The moment the angelic barrier fell, sound and motion returned to the room like a bursting dam. The frozen guards completed their interrupted draws, their swords flashing in the lamplight. The maids finished their panicked rush toward my crib, only to stop in stark confusion when they found me sitting up, quietly observing the chaos with wide, unnervingly calm eyes.
The nursery doors burst open and a full squad of Wight household guards stormed in, led by Sir Marcus, the grim-faced captain of the guard. They were clad in heavy plate armor, their weapons drawn, ready for a bloody battle. Instead, they skidded to a halt, their boots slipping slightly on something wet on the polished floor, taking in the scene before them.
Twenty mangled corpses, or what was left of them, lay scattered around the room, their remains painting abstract, gruesome patterns on the priceless tapestries and furniture. The air reeked of ozone, superheated steam, and the unfortunate contents of the sewers. Patricia stood in the center of it all, completely unharmed, her maid uniform pristine despite having been soaked in her own blood just moments before. And in the middle of this charnel house sat a small, silver-haired child, looking on with an expression that held no fear, only a quiet, contemplative gravity.
Sir Marcus looked at the bodies. He looked at the unharmed Patricia. He looked at the other guards and maids, all of whom were staring around in utter bewilderment. Finally, his gaze settled on me, and his weathered, scarred face took on an expression of complete and utter bafflement.
"What..." he began, then stopped, his voice failing him. He tried again. "How..."
Patricia, ever the professional, stepped forward and curtsied gracefully. "Sir Marcus, we were attacked by unknown assailants. They used some kind of paralysis magic that affected everyone in the room." She gestured vaguely at the carnage. "When the effect wore off, we found them like this."
"Like this?" Sir Marcus's voice cracked slightly. "They look like they were struck by lightning and then exploded."
"Yes, sir. Most peculiar."
As the guards bustled around, documenting the scene and trying to piece together what in the seven hells had just happened, I remained silent, allowing Patricia to control the narrative. She caught my eye from across the room and gave the slightest of nods. The message was clear: my secret was safe with her.
Within the hour, my father arrived in a whirlwind of barely controlled panic and fury. He took one look at the carnage in my nursery, his face hardening into a mask of cold rage, then immediately scooped me up from my crib, his large hands surprisingly gentle.
"Is he hurt?" was his first, terse question, his eyes scanning me for any sign of injury.
"Not a scratch on him, Your Grace," Patricia reported. "The attackers never got close."
My father's relief was palpable, but it was quickly consumed by a cold, simmering anger. "Twenty assassins. In my son's room. In my castle." His voice was quiet, which was somehow more terrifying than if he had shouted. "How?"
His eyes narrowed as he studied the scene more carefully. The pattern of destruction, the complete vaporization of several bodies, the lingering traces of raw elemental magic in the air. His gaze fell on me, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable. "Draconic magic," he murmured, so quietly that only I could hear. "But that's impossible. The bond is too new."
Unless, of course, it wasn't. My father was no fool. He had felt the power during the bonding ceremony, had seen the intensity of the light that had impressed even Cygnus. But this… this was beyond anything he had expected. He pushed aside his suspicions for the moment, his face becoming a mask of ducal authority. "Double the guards. Triple them. I want a full investigation. And I want to know who sent these assassins." His voice was iron. "We keep this internal for now. Too many questions would be… problematic."
As the investigation began, my father carried me to his private study. The moment the heavy oak door closed behind us, sealing us away from the chaos, he set me down on his massive desk, amidst scrolls detailing troop movements and maps of the northern territories. He knelt, bringing his face level with mine, his stormy grey eyes searching my own. There was no baby talk now, no condescension. He was speaking to me as an equal.
"Alarion," he said, his voice low and serious. "I need you to be honest with me. What happened in there?"
I looked down at my small, chubby hands, the same hands that had just unleashed a storm of annihilation. "They hurt Patricia," I said, my voice small but clear.
My father's expression softened for a fraction of a second. "I know they did, son. And then what?"
I met his gaze, my sapphire eyes locking with his stormy grey. "I don't know, Dad. It… it was natural." I took a small breath. "The magic just happened after they stabbed her. I got so angry."
My father didn't flinch. He didn't look shocked or disbelieving. He simply nodded slowly, as if I had just confirmed a wild, impossible theory he had been entertaining. He reached out and placed a large, warm hand on my shoulder.
"Natural?" he murmured, a note of awe in his voice. "Son, what you did in there… that was the wrath of a dragon. Power that grown men spend a lifetime trying to master, and most fail."
"It felt like… Kaelus was angry, too," I explained, trying to put the overwhelming sensation into words. "We were both angry. And the magic just… came out."
My father's grip on my shoulder tightened, not painfully, but with a fierce, protective intensity. He finally understood. The bond wasn't just a contract, it was a true fusion of souls, far deeper and more potent than any in the Wight family's long history. His three-year-old son was not just a prodigy, he was a living conduit for the primal power of a Dragon King. Pride warred with a deep, profound fear on his face. Pride in my power, and fear for the target it would inevitably paint on my back.
He finally stood, his decision made. "Listen to me, Alarion," he said, his voice now firm, the voice of a commander. "What you did tonight saved lives. I am prouder of you than I can say. But no one outside this family can ever know."
He began to pace in front of the desk. "We will train you. Your mother and I will teach you everything we know about magic and combat. We will help you control this incredible power." He stopped and looked at me, his eyes burning with intensity. "But you must never, ever show this power to anyone else unless you have no other choice. Do you understand me? Your life depends on it."
"I understand, Dad," I said solemnly.
He let out a long breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He was no longer just the father of a gifted child, he was the guardian of a secret that could shake the foundations of the kingdom.
"Good," he said, scooping me up from the desk. His embrace was a fortress of strength and love. "Whatever you are, whatever you're capable of, you are my son. And I will protect you."
The promise was no longer a simple vow made to an infant. It was a pact, a shared secret between a father and his extraordinary son.
As he carried me back to my now heavily guarded room, I felt the warmth of Kaelus's presence in the back of my mind. The dragon egg, floating beside us, pulsed with a gentle, protective blue light.
My new life had officially begun. And as I settled back into my crib, surrounded by guards and wards and the lingering scent of ozone, I found myself smiling. For the first time since my reincarnation, I felt truly alive. The power flowing through my veins, the bond with Kaelus, the new, deeper trust with my father, and the knowledge that I had enemies worth fighting it was intoxicating.
Let them come. I had dealt with twenty assassins tonight. Next time, they might send a hundred.
It still wouldn't be enough.