I stood in front of Lotte, eyes big, round, and adorable. The kind of help me stare only a desperate little dragon could pull off.

  Her sigh finally echoed in my head.

  “This certainly is a precarious situation.”

  I nodded rapidly. “Hmm hmm. Very precarious indeed!”

  “Alright then.” Her voice sharpened. “List every rune you saw. Their precise positions. Any objects that stood out—anything that might be part of the ritual.”

  Hoh?

  Would Lotte actually have a plan to sabotage it? Without tipping off the conspirators?

  I mean, it was Lotte. That was entirely possible.

  Pulling details from my memory, I started sketching the scene with my claws, demonstrating each rune—even the ones I didn’t understand. My heightened intelligence locked everything in crystal clarity.

  Soon, I had one side of the ritual reconstructed.

  Lysska had been on the opposite side, so I didn’t know what she saw. I could only recreate half of it.

  But apparently, that was enough.

  Lotte’s silence felt heavier than usual. When she finally spoke, her words dripped with venomous scorn. “How… amateurish.”

  She wasn’t referring to the sacrifices. No, the disgust in her voice was reserved for the ritual itself.

  I hesitated. “I don’t know what runes were on the other side…”

  “Irrelevant.” Her psychic voice lashed like a whip. “The structure is laughably transparent. You said these imbeciles invoke the Ancestors’ primal doctrines?”

  “…Yes?”

  “Pitiable dilettantes. A risible endeavor to violate the tapestry of existence.”

  I stiffened.

  “Existence is no mere cloth,” she intoned, “but a tapestry interlaced with innumerable filaments. It retains memory. When dismantled through meticulous deconstruction—thread by thread—its mnemonic lattice permits reconstitution through mnemonic reweaving. Yet this?”

  I felt her disgust like an undercurrent in my own thoughts.

  “This is like placing a bomb inside that fabric and burning the threads themselves.” Her voice turned sharper, colder. “These mortals are getting very comfortable meddling with such things. They underestimate what happens when a wound in reality is left to fester.”

  I blinked.

  I’d never heard Lotte so genuinely angry before.

  Then again… this was the first time I’d ever described an outer world parda breaching ritual to her.

  I had no idea what methods other people used. My entire knowledge on the subject came from Lotte’s teachings.

  So I didn’t expect them to be so bad at it that she’d move past amused condescension to outright disgust.

  But one thing she said caught my attention.

  My tail flicked, uneasy.

  “…What does happen when such a wound is left to fester?”

  “It serves as a gateway,” Lotte’s voice echoed in my mind. “When the world is incapable of healing its wounds, it compensates—instinctively reaching for stability. Until the tear mends, it remains linked to whatever plane it touched.”

  A shiver ran down my spine.

  “…So it could connect to anything? Anywhere in the Seven Realms?”

  “Precisely. And that’s what makes it unpredictable. And dangerous.”

  I exhaled slowly.

  “That… honestly sounds worse than the summoning itself.”

  “That’s because it is.” Lotte’s voice was clipped, irritated. “Imagine a direct link to the Nether. The city wouldn’t survive it.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “…Why does it feel like those cultists want exactly that?” I muttered. “They’re doing this as an act of sheer terrorism. Something like this—pure, unchecked chaos—would only benefit them, no matter how mindlessly destructive it is.”

  Lotte’s gaze lingered on my drawn runes, irritation simmering beneath.

  “They are wounding more than just people,” she said, quiet and sharp. “They are violating the guardian of this world. Tearing its skin away—for the benefit of no one. And yet, these people claimed to honor their ancestors?”

  “…Yeah.” I grimaced. “According to Lysska, the cult formed to oppose the unification of Varkaigrad. They wanted to stay true to their ‘primal ways.’”

  Lotte scoffed.

  “Pathetic.”

  Venom dripped from her voice.

  Oh.

  Oh, this was new.

  Neutral Lotte gave me brilliant insights.

  But an angry Lotte?

  Thalador help me, I almost felt bad for those cultists.

  I opened my mouth to ask what I could do to sabotage the ritual—but Lotte spoke first.

  “Ingredients.”

  Her massive draconic hood lifted slightly as she addressed me.

  “A lodestone core, quenched in lunar brine. Seven iron nails, forged during a solar eclipse. And—” her voice dipped, “a vial of your blood. Fresh.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  A prickling sensation crawled over my scales.

  “The catalyst must carry your essence. Forge these into an icosahedral crystal. Align the facets to these schematics.”

  The moment she spoke, something took shape in the sky above.

  Lines of purple light—thin, sharp, laser-like—materialized, forming the outline of a perfect icosahedron. Each face shimmered with runes. Between them, in the empty spaces, more symbols flickered into place.

  Slowly, it turned.

  Like a die, suspended in the void.

  I committed every angle, every line to memory.

  And yet—

  Not a single rune was familiar.

  There was something wrong about them. Patterns that made my scales quiver and my head ache.

  A splitting pain coiled behind my eyes—

  And then—

  It was gone.

  Like it had never been there at all.

  I exhaled sharply.

  That wasn’t natural. That was Lotte.

  We were still in the dreamscape, where pain only happened if she willed it.

  She had stopped it. Stopped the very existence of those runes from affecting me.

  The dice-like structure finished assembling.

  I stared at it.

  I had no idea what it would do.

  No clue what the runes signified.

  But I did know one thing.

  Lotte was angry.

  “Take an ounce of silver forged into chains,” Lotte commanded, her voice a blade against the dreamscape’s silence. “Invoke the Mother of Chains—let her blessing seep into the metal. Engrave each rune onto the crystal die with that silver. No need to meddle directly. Let the entity bound to the ritual guard it… until the moment it awakens. You’ll feel the pull in your bones. Then, place the die at the summoning mirror’s heart.”

  I flexed my claws, imagining the weight of those chains. “And what… does the die do?”

  Her psychic chuckle reverberated, darkly amused. “Nothing you need fret over, little hatchling. It merely ensures the summoners receive a fitting audience for their efforts.”

  “That… sounds oddly tame. Which means it absolutely isn’t. And no, I won’t bother prying further. Just—tell me, Lotte. The innocent ones… they’ll be safe, won’t they?”

  Lotte’s massive serpentine visage shifted, her warm, melodic laughter wrapping around my thoughts. “Oh, little hatchling, do you truly think I’d be so cruel as to make you watch something like that unfold?” Her face drifted closer, and for a brief moment, I felt small before those eyes—eyes that could swallow entire villages if they so much as blinked. “I am cognizant of your scruples. You vacillate. You perpetually do. You dread my methodologies will erode your sacrosanct boundaries—that I shall one day demand their transgression.”

  My throat tightened. And she was right. No matter how strong I became, there were lines I would never cross. Others, however… I would take them to the farthest extremes. But those instincts of mine? They would only feast upon those I deemed worthy of it. No innocents. Not once. Not ever.

  “Foolish hatchling.” Lotte’s voice was soft, like embers glowing beneath iron. “I may have sculpted your moral framework through imperceptible accretion—akin to a smith forge-tempering a blade. So thoroughly that interrogating me now equates to doubting the visage in your mirror.” A weighted silence. “I’d rend the stars before I let you break.”

  The icosahedron pulsed, runes writhing like caged serpents. I swallowed. “…Thank you.”

  “Save gratitude for after,” she snorted, withdrawing. “Go. The clock gnaws at your heels. And Jade?” Her tail flicked, scattering the dream. “I expect a vivid retelling.”

  Oh, I was certain she would revel in it.

  With that, I bid Lotte farewell and allowed myself to dissolve into the dreamscape.

  When my eyes opened again, the ceiling stared back at me. Outside, the blizzard still raged. The clock on the wall told me evening had fallen.

  Tonight, I’d need to return to the black market for the necessary ingredients. Maybe I should inform Lysska about my plans to sabotage the ritual—assuming she hadn’t already taken steps of her own.

  She had a certain protectiveness over the people of this city, especially the lower districts. How and why she was even tangled up with that organization, I didn’t know. That secret was hers to keep.

  And yet… I trusted her. A reckless, marrow-deep certainty.

  The alchemy table gleamed in the storm’s half-light: alembics, a dented crucible, vials of murky reagents. My blood would join them soon.

  I glanced at the window, where snow devoured the city. A long night. Longer still for whoever awaited Lotte’s “gift.”

  ***

  Sasha clapped her hands, sending ink droplets flying from the half-drawn sigil. “Oooh! I finally get it! The third quadrant’s resonance was destabilizing the entire array! Thank you, Teacher Velimir!” She bowed so deeply her silver braids brushed the floor—a gesture fit for addressing sect elders, not some glorified babysitter.

  Retarded spawn of the Sablethorn cesspit. The elders had been right, as always. These people clung to their ideals of unity so desperately it had turned turned them all into mewling, thumb-sucking weaklings.

  Velimir forced a chuckle, patting her head like one might soothe a drooling hound. “Adequate progress, Sasha. Now scurry off to bed. Your little friend’s spatial trinket is nearly ready. I’ll… adjust the sigils.” He flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve. “Conserve your strength for tomorrow’s ball.”

  The simpering broodmare puffed her cheeks. “But Teacher, I wanna fix it myself! If I wanted help, I’d have begged Papa’s lackeys—or hell, just bought one! But no, I want to see it through with my own hands, even if it’s just fixing a little sigil.”

  Ancestors’ bile—she’s groveling for some lesser sect harlot’s spawn. Where was her fucking pride? Her dignity? If she had been raised among the Vor’akh, she would have understood the weight of such things.

  He sighed, jaw aching from the constant mask of kindness. He just wanted this farce to end. Every moment spent among these faithless, pampered creatures sickened him. How far they had fallen. How far they had strayed.

  “Stubborn as a mule, aren’t we? Very well. But if you’re still here by midnight…” He nodded toward the window where two featherbrained owls perched. “…Mimi and Shiro will drag you out by your rat’s nest of hair.”

  She only laughed, oblivious. By the window, the owls let out soft, watchful hoots. Disgusting little pests. The house head had assigned them to keep an eye on his precious heir, a clear sign he suspected something—even if only a little.

  These fools were weak, but the eyes watching through those birds were not to be underestimated. Still, the new Sablethorn head was nothing more than a lowgold, barely four years into his ascension—the youngest family head among the five ruling sects of this miserable city.

  Sasha giggled, oblivious to the owls’ glassy stares tracking Velimir’s every twitch. Yes, watch closely, you feathery ghouls. Let them report his “devotion” to that upjumped lowgold fool playing patriarch. Four years on the throne and already reeking of peasant indecision.

  And tomorrow, he and his entire bloodline would be wiped from existence.

  A gaping wound in Varkaigrad’s reputation.

  Oh, the chaos it would bring.

  Velimir mentally sneered at the half-drawn sigils. Look at this farce. “Unity.” He’d sooner lick a leper’s sores than endure another hour in this stinking city of slack-jawed apostates. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, the “youngest sect head in history” becomes a bloodstain on his own gilded carpets.

  He lingered on the thought: the Lowgold upstart’s guts unraveled, his precious daughter’s screams echoing through marble halls. Such delicious chaos. The Sablethorn line reduced to maggot feed—where it belongs.

  Ancestors help him—he was giddy with anticipation.

  Velimir’s tongue curled behind his teeth, bitter as ash. The chamber reeked of jasmine incense and weakness—gilded walls hung with tapestries depicting the Sablethorn’s “noble” pacifism. Pathetic. In the old days, youths were tempered in marrow-deep winters, their cradles carved from enemy skulls. Now they suckled on honeyed lies, coddled like overripe fruit. No hunger in their bellies. No teeth.

  He stared at the serpent-kin brat doodling her sigils. Her forked tongue flicked rhythmically, as if etching spells for her gutter-born friend was a game. Once, beastkin lords made elves kneel on shattered glass to beg for mercy. Now? These scaled worms groveled alongside humans pissing themselves at the first whiff of conflict. Dwarves—cockroaches who once trembled in their mountain shitholes—now dared lecture them on unity.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. Every “lesson” here festered in his gut like spoiled meat. Unity. A pretty word for the maggots feasting on their race’s corpse.

  The girl hummed a nursery rhyme, oblivious to the razor’s edge of his gaze. One slip of her scalpel, and he’d have to endure another hour of her mewling. Spineless, milk-livered—

  The blizzard beyond the window mirrored his rage—a howling, white-knuckled fist battering the city. Tomorrow. The word thrummed in his veins. Earlier, the elder’s missive had arrived, its cipher as elegant as a slit throat:

  Dawn. Wear your finest robes. You’ll want a front-row seat.

  His lips peeled back in a silent snarl. Finally. He’d witness true power—not these simpering “house heads” with their tea ceremonies and compromise. The elder wouldn’t fight them. No. She’d unmake them. A hurricane shredding paper dolls.

  And he? A humble cog, yes—but the one greased with betrayal. While the elder painted the walls with viscera, he’d plant the rot at their roots. A single spark in the granary.

  The girl giggled, holding up her crystal. “Look, Teacher! I added flowers around the sigil! Viera loves peonies!!”

  Velimir’s smile felt like a garrote. “Charming.” Burn with the rest, you mewling abortion.

  Soon, the coddled and the corrupt would learn the Ancestors’ true tongue.

  It screamed in fire.

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