced crystal, was the Mark V. It was pristine, polished to a mirror shine, save for one detail: a ridiculous, faded cartoon duck bandage stuck firmly to its chest plate. A monument to where I started, and who I was fighting for.

  Just as I picked up my data-slate to begin the preliminary sketches for the new fission containment field, the entrance to the pocket dimension hummed to life. The shimmering white portal swirled, and a small, furious figure stormed in.

  Lyra, her silver pigtails practically vibrating with indignation, marched up to me. She planted her hands on her hips and glared up at my knees.

  “Brother!” she declared, her voice filled with the righteous fury of a five-year-old inconvenience. “You need to add a door here! A real one! I want to be able to slam it open for dramatic flair!”

  I stared down at her, utterly baffled. “Dramatic flair? You’re five.”

  “It’s important!” she insisted, grabbing my hand and pulling with surprising strength. “Now come on!”

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked, allowing myself to be dragged toward the exit.

  “Mother told me to bring you to her,” she explained over her shoulder, not breaking stride. “And apparently, I have the highest success rate of extracting you from your workshop. Patricia said the statistics don’t lie.”

  Helpless against such irrefutable logic, I followed her out of the dimensional pocket and through the sleek corridors of The Aegis. We soon arrived at the designated "tea area" of the New Wighthelm pocket dimension. It was a sun-drenched terrace overlooking the simulated rolling hills, set up with racks of clothing and a refreshment table that would shame a royal banquet.

  My mother was there, directing a small army of tailors with the precision of a field marshal. She spotted me and beamed. “There you are! Perfect timing. We need to decide on your ensemble.”

  She pointed to a mannequin displaying an outfit that made my eyes water. It was an ornamental gown of sky-blue silk, draped with enough gold chains to anchor a battleship and topped with a fluffy white fur scarf that looked like it had been wrestled from a yeti.

  I looked at the monstrosity, then back at my mother. “This looks suspiciously like a wedding dress trial for a very confused wizard.”

  I cleared my throat. “Mother, what is going on?”

  “We are a few hours away from Dragon Valley,” she informed me, her tone serious despite the ridiculous garment. “As is custom, when a Dragon Clan returns victorious from a battle, they perform a Dragon Dance. A flight over the valley to let the other clans know they are victorious and strong. It is an ornamental thing, a display of power and survival.”

  She smoothed the fabric of the dress. “But this time is different. The ambassadors of all seven nations will be there. The whole world will be watching. We have decided to keep the fact that your father is alive a secret. So, you will be representing him. You will be the face of House Wight.”

  My father coughed from his seat nearby, where he was reading a newspaper—an issue of the Cinderfall Gazette I had specially arranged for him through Patricia’s network.

  “Yes,” he said, not looking up from the page detailing the ‘mysterious disappearance’ of the Phoenix Knights. “Officially, your mother and I did not survive the hibernation process. As decided earlier, the only known survivors of House Wight for the moment will be you and Lyra. Let them think Cygnus has lost his contractor.”

  While the grueling trial of outfit selection continued—I managed to veto the fur scarf—my father lowered his paper. “There is another matter. An incident report from the elves.”

  He tapped the paper. “The Verdant Conclave has reported they ‘found’ a forbidden detection array in their territory. They claim it was a relic from the Beastkin Wars, abandoned for centuries. They say they destroyed it as soon as it was located and reported it to the World Council to show their transparency. For when are they so magnanimous?”

  Seeing my opportunity to take a break from being a mannequin, I chimed in. “They didn't destroy it. I did.”

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  I pulled out a data crystal and set it on the table. “Tes recorded everything. They were using it to target us. And they were powering it with… unsavory fuel.”

  My father’s fists clenched as he watched the holographic playback of the elf mages discussing the sacrifice of Beastkin children. “To think they are still using forbidden magic like this… barbarians wrapped in silk.”

  My mother covered her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. “What about those children?”

  “That is the worst part,” I said grimly. “It was a setup. The elves orchestrated a false flag operation. They attacked border settlements of the Bunny, Cat, and Wolf tribes, kidnapping the children. But they made it look like the tribes were attacking each other. They incited a three-way war to cover their tracks. The parents… they killed each other in a bloodbath of misplaced vengeance, and the elves swooped in to finish off the survivors. Those children are orphans. Their families are gone, and their tribes think they're dead.”

  I paused, looking at my mother. “They have nowhere to go. So, I’m bringing them here. They are currently en route to The Aegis via a Revenant transport.”

  My mother, true to herself, didn’t hesitate. “We will take care of them,” she said firmly, her maternal instincts kicking into overdrive. It reminded me of how she had taken Patricia in all those years ago. “We have plenty of room here. They will be safe here.”

  “I will unmask the elves’ hypocrisy at the right moment,” I added, pocketing the crystal. “For now, let them think they got away with it.”

  Soon, the Aegis arrived at the Point of No Engagement. This was a designated zone of neutrality, a 300-kilometer radius around Dragon Valley where no act of aggression was permitted. It meant that for the first time in weeks, we were safe. The security of the flagship was now insured by the Council of Five Dragon Kings.

  We finally settled on a deep, sky-blue outfit for me, tailored with a military cut but ornate enough for a high noble. It was dignified, regal, and thankfully devoid of fur.

  My father put down his newspaper and approached me. He looked at me, really looked at me, with a mixture of pride and solemnity.

  “Son,” he said, his voice quiet. “I think it is time for you to take over my responsibilities.”

  He unclasped his heavy ducal cape, a masterpiece of midnight-blue velvet embroidered with silver thread, and draped it over my shoulders. It was heavy, weighted with history and expectation. Then, he pulled the heavy signet ring of House Wight from his finger and pressed it into my hand.

  “This is a partial transfer,” he said, his eyes locking with mine. “I still need our family’s dragonbone sword to deal with my enemies. I want to take a more combat-oriented role for now. I was never too good with the bureaucracy; House Black always handled that part. My specialty is the military aspect. You… you have a mind for systems.”

  My mother stepped forward, adjusting the cape on my shoulders. “We will definitely have an official ceremony later,” she promised, “with a ball and a parade. But for now, you are the Acting Duke.”

  “Think of this as training,” my father added with a grin. “For when you actually take over completely.”

  I looked at the ring in my hand, then at my parents. The weight of the cape felt right. “I won’t let you down.”

  We left the pocket dimension and walked out onto the flight deck of The Aegis. Lyra stood near the edge, our matching sky-blue outfits whipping in the wind. Below us, the crew was preparing for the arrival of the dragons.

  I noticed something comical. A group of Aircraft Marshallers, clad in high-visibility vests and holding glowing red wands, was trying to direct the incoming dragons to specific landing zones. They were waving their arms frantically, trying to enforce orderly parking procedures on hundred-ton mythical beasts.

  They were being completely ignored.

  When Cygnus, the Azure Tyrant, descended in all his glory, he didn't even glance at the marshallers. He simply picked the spot he liked best—center stage, of course—and landed with a ground-shaking thud that sent the poor crewmen scrambling. He folded his massive wings and looked around with an air of imperious satisfaction.

  “Little one,” the Dragon King rumbled, lowering his head to look at Lyra. “Do you wish to ride on my back for the ceremony? It is the prerogative of a princess.”

  Before Lyra could answer, Kaelus materialized. He took his full, majestic draconic form, expanding in a flash of starlight until he rivaled his father in size. He puffed out his chest and let out a snort that was the draconic equivalent of a pout.

  My brother and my sister will ride on MY back, he projected, his mental voice echoing with possessive pride.

  Cygnus chuckled, a sound like grinding boulders. Very well, son. Lead the way.

  We mounted up. Cygnus took off first, his massive wings beating the air into submission. Together, Lyra and I climbed onto Kaelus’s back, settling between his shoulders. We took our position on Cygnus’s right side, the place of the Prince.

  To his left, the place of the Valiant Dead, Aquarius and Bob took their place in the formation. Aquarius was holding something in his claws—a massive, spiraling horn. It was the horn of Aerion, the Deceased Azure Lancer Dragon and Cygnus's Royal Guard, who had died protecting the crystal. Even in death, he would fly with his King one last time.

  The Dragon King took the lead. On his right was the next in line, the Dragon Prince. On his left was always the most valiant warrior of the campaign. It was a formation of honor, of hierarchy, of survival.

  We began our flight to Dragon Valley. I looked back at the bridge of The Aegis. My father stood there, proud and tall, a shadow watching his legacy take flight. Beside him, my mother wiped a tear from her cheek.

  We were flying into the heart of the world.