Livius did not return to his bedchamber after the battle at sea. Instead, he landed on the secluded balcony of the North Wing, the place where he had spent seventeen years as a non-entity. His skin was still humming, a faint vibration that felt like a swarm of bees trapped under his ribs. The silver scales had receded, but they left behind a cold, crystalline sensation that made the humid night air feel like a midwinter frost.
He collapsed into a wooden chair, his breath coming in ragged, silver plumes. Closing his eyes, he didn't see the darkness of the night; he saw flashes of a world he had never visited.
He saw a valley of white trees where the leaves sounded like chiming glass. He saw a tall, regal woman with hair like a waterfall of starlight—his mother, Elara—not as a frightened maid in a palace hallway, but as a priestess standing before a Great Altar of Moonstone. This was a "Genetic Memory," a phenomenon unique to the high-blood of the Silver Dragons. The trauma of the battle and the awakening of his dual-nature had cracked the seal on his mother's heritage.
"Livius..." the voice in his mind was a soft chime. "The sun burns to create, but the moon reflects to reveal. You are the bridge. Do not let the Argentine fire consume the Silver chill, or you will become the very monster you hunt."
A sharp pain lanced through his temples, and Livius gasped, clutching his head. He felt the two bloodlines within him—the violent, expansive heat of the Golden Dragon and the silent, observant cold of the Silver Dragon—clashing for dominance. For a moment, his left eye flared gold while his right eye turned a frigid, glowing white.
"Master?"
Livius snapped his eyes open. Cian was standing in the doorway, holding a basin of warm water and a fresh tunic. The clerk stopped dead, his gaze fixed on Livius's mismatched eyes. He didn't pull back in fear, but his grip on the basin tightened until his knuckles went white.
"Your eyes..." Cian whispered.
"A gift from the past," Livius rasped, his voice sounding like grinding ice. He took a deep breath, forcing the silver mana back into his core until both eyes returned to their steady, molten gold. "It seems my mother's people were more than just mages. They were the keepers of the world's memory. My father didn't just steal a woman; he stole a library of the soul."
Cian stepped forward, setting the basin down and wringing out a cloth. He began to wipe the salt and soot from Livius's shoulders with the practiced care of a brother. "The world is already calling you a god, Livius. If they find out you're a hybrid of two Primal Dragons, the neighboring kingdoms won't just be afraid. They'll be suicidal. They'll try to kill you before you fully 'hatch.'"
"Let them try," Livius said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "But we have a more immediate problem. I felt a presence during the battle. Something was watching from the East. Not a ship, but a 'Gaze.' It felt like a hawk looking at a mouse."
Cian paused, his expression darkening. "The Eastern Khaganate. Their envoy arrived an hour ago. He didn't come with an army, Livius. He came with a 'Tribute of Peace.' A girl, barely sixteen, claiming to be a princess of the Steppes. And she brought a gift: the 'Ever-Burning Rose.'"
Livius opened his eyes, a sharp glint of suspicion returning to his gaze. "A rose? In the middle of a civil war?"
"It's a magical artifact," Cian explained. "They claim it brings eternal prosperity to the soil it's planted in. But Vaelin... he started shaking when he heard the name. He says it's not a gift. It's a 'Parasite of the Soul.'"