Six?Claws’ voice rolled through the cavern like a subterranean tremor, low and resonant enough that Oberon felt it in his ribs. The words were not a reassurance, nor a promise, nor anything resembling comfort. They were a decree—an ancient verdict delivered by something that had lived long enough to forget the difference between mercy and instinct. The air seemed to tighten around them, as if the roots themselves were listening.

  Oberon stood frozen, the weight of that sentence settling on him like a mantle of stone. Roselia’s breath hitched beside him; he felt her tail coil instinctively around his leg, a protective gesture she didn’t seem aware of. Her frills pressed tight against her neck, wings half?unfurled as though she expected to shield him from her own father. Retral’s eyes, which had been half?lidded and distant since their arrival, opened fully for the first time. A faint green glow flickered in her pupils—subtle, but unmistakably aware. She watched Oberon with the calm intensity of someone who had seen this moment long before it occurred.

  Six?Claws lowered his massive head until his snout hovered inches from Oberon’s face. His breath was hot and metallic, tinged with the scent of old blood and something older still—something primal that made Oberon’s instincts scream. “Do you understand?” he murmured.

  Oberon swallowed hard. “Understand… what?”

  Six?Claws’ pupils contracted to thin slits. A second voice—raspy, broken, almost like a whisper from inside his skull—echoed beneath the first: “He doesn’t know. He can’t know. Not yet.” The primary voice continued, sharper now, as if cutting through the air. “That survival is not a gift. It is a test.”

  Roselia stepped forward, but Six?Claws snapped his gaze toward her with such suddenness that she froze mid?motion. It wasn’t fear that stopped her—it was instinct, the reflex of a daughter who understood exactly how fragile her father’s sanity was. “Rose,” he said softly, “you brought him here.”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “You brought him into our roots.”

  “Yes.”

  “You brought him before me.”

  “Yes.”

  Six?Claws inhaled deeply, tasting the air. His eyes flicked back to Oberon, and something in his expression sharpened. “And he saw color.”

  Oberon stiffened. Roselia blinked in confusion. “What?”

  Retral’s gaze sharpened with sudden clarity.

  Six?Claws leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like claws dragging across stone. “He saw orange.”

  Oberon’s heart lurched. “How did you—”

  “I smelled it,” Six?Claws said simply. Then, with a tilt of his head, he corrected himself: “We smelled it.” The second voice murmured faintly beneath the first: “Fire. Pride. Bloodline.”

  Roselia’s frills twitched. “Father, what are you talking about?”

  Six?Claws ignored her. Instead, he began circling Oberon slowly, each step silent despite his size. His talons tapped against the earth in a rhythm that felt almost ritualistic—tap, tap?tap, tap—like a heartbeat or an incantation. Oberon felt like prey being measured, weighed, and judged.

  “You will survive,” Six?Claws repeated, “because you must.”

  Oberon forced himself to speak. “Why? Why me?”

  Six?Claws paused behind him. When he spoke again, his voice was not one voice but two layered atop each other, creating a dissonant echo that made the roots tremble. “Because the roots remember.”

  A shiver ran through the cavern. The bioluminescent veins in the walls pulsed once—like a heartbeat responding to his words. Roselia’s eyes widened. “Father… don’t start this again.”

  Six?Claws didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at anyone. He stared at the roots, as though reading something written in their twisting patterns. “The last heir returned to these halls,” he murmured. “And the roots stirred. They whispered. They called.”

  Roselia blinked, bewildered. “What heir?”

  Retral finally moved.

  She stepped forward with slow, deliberate grace, her tail gliding across the earth like a serpent. Her eyes—calm, ancient, and knowing—fixed on Roselia. When she spoke, her voice was soft, but it carried through the cavern with the weight of prophecy.

  “You.”

  Roselia froze, her breath catching in her throat. Oberon felt the air shift—heavy, electric, charged with something he didn’t understand. Six?Claws’ head snapped toward Retral, his pupils widening, his breathing quickening as though her words had struck some buried nerve.

  “You speak,” he whispered. “You speak now.”

  Retral didn’t look at him. She looked only at Roselia. And in that moment, Oberon understood something he had never considered before: Retral wasn’t silent because she was shy or distant. She was silent because she was listening—listening to the roots, to the bloodline, to the echoes of a destiny Roselia herself had no idea she carried.

  And destiny had just spoken.

  Roselia stared at her mother as though Retral had spoken in a foreign tongue. The cavern’s dim green light reflected off her scales, highlighting the confusion tightening her expression. “Me?” she whispered. “Mother, what do you mean?”

  Retral did not answer immediately. She simply regarded her daughter with that same serene, unsettling calm, as if she were studying a constellation only she could see. Her silence stretched long enough that Oberon felt the roots themselves grow still, as though the entire cavern were waiting for her next breath. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of something ancient. “The roots remember blood,” she murmured. “And your blood remembers the crown.”

  Roselia blinked, her frills twitching in disbelief. “Crown? What crown? I’m not— I mean, I’m just—” She gestured vaguely at herself, as though her very existence disproved the idea. “I’m not anything like that.”

  Six?Claws let out a low, rumbling sound that might have been a laugh or a growl. It was impossible to tell. “You always were blind to yourself,” he said, pacing slowly around her. “Too busy running, fighting, wandering. Never stopping long enough to listen.” His voice shifted mid?sentence, the second tone slipping through like a crack in the earth. “She doesn’t want it. She isn’t ready. She is ready.” He shook his head sharply, as though trying to dislodge the echo.

  Roselia took a step back, her wings folding tight against her sides. “Father, stop. You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?” Six?Claws snapped, though the question seemed directed at the air rather than at her. “Speaking truth? Speaking memory? Speaking what the roots have whispered since the day you hatched?” His pupils narrowed, and he leaned in close enough that Roselia had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “You were born under the old moon. Born in the chamber of thorns. Born with the mark.”

  “What mark?” Roselia demanded, her voice rising with frustration.

  Retral lifted a single claw and traced a slow, deliberate circle over her own chest. Roselia’s eyes widened. “No,” she whispered. “That’s just a birth scar. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Retral’s gaze softened, and for the first time, Oberon saw something like sorrow flicker across her features. “It means everything.”

  Oberon felt a chill crawl down his spine. He had known Roselia for months now—long enough to see her strength, her pride, her stubbornness, her fierce loyalty. But he had never once considered that she might be tied to something larger than herself. Something ancient. Something royal. And judging by the way she stood now—rigid, defensive, almost frightened—she had never considered it either.

  Six?Claws resumed pacing, his talons clicking against the earth in an uneven rhythm. “The roots stirred when you returned,” he muttered. “They haven’t stirred in decades. Not since…” His voice trailed off, and he stared at the cavern wall as though seeing something far beyond it. “Not since the last heir vanished.”

  Roselia’s breath caught. “Vanished? You never told me—”

  “There was nothing to tell,” Six?Claws snapped, though the second voice whispered beneath it, “There was everything to tell.” He shook his head again, growling under his breath. “The past is dead. Buried. Forgotten.”

  Retral’s eyes flicked toward him, and he fell silent instantly, as though her gaze alone had pressed a claw to his throat.

  Oberon stepped forward cautiously. “What does this have to do with Roselia?”

  Six?Claws turned toward him with a suddenness that made Oberon flinch. The Draken’s eyes burned with that impossible orange glow, and for a moment, Oberon felt as though he were staring into a furnace. “Everything,” Six?Claws hissed. “She carries the blood. The last of it. The roots know her. The swamp knows her. The crown knows her.”

  Roselia shook her head violently. “No. No, I’m not— I’m not meant for anything like that. I’m a wanderer. A fighter. I don’t belong to any throne.”

  Retral stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate. She lifted a claw and gently touched Roselia’s cheek. The gesture was tender, almost reverent. “You belong to the roots,” she whispered. “And the roots belong to you.”

  Roselia’s eyes shimmered with something Oberon had never seen in her before—fear. Not fear of danger, or pain, or death. But fear of expectation. Fear of destiny. Fear of being seen.

  “I don’t want this,” she whispered.

  Retral’s expression didn’t change. “Destiny does not ask what you want.”

  Six?Claws let out a low growl, pacing again. “She isn’t ready,” he muttered. “She is ready. She must be ready.” His voice fractured mid?sentence, the two tones overlapping in a discordant echo. “The kingdom will need her. The roots will need her. The blood will need her.”

  Roselia’s frills flattened. “What kingdom? What are you talking about?”

  Retral’s gaze drifted toward the cavern ceiling, as though she could see the world above them through layers of earth and bark. “The kingdom that sleeps,” she murmured. “The kingdom that fell. The kingdom that will rise again.”

  Oberon felt his pulse quicken. “Is this connected to the green transparent Draken?”

  Six?Claws froze.

  Retral’s eyes narrowed.

  Roselia turned sharply toward him. “What do you mean?”

  Oberon swallowed. “Your father mentioned him. The one who killed the animals in his territory. The one who fled. The one he wouldn’t dare kill.”

  Six?Claws’ breathing grew heavier. “He was not just a Draken,” he growled. “He was a remnant. A shadow. A survivor of the old blood.”

  Retral’s voice slipped through the air like a whisper of wind. “He was the lost heir.”

  Roselia’s heart seemed to stop. “The… lost heir?”

  Six?Claws nodded slowly, his eyes distant. “He vanished decades ago. Fled from the roots. Fled from the crown. Fled from his destiny.”

  Retral’s gaze returned to Roselia. “And now the roots have chosen again.”

  Roselia took a step back, shaking her head. “No. No, this is wrong. I’m not— I can’t—”

  Six?Claws’ voice cut through her panic like a blade. “You will survive,” he repeated. “Because you must.”

  The cavern fell silent.

  And Oberon realized that this was only the beginning.

  The silence that followed Retral’s declaration felt thick enough to choke on. Roselia stood rigid, her wings pressed tight against her sides, her eyes darting between her parents as though searching for some sign that this was all a cruel joke. But neither of them laughed. Neither of them softened. The roots themselves seemed to pulse with quiet affirmation, their faint green glow flickering like distant stars.

  Oberon could feel Roselia’s panic radiating off her in waves. She wasn’t afraid of danger—he had seen her face down monsters twice her size without blinking. But this was different. This was fear of expectation, of identity, of a destiny she had never asked for. And he realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was witnessing the unraveling of a truth she had never been allowed to know.

  Six?Claws broke the silence first. He inhaled sharply, his chest expanding with a sound like cracking stone. “Enough,” he growled, though the word trembled with something more than irritation. “The roots have spoken. The blood has spoken. But she is not ready.” His voice fractured mid?sentence, the second tone slipping through like a jagged whisper. “She is ready. She must be ready.” He shook his head violently, as though trying to silence the echo.

  Roselia stepped back, her tail curling protectively around herself. “I don’t want this,” she whispered. “I never wanted anything like this.”

  Retral’s expression softened, but she did not move to comfort her. “Destiny does not ask what you want,” she murmured. “It only asks that you listen.”

  Roselia’s jaw clenched. “Well, I’m not listening.”

  Six?Claws let out a low, rumbling sound that might have been amusement or frustration. “You never have,” he said. “That is why you survived this long.” He turned his gaze toward Oberon, and the shift in his demeanor was immediate—predatory, focused, unsettling. “But you,” he murmured, “you are something else entirely.”

  Oberon stiffened. “Me?”

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  Six?Claws circled him slowly, his talons clicking against the earth in that same uneven rhythm—tap, tap?tap, tap. “You saw color,” he said. “You smelled the roots. You felt the pulse. You reacted to the bloodline.” His pupils narrowed. “Humans do not do that.”

  Oberon swallowed hard. “I don’t know what happened. I just—”

  “You saw orange,” Six?Claws interrupted. “The color of fire. The color of pride. The color of the crown.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “The color of the heir.”

  Roselia’s head snapped toward him. “What? No—no, that doesn’t make any sense. He’s human.”

  Six?Claws ignored her. He leaned closer to Oberon, his breath hot against the knight’s face. “You are tied to her,” he murmured. “Tied to her fate. Tied to her blood. The roots know you. The crown knows you.”

  Oberon felt his pulse quicken. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” Six?Claws said. “If you survive.”

  Before Oberon could react, Six?Claws’ claw shot out and wrapped around the back of his neck—not tightly enough to harm, but firmly enough to remind him how easily he could. Roselia lunged forward, but Six?Claws snapped his wings open with a thunderous crack, blocking her path.

  “Father!” she shouted. “Let him go!”

  Six?Claws didn’t look at her. His eyes remained locked on Oberon, burning with that impossible orange glow. “He must be tested,” he said. “The roots demand it. The blood demands it. The crown demands it.”

  Roselia’s voice cracked. “He’s not part of this!”

  Six?Claws’ second voice whispered beneath the first, “He is part of everything.”

  Retral stepped forward, her gaze calm but unyielding. “Let him go,” she said softly.

  Six?Claws froze. His grip loosened, but he did not release Oberon entirely. He turned his head toward Retral, his expression torn between defiance and obedience. “He must be tested,” he repeated, though the words sounded less certain now.

  Retral’s eyes narrowed. “Not like this.”

  Six?Claws’ jaw clenched. “Then how?”

  Retral looked at Oberon—really looked at him—and for a moment, Oberon felt as though she were seeing straight through him, past his flesh and bone, into something deeper. Something he didn’t know he carried. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “Show him.”

  Six?Claws inhaled sharply. “No.”

  “Show him,” Retral repeated.

  Roselia’s eyes darted between them. “Show him what?”

  Six?Claws’ wings folded slowly against his sides. His gaze drifted toward a dark tunnel branching off from the main cavern—a tunnel Oberon hadn’t noticed before. The air around it felt colder, heavier, as though it led somewhere the light refused to follow.

  “The room,” Six?Claws said quietly. “The room of bones.”

  Roselia’s frills flattened. “Father, no. Not that place.”

  “He must see it,” Six?Claws insisted. “He must understand what he is walking into.”

  Oberon felt a chill crawl down his spine. “What’s in there?”

  Six?Claws finally released him, though the gesture felt less like mercy and more like a sentence being carried out. “The past,” he said. “The truth. The cost of the crown.”

  He turned toward the tunnel, his massive form casting a long shadow across the cavern floor. “Come,” he growled. “You will survive.”

  Oberon hesitated, glancing at Roselia. Her eyes were wide with fear—fear not for herself, but for him. She shook her head slightly, as though begging him not to follow.

  But Retral’s voice drifted through the cavern, soft and inevitable. “Go.”

  Oberon swallowed hard.

  And stepped into the darkness.

  Oberon followed Six?Claws into the tunnel, guided not by sight but by the shifting air and the faint scrape of talons ahead of him. The darkness was absolute, but that meant nothing to him; his world had always been shaped by sound, texture, and instinct. What unsettled him was the way the air changed as they moved deeper — colder, heavier, thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic beneath it.

  Behind him, Roselia’s breathing trembled. He could hear it clearly, even over the soft rustle of her wings. She was afraid — not for herself, but for him. That alone made his stomach twist.

  The tunnel narrowed. Roots brushed against his shoulders, rough and pulsing faintly with warmth, as though the tree itself were alive and listening. Six?Claws’ footsteps echoed strangely here, the sound bouncing off the walls in uneven patterns that made it impossible to tell where he was.

  Then the air opened up.

  A cavern.

  Large.

  Hollow.

  Still.

  Oberon stepped forward and his boot struck something hard. It rolled beneath him with a hollow clatter that sent a chill up his spine.

  A skull.

  He didn’t need sight to know the shape — the smooth curve, the empty sockets, the brittle texture beneath his fingertips. He froze, breath catching in his throat.

  Six?Claws’ voice drifted from somewhere ahead, low and reverent. “This is the room of bones.”

  Oberon swallowed. “I can tell.”

  Six?Claws let out a soft, unsettling chuckle. “Good. You should.”

  The smell hit him next — rot, old blood, the dry dust of long?dead creatures. It clung to the air like a memory that refused to fade. He could hear the faint crunch of bones beneath Six?Claws’ weight, the brittle snap of ribs, the shifting clatter of skulls being nudged aside.

  Roselia stepped in behind him, and he felt her tail brush his leg — a silent reassurance. Her claws clicked nervously against the ground, and he could hear the tension in her breath.

  Six?Claws moved again, circling him. Oberon couldn’t see him, but he felt the shift in air pressure, the heat of breath passing near his ear, the faint vibration of a growl rumbling through the cavern floor.

  “This,” Six?Claws murmured, “is the cost of the crown.”

  Oberon’s pulse quickened. “What do you want me to understand?”

  Six?Claws’ steps stopped directly behind him. A claw rested lightly on his shoulder — not enough to harm, but enough to remind him how easily it could.

  “That survival,” Six?Claws whispered, “is earned.”

  The second voice slipped through like a crack in the earth. “Prove him. Break him. Choose him.”

  Oberon’s breath hitched. “Choose me for what?”

  Six?Claws didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he moved again, circling, his talons scraping against bone. “You walk with the heir,” he said. “You saw the color of fire. The roots stirred when you arrived. The bloodline reacted to you.”

  Oberon felt Roselia tense behind him. “Father, stop.”

  Six?Claws ignored her. “You are tied to her fate. Whether you wish it or not.”

  Oberon clenched his fists. “I’m just a knight.”

  “No,” Six?Claws growled. “You are something else.”

  The second voice whispered, “He is needed.”

  Oberon felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine. “Needed for what?”

  Six?Claws exhaled slowly, the heat of his breath brushing the back of Oberon’s neck. “For the kingdom that sleeps. For the crown that will rise. For the heir who does not yet know herself.”

  Roselia’s voice cracked. “Father, please—”

  Six?Claws’ claw tightened slightly on Oberon’s shoulder. “You will survive,” he repeated. “Because she will need you.”

  Oberon’s heart pounded in his chest.

  And for the first time, he wondered if his blindness had protected him from truths he was never meant to see.

  The deeper Oberon stepped into the cavern, the more the air seemed to thicken around him. The smell of old death clung to his tongue—dry, metallic, and bitter, like dust scraped from the bottom of a forgotten tomb. Beneath his boots, the ground shifted with every step. Bones rolled, cracked, and splintered under his weight, each sound echoing through the hollow chamber like a whispered accusation.

  He didn’t need sight to know what surrounded him. The brittle shapes brushing against his ankles, the hollow clatter of skulls nudged aside by his steps, the uneven terrain of ribs and femurs beneath his boots—all of it painted a clearer picture than eyes ever could. This was a graveyard. A monument. A warning.

  Six?Claws moved somewhere ahead of him, but the cavern warped the sound, making it impossible to tell where. Sometimes the talons sounded close enough to touch; other times they echoed from far across the chamber. The unpredictability made Oberon’s skin crawl.

  Roselia’s breathing trembled behind him. He could hear the way her claws dug into the earth, scraping against bone. She was trying to stay calm for his sake, but the tension in her breath betrayed her fear.

  Six?Claws’ voice rose from the darkness, low and reverent. “Do you feel it?”

  Oberon swallowed. “I feel… a lot of things.”

  Six?Claws chuckled softly, the sound echoing like a growl trapped in stone. “Good. You should. This room remembers every creature that challenged the bloodline. Every creature that defied the roots. Every creature that sought the crown.”

  Oberon’s pulse quickened. “And they all died here?”

  “Most,” Six?Claws said. “Some fled. Some begged. Some were devoured.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “All were judged.”

  Roselia stepped closer, her tail brushing Oberon’s leg again. “Father, this isn’t necessary.”

  “It is,” Six?Claws growled. “He walks with the heir. He must understand what that means.”

  Oberon felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine. “I’m not part of any bloodline.”

  Six?Claws’ talons scraped against bone as he approached. Oberon felt the air shift, the heat of breath brushing his cheek. “You saw color,” Six?Claws murmured. “You felt the roots. You reacted to the heir’s presence. Humans do not do that.”

  Oberon clenched his fists. “I don’t know why it happened.”

  “You don’t need to know,” Six?Claws said. “You only need to survive.”

  The second voice slipped through like a crack in the earth. “He is chosen. He is needed.”

  Roselia’s voice cracked. “Father, stop saying things like that!”

  Six?Claws ignored her. He moved again, circling Oberon. The sound of bones crunching beneath his weight made Oberon’s stomach twist. “This room holds the truth of our lineage,” he said. “The truth of the crown. The truth of the heir.”

  Oberon forced himself to breathe slowly. “Then tell me.”

  Six?Claws paused. The cavern fell silent, as though even the dead were listening.

  “The Draken kingdom,” he began, “was not always a myth. It was real. Vast. Powerful. Ruled by a bloodline older than the roots themselves. A bloodline that carried the mark of the crown.”

  Oberon felt Roselia stiffen behind him.

  Six?Claws continued, his voice growing heavier. “But the kingdom fell. Betrayed from within. Consumed by its own power. The heirs scattered. The crown lost. The roots went silent.”

  Roselia whispered, “Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”

  Six?Claws’ voice fractured. “She was too young. She was not ready. She is ready.” He growled, shaking his head. “Because the past is dangerous. Because the crown destroys those who seek it.”

  Retral’s voice drifted into the chamber, soft but unyielding. “And because she was the last.”

  Roselia’s breath hitched. “The last… what?”

  “The last heir,” Retral said.

  Oberon felt Roselia’s tail jerk away from him as though she’d been struck. Her breathing quickened, sharp and uneven. “No. No, that’s not— I’m not— I can’t be—”

  Six?Claws’ talons clicked closer. “You were born under the old moon. Born in the chamber of thorns. Born with the mark.”

  Roselia’s voice trembled. “It’s just a scar.”

  “It is the mark,” Retral whispered.

  Oberon felt the weight of the revelation settle over the room like a shroud. Roselia—his Roselia—was heir to a fallen kingdom. A kingdom that the roots themselves remembered. A kingdom that destiny had not forgotten.

  Six?Claws exhaled slowly. “And now the roots stir again. Because the heir has returned.”

  Roselia’s voice broke. “I don’t want this.”

  “Destiny does not ask,” Retral murmured.

  Oberon felt something shift in the air—something cold, ancient, and heavy. The roots pulsed faintly beneath his feet, as though responding to the truth spoken aloud.

  Six?Claws stepped closer, his breath hot against Oberon’s ear. “And you,” he whispered, “stand at her side.”

  Oberon swallowed hard. “I’m just a knight.”

  “No,” Six?Claws growled. “You are the one who saw the fire. The one who felt the roots. The one the crown reacted to.”

  The second voice whispered, “He is tied to her fate.”

  Oberon’s heart pounded. “What does that mean?”

  Six?Claws’ answer was simple.

  “You will survive,” he said. “Because she will need you.”

  The cavern fell silent.

  And Oberon realized that the darkness around him was not empty.

  It was waiting.

  The silence in the bone?room stretched long enough that Oberon could hear the faint hum of the roots pulsing beneath the earth. It wasn’t a sound so much as a vibration — a slow, rhythmic thrum that resonated through the cavern floor and into his boots. It felt ancient, patient, and aware. As though the tree itself was listening.

  Roselia’s breathing had changed. It was no longer trembling with fear — it was sharp, uneven, almost panicked. Oberon could hear the way her claws scraped against the ground, digging into bone and dirt as though she needed something solid to anchor herself.

  “Stop,” she whispered. “Please… stop.”

  Six?Claws’ talons clicked once, then fell still. “You cannot run from what you are.”

  “I’m not anything!” Roselia snapped, her voice cracking. “I’m not a queen. I’m not an heir. I’m not—” Her breath hitched, and Oberon heard the faint rustle of her wings folding tight against her sides. “I’m not meant for any of this.”

  Retral stepped closer, her movements so soft that Oberon only sensed her presence when the air cooled slightly. She didn’t speak at first. Instead, she exhaled slowly — a sound that carried a strange, soothing resonance, like wind passing through hollow reeds.

  Roselia’s breathing steadied, but only slightly.

  Retral finally spoke. “You were born with the mark.”

  “It’s just a scar,” Roselia insisted, though her voice wavered.

  “It is the mark,” Retral repeated gently. “The same mark your grandmother bore. The same mark the lost heir bore. The same mark the roots recognize.”

  Roselia let out a shaky breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Six?Claws growled softly. “Because you were a child. Because the crown destroys those who seek it. Because the kingdom fell in blood and betrayal. Because we wanted you to live.”

  The second voice whispered beneath his words, “We wanted you to survive.”

  Roselia’s voice trembled. “I don’t want a crown. I don’t want a kingdom. I just want—” She stopped abruptly, as though the rest of the sentence had lodged in her throat.

  Oberon felt her tail brush his leg again — not protectively this time, but desperately, as though she needed to feel something familiar in the suffocating darkness.

  He reached out and touched her tail gently. She flinched, then leaned into the contact.

  Six?Claws exhaled sharply. “You cannot choose your blood.”

  Roselia’s voice rose, raw and furious. “Then why did you hide it from me?! Why did you let me wander the world thinking I was nothing?!”

  Six?Claws’ talons scraped against bone as he shifted. “Because the world is safer when it believes you are nothing.”

  Retral’s voice drifted through the chamber, soft but unyielding. “The crown sleeps. The kingdom sleeps. But the roots do not.”

  Oberon felt a chill crawl up his spine. “What does that mean?”

  Six?Claws answered before Retral could. “It means the kingdom will rise again.”

  Roselia let out a strangled sound — half laugh, half sob. “No. No, it won’t. It can’t. It’s gone.”

  “Not gone,” Six?Claws murmured. “Hidden. Waiting. Watching.”

  The second voice whispered, “Waiting for you.”

  Roselia’s breath hitched. “Stop. Please. I can’t— I can’t handle this.”

  Retral stepped closer. Oberon felt the air shift as she gently touched Roselia’s cheek. Roselia inhaled sharply, her breath trembling.

  “My child,” Retral whispered, “you do not need to accept your destiny today. You only need to understand that it exists.”

  Roselia’s voice broke. “I don’t want it.”

  Retral’s tone softened even further. “Destiny does not ask what you want. But it will wait for you.”

  Oberon felt Roselia’s body sag slightly, as though the weight of the revelation had finally crushed the last of her resistance. He reached out, placing a hand on her forearm. She leaned into him, her scales warm beneath his palm.

  Six?Claws let out a low growl — not threatening, but contemplative. “She will need you,” he said. “More than you know.”

  Oberon swallowed. “Why me?”

  Six?Claws circled him again, the sound of bones crunching beneath his talons echoing through the chamber. “Because you saw the fire. Because you felt the roots. Because the crown reacted to you.”

  Oberon shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “You will,” Six?Claws said. “When you meet him.”

  Oberon stiffened. “Meet who?”

  Six?Claws’ breathing grew heavier. “The green one.”

  Roselia’s breath caught. “The transparent Draken?”

  Retral’s voice slipped through the darkness like a whisper of wind. “He was the lost heir.”

  Oberon felt his heart lurch. “Then why did he flee?”

  Six?Claws’ answer was a low, rumbling growl. “Because he saw what the crown does to those who bear it.”

  Retral added softly, “And because he feared what it would do to her.”

  Roselia’s voice trembled. “To me?”

  “Yes,” Retral whispered.

  The roots pulsed beneath their feet — once, twice — like a heartbeat responding to her name.

  And Oberon realized that the bone?room wasn’t just a graveyard.

  It was a throne room.

  A broken one.

  Waiting for its queen.