The Spire rises before us like a monument to forgotten gods.
It's taller than I remembered—impossibly tall, stretching toward the ash-gray sky like a needle trying to pierce the heavens. The structure is ancient, older than the palace, older than the civil war, older perhaps than the clans themselves. Its surface is smooth obsidian veined with silver, and as we approach, I can see runes carved into the stone—glyphs that shift and writhe when I'm not looking directly at them.
*Primordial script,* I realize. The kind of magic that predates written language.
Behind us, I hear the soft footfalls of our companions—the three elves who chose to accompany us from the forest settlement. Mira walks with her daughter Lyra perched on her hip, the child's wide eyes taking in everything with quiet wonder. Aldric, Mira's older brother, moves with the cautious grace of someone who has survived by being careful. And the woodland elf mage whose earth magic saved us from the void-touched creatures keeps his distance, his pale greenish-yellow skin almost luminous in the strange light.
"This was built before the clans divided," Ghatak says quietly, his voice carrying that low, authoritative rumble that makes my dragon instincts want to submit. "Before Chaos and Void became separate entities. This is *old* magic, Astraea. The kind that remembers when dragons were unified."
"How old?" Aldric asks, his voice filled with cautious respect.
Ghatak glances back at him. "Older than your species has words for."
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above the obsidian surface. The stone hums beneath my palm—not with sound, but with *energy*. A thrumming vibration that resonates in my bones, in my blood, in the very core of my being.
"It's alive," I whisper.
"Not alive," Ghatak corrects, stepping beside me. His hand covers mine, pressing my palm flat against the stone. "Aware. The Spire is a repository of knowledge, but it's also a guardian. It will only reveal its secrets to those it deems worthy."
"Will it let us in?" Mira asks softly, adjusting Lyra's weight on her hip. "All of us?"
I glance at her, then at the others. They've come this far on faith—trusting that following two dragons through a devastated world would lead to something better than what they left behind.
*Worthy.* The word tastes bitter. I'm a princess who failed her people, who slept through genocide, who couldn't stop the very war she tried to end. What makes me worthy of anything?
But the Spire doesn't seem to care about my self-doubt. The moment my skin makes contact, the runes flare to life—brilliant silver light racing across the obsidian surface like lightning through storm clouds. The massive doors, seamless and invisible until this moment, split open with a sound like thunder.
Beyond them lies darkness.
And from that darkness, I feel the pull of ancient magic calling me home.
Lyra makes a small sound of wonder, and Mira tightens her hold on her daughter protectively.
"Stay close," I say, looking back at the elves. "The Spire responds to intent. As long as you're with us, it should recognize you as... guests."
"Should?" the mage asks dryly.
"I've never brought anyone here before," I admit. "But you chose to come. That has to count for something."
---
We step inside, and the world changes.
The interior of the Spire is nothing like the exterior. Where the outside is smooth and monolithic, the inside is a labyrinth of chambers and corridors, each one carved from stone that seems to glow from within. Bioluminescent runes cover every surface—walls, floors, ceilings—casting everything in shades of silver and blue and violet.
The air tastes different here. Cleaner. Sharper. Like breathing in starlight.
"By the old gods," Aldric breathes, his eyes wide as he takes in the impossible architecture. "I've never seen anything like this."
"No one has," Ghatak says. "Not in two thousand years."
"This way," he continues, his hand finding the small of my back. Not guiding—*commanding*. His touch is firm, possessive, the kind of pressure that says *I'm here, I'm in control, follow me.*
And I do. Because despite everything, despite my power and my title and my chaos-born pride, there's something about Ghatak's primordial authority that makes me want to yield. To let him lead. To trust that he knows the way through this ancient place.
The elves follow, their footsteps echoing softly in the vast corridors. Lyra has gone quiet, her small face pressed against her mother's shoulder, but her eyes are wide and alert, taking in every detail.
We walk through corridors lined with crystalline structures that pulse with faint light. Some of them contain images—memories, perhaps, or records of events long past. I see dragons in flight, their wings spread wide against skies that are whole and blue and beautiful. I see cities that gleam with magic, towers that spiral toward the heavens, gardens filled with plants that no longer exist.
"Is that what your world was like?" Mira asks softly, stopping before one of the crystals. "Before the war?"
I look at the image she's focused on—a sprawling city of silver and gold, with dragons soaring between elegant towers while gardens bloom in impossible colors below.
"Yes," I say, my throat tight. "That was the capital. Where I grew up."
"It's beautiful," she whispers.
*This is what we were,* I think, my throat tightening. *Before the war. Before Sadie. Before everything fell apart.*
"Don't linger," Ghatak murmurs, his voice gentle but firm. "The Spire shows you what it thinks you need to see. But we're not here for nostalgia."
He's right. We're here for answers. For knowledge. For whatever secrets this place holds that might help us hatch the eggs, rebuild our species, survive in a world that tried to erase us.
We descend deeper into the Spire, following a spiral staircase that seems to go on forever. The runes grow brighter the farther down we go, and the hum of magic intensifies until I can feel it vibrating in my teeth.
"How far down does this go?" the mage asks, his voice echoing strangely in the enclosed space.
"To the heart," Ghatak says. "Where the oldest magic sleeps."
And then, finally, we reach the bottom.
---
The chamber is vast.
Circular, with a domed ceiling that rises at least a hundred feet above our heads. The walls are covered in celestial maps—constellations I recognize and some I don't, star systems that might be ours or might belong to entirely different galaxies. In the center of the room stands a raised platform, and on that platform sits an arcane mechanism unlike anything I've ever seen.
It's a sphere of interlocking rings, each one rotating independently, covered in runes that glow with shifting colors. At its core is a point of pure light—so bright it hurts to look at directly, yet impossible to look away from.
"What is that?" Aldric breathes, his voice filled with awe.
"A dimensional anchor," Ghatak says, his voice filled with something that might be awe. "I've only read about these in the oldest texts. They're used to stabilize rifts between worlds, to create permanent pathways through the void."
"Pathways to where?" Mira asks, though I think she already knows the answer.
He doesn't respond. Instead, he walks toward the mechanism, his movements careful and deliberate. I follow, my heart pounding in my chest.
And that's when I see it.
Behind the mechanism, shimmering in the air like heat rising from sun-baked stone, is a *veil*.
It's not a doorway. Not a portal in the traditional sense. It's a tear in reality itself—a place where the fabric of our world has been pulled aside to reveal something beyond. Through the veil, I can see glimpses of another sky. Not gray and ash-choked like ours, but *blue*. Impossibly, brilliantly blue, with clouds that look like they were painted by an artist's hand.
And beneath that sky, I see green. Forests. Mountains. A landscape that's alive in a way Draconis hasn't been for two thousand years.
The elves gather behind us, staring at the veil with expressions of wonder and uncertainty.
"Another world," the mage says quietly. "You're planning to cross to another world."
"Aerox," Ghatak says quietly. "The sister world. Connected to Draconis through primordial magic older than either planet's name."
I stare at the veil, transfixed. "Why would our ancestors create a pathway to another world?"
"Survival," he says simply. "Dragons are territorial, but we're not stupid. If one world fell, there needed to be a way to escape. To rebuild elsewhere." His hand finds mine, his grip firm and grounding. "This veil has been here since before the clans divided. It's been waiting."
*Waiting for us.*
The thought sends a shiver down my spine. This is it. This is the path forward. Through that veil lies a world untouched by Sadie's genocide, a place where we might find allies, resources, knowledge. A place where we might actually have a chance.
But I can't just walk through. Not yet.
Because if I leave Draconis unprotected, if I step through that veil without securing what's mine, then everything we've fought for—the eggs, the palace, the memory of our people—will be vulnerable.
*I need to seal the planet.*
"What are you thinking?" Mira asks softly, and I realize I've been staring at the veil for several long moments.
I turn to face the elves, these three who chose to follow us into the unknown.
"I have to lock it down," I say, my voice steady despite the enormity of what I'm proposing. "Before we go through, I need to seal Draconis. Make it so no one can enter or leave without my permission."
Aldric's eyes widen. "Seal an entire planet? Is that even possible?"
Ghatak's eyes narrow, but there's approval in his gaze. "A planetary seal. That's... ambitious."
"Can it be done?"
"Yes." He turns to face me fully, his expression serious. "But it will require a binding ritual. You'll need to tie the seal to yourself—to your bloodline, your magic, your very essence. It will mark you permanently."
*Good.* I want to be marked. I want the universe to know that Draconis is *mine*, that anyone who tries to take it from me will have to go through me first.
"Tell me what to do," I say.
Ghatak studies me for a long moment, and I can see the calculations running behind his eyes. He's weighing the risks, the costs, the potential consequences. But finally, he nods.
"The seal needs a physical anchor," he says. "A mark on your body that serves as the key. It should be something meaningful. Something that represents both your power and your intent."
I think about that. About what symbol could possibly encompass everything I am, everything I've lost, everything I'm trying to protect.
And then it comes to me.
"A Sydney funnel spider," I say slowly. "Perched on a Gympie plant."
Ghatak's eyebrows rise. "Both deadly. Both venomous. Both capable of killing with a single touch."
"Exactly." I meet his gaze, unflinching. "Anyone who tries to enter Draconis without my permission should know what they're walking into. They should know that this world is protected by something dangerous. Something that will destroy them if they're not careful."
A slow smile spreads across his face—dark and approving and filled with possessive pride. "You're claiming your world like a dragon claims territory. Marking it with symbols of death and warning." He steps closer, his hand cupping my jaw. "I approve."
His thumb traces my lower lip, and for a moment, I forget about the ritual, about the veil, about everything except the heat in his eyes and the way his touch makes my entire body come alive.
"Should we..." Aldric clears his throat awkwardly. "Should we give you privacy?"
But then Ghatak pulls back, his expression shifting to something more serious. "The tattoo will be the anchor, but the ritual itself will require both void and chaos magic. You'll need to channel them simultaneously, weave them together into a binding that encompasses the entire planet."
"I can do that," I say, though I've never attempted anything on this scale before.
"I know you can." His voice drops to that low, commanding rumble. "But I'll be here to anchor you. To keep you grounded while you work. Don't try to do this alone."
*I won't.* Because despite my power, despite my pride, I know I need him. Need his primordial knowledge, his steady presence, his unshakable certainty.
Together, we can do this.
Together, we can seal a world.