Chapter 5: The Blessing That Should Not Have Been
The debutante ritual was older than the kingdom itself.
Long before titles were carved into stone and bloodlines were recorded in ledgers, the nobles believed that on the night a young heir was formally presented to society, their lineage would be acknowledged by the world itself. Some called it superstition. Others called it tradition.
No one dared call it meaningless.
Delary stood barefoot at the center of the Hall of Lineage, the marble floor cold beneath her feet. Her debutante gown—white threaded with silver—fell around her like mist. Her hair was unbound, cascading down her back as custom demanded. No jewels. No symbols of rank.
Tonight, she was not a noble.
She was simply a soul waiting to be answered.
Around her, ancient runes glowed faintly along the floor, activated by the blood of generations. Nobles filled the balconies above, murmuring in anticipation. This was the moment where guides appeared—manifestations of lineage blessings.
Some heirs received Brilliance: minds sharper than steel.
Others, Talent: unmatched skill in magic, war, or art.
A rare few were gifted Favor: fortune that bent reality itself.
And some… received nothing at all.
Delary closed her eyes as the High Priestess raised her staff.
"Delary of House Aurelian," the woman intoned, voice echoing through the hall. "Step forward and receive what your lineage has earned."
Delary inhaled slowly and stepped onto the final sigil.
The air shifted.
At first, nothing happened.
Whispers began almost immediately.
"Perhaps her house has thinned."
"No strong blood remains."
"A pity."
Delary remained still.
Then the torches flickered.
The runes beneath her feet flared—not blue, not gold, but a deep ember-red that sent a ripple of unease through the hall.
The High Priestess stiffened. "This has never—"
The heat came suddenly.
Not scorching, but overwhelming. The air thickened, heavy with pressure. Stone cracked somewhere deep beneath the hall.
Spencer, standing far below among the advisors, felt his heart drop.
No guide was meant to manifest like this.
A low, resonant sound filled the chamber—not a voice, not quite a roar, but something that vibrated through bone and blood alike.
The ceiling darkened.
Gasps rang out as a massive, translucent shape began to form above the sigils—scales outlined in molten light, wings unfolding slowly, deliberately.
"A dragon—?" someone cried.
"That's impossible!"
"Guides don't take physical forms!"
The manifestation solidified.
Golden eyes opened and locked onto Delary alone.
Child of echoes and endings.
The voice did not come from above.
It came from within her.
Delary's breath caught, but she did not step back.
"I didn't call you," she whispered in her mind.
No, the dragon replied. You were answered.
The hall trembled as the dragon lowered her head, massive and radiant, yet bound by the ritual circle. Nobles fell to their knees instinctively, terror breaking decorum.
The High Priestess dropped her staff.
"A—ancient guide," she stammered. "A primordial one…"
The dragon's gaze never left Delary.
Your bloodline was not meant to summon me. But your soul did.
Delary's heart pounded. "I don't understand."
You walk a path that should have ended. You carry memory where none should exist. And you stand at the edge of a future that burns.
A single egg formed within the light between them—small, cracked, glowing faintly like a living ember.
Not physical.
Not illusion.
A covenant.
My lineage cannot remain here, the dragon said. The world hunts what it fears. But one child may walk beside you.
Delary felt the weight of thousands of eyes, the fear, the confusion—but none of it mattered.
"If I accept," she whispered, "what will it cost?"
The dragon's voice softened.
Everything. And more.
Delary reached out.
The moment her fingers brushed the glowing egg, the runes exploded with light. The heat vanished instantly, replaced by a deep, resonant calm.
The dragon dissolved into embers, leaving the egg hovering briefly before sinking into Delary's chest, warm and alive, sealing itself into her very existence.
Silence crashed down over the hall.
The High Priestess fell to her knees. "A… Guardian Pact," she breathed. "A forbidden blessing."
Delary opened her eyes.
They reflected fire.
Spencer exhaled shakily.
This was worse than he feared.
And far greater.
As Delary turned to face the crowd, nobles stared at her in awe and dread. They would record tonight as a miracle, a curse, a mystery.
They would never know the truth.
That the world had not blessed Delary.
It had answered her.
And it would one day regret doing so.
The silence did not break immediately.
It stretched, taut and trembling, as though the hall itself was afraid to breathe.
Delary stood at the center of the ritual circle, the faint warmth still lingering in her chest where the egg—no, the covenant—had settled. Her heartbeat had slowed, steady and deliberate, but she could feel it there. Not a foreign presence. Not an intrusion.
A promise.
Whispers erupted only after the High Priestess found her voice.
"Seal the runes," she commanded shakily. "Now."
Priests hurried forward, chanting ancient incantations meant to stabilize blessings. Their voices wavered, magic faltering as they struggled to contain something none of them had trained for. The ember-red sigils dimmed reluctantly, cracks in the marble sealing themselves with faint lines of molten gold.
The crowd finally exhaled.
Some nobles pressed hands to their mouths. Others stared at Delary with naked fear. A few—far more dangerous—watched her with calculating eyes.
A guide that was not meant to exist.
A blessing that was not requested.
A power that did not fit neatly into the hierarchy they understood.
Delary stepped off the sigil.
The sound of her bare feet against marble echoed louder than it should have.
Every instinct screamed at her to bow, to show humility, to reassure them that she was still manageable. Still theirs.
She did none of it.
Instead, she lifted her chin and met their gazes one by one.
The High Priestess approached her slowly, reverently, as though Delary might vanish if touched too abruptly.
"Lady Delary," she said, voice hushed. "Do you… feel unwell?"
Delary considered the question.
She felt warmer. Heavier. Anchored in a way she had never known before. As if something ancient had wrapped itself around her spine and whispered: endure.
"I feel," Delary said carefully, "awake."
The priestess shuddered.
"That was no ordinary guide," one of the elders said sharply. "Such entities are not meant to answer human rites."
"And yet it did," Delary replied calmly.
The elder stiffened, unused to being addressed so directly by someone who had only just come of age.
"This will require review," he said. "The archives—"
"Will say nothing," Spencer cut in, stepping forward at last.
All eyes turned to him.
"The ritual was conducted according to tradition," he continued evenly. "The guide answered. The blessing was accepted. There is precedent for variance."
"Not for this," the elder snapped.
Spencer met his gaze without blinking. "Precedent does not require comfort. Only history."
Delary glanced at him, something unspoken passing between them.
Later, much later—after the nobles had been dismissed, after the hall had been cleared, after rumors had already begun to take shape—Delary stood alone in her chambers.
The debutante gown lay discarded across a chair, its pristine fabric now feeling strangely irrelevant. She stood before the mirror, pressing a hand lightly to her chest.
Warmth answered her touch.
A pulse.
Hello, little bearer.
Delary's breath hitched. "You're still here."
Always.
"Are you… alive?"
A sound like distant fire crackling filled her thoughts.
I am becoming.
She closed her eyes. "Will they come for you?"
For us, the presence corrected gently. They always do.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Delary," Spencer's voice called softly. "May I come in?"
She opened the door without hesitation.
The moment he saw her face, his composure cracked.
"That wasn't supposed to happen," he said quietly. "In any version of events."
"No," Delary agreed. "It wasn't."
He searched her expression, as if looking for fractures. "Are you afraid?"
She thought of the dragon's eyes. Of the egg forming from light. Of the way the world had seemed to pause, uncertain whether it should allow this to exist.
"No," she said. "I think… this is what fear looks like when it realizes it chose the wrong person."
Spencer let out a slow breath, half-laugh, half-resignation. "You've just made yourself impossible to ignore."
Delary smiled faintly. "Good."
Outside the palace walls, somewhere far beyond mortal sight, something ancient shifted in its sleep.
The ritual had ended.
But the bond had only just begun.