The Pendragon estate rises like a fortress from the cliffside, its towers slicing through mist and moonlight. It has the look of a castle and the heart of a war machine. Tonight, its halls are flooded with music and light.
Servants move in perfect precision through the halls, many aided by low-grade pseudo-echoes. Floating trays hover beside them, steadied by glowing bracers. Candles flicker to life in suspended globes that adjust with the hum of ambient energy. Banners of black and gold ripple along the walls, each one bearing the Pendragon sigil, the golden dragon with its wings unfurled. At the center of the hall, an eternal flame flickers in a crystal basin. It's ceremonial, yes, but it's also tradition. Every Pendragon banquet begins and ends with fire.
The graduation banquet has drawn nobles, generals, artificers, and more than a few echo scholars. Technically, the celebration is for both top graduates of the Academy, but the spotlight only falls in one direction.
Lyra Ashveil.
She stands near the center, surrounded by nobles and relic scholars, a glass of darkwine in hand and the Prism Crown still faintly glowing on her brow. She laughs at something someone says, and even that sounds like command dressed in charm. Not just because of the gleaming Aegis floating over her back. Like all true echoes, it answered her call and vanished just as easily. It hovered there, bound to her like a silent guardian.
I don't fade into the background tonight. I am a Pendragon, after all. Raised as the heir. Expected to perform. Expected to impress. So I do.
I mingle. I speak when spoken to. I offer smiles that look like they belong. At one point, a striking young noblewoman with a jeweled veil engages me in conversation. Her compliments are sweet, practiced. I return them with ease, polite and polished. We talk about the Academy, the Vault, the ceremony. I listen more than I speak, catching whispers in the current. Some speak of strange relic activity in the east. Others, in hushed tones, wonder if Lyra's connection to true echoes makes her more than just lucky.
And when the moment draws long enough, I excuse myself. Not rudely, just decisively. She lets me go with a parting glance that says she'll remember me.
On the way out, I pass my uncle.
"Juno," Halric says. His tone is perfectly measured, too smooth to be warm. His silver-threaded cloak gleams beneath the chandelier light.
"Uncle," I say, nodding.
His son, Corven, stands beside him. Four years older, broader in build, sharper in tongue. The last Pendragon to graduate top of his class, until Lyra took the title.
"Quite the celebration," Corven says. "Though some of us never needed a second-place speech."
I meet his gaze evenly. "Good thing we Pendragons don't measure worth by applause."
Halric's lips twitch, almost a smile, almost not. "Still sharp," he murmurs.
"I try," I say, and keep walking.
The balcony is quieter. Cooler. A breeze lifts the edge of my cloak as I step out.
That's when Lyra finds me.
"You're brooding again," she says.
"I'm observing," I reply.
"From a very safe distance. Like a decorative gargoyle."
I glance sideways. "And you? Run out of compliments to collect?"
"Please. I left before I had to start pretending I remembered anyone's name."
"Tragic. The Lyra Ashveil, cornered by small talk."
"Don't laugh. I was this close to escaping into a wine barrel."
"I'd have rescued you. Eventually."
"With great reluctance, I'm sure. After you finished eavesdropping from the shadows."
"I would say mysterious and emotionally complex."
"See, I would've said pretty and deeply repressed."
"That's almost flattering."
She leans in a little. "I'm feeling generous. You clean up well tonight."
I meet her gaze fully, and for a moment, everything else fades. Looking at her stirs something I can't name. A mix of admiration and envy, something tight and fluttering in my chest that hurts in a way I don't mind. She's stunning. Brilliant. And entirely herself.
"You look beautiful tonight," I say quietly.
A flicker of surprise. Her eyes widen just a little, then she recovers with a teasing smile.
"Careful, Juno. Keep talking like that and I might start believing you mean it."
"I do."
She turns her face away slightly, but I don't miss the faint blush that rises to her cheeks.
"Well, now I really have to make fun of you," she murmurs, regaining her stride. "Wouldn't want this getting sentimental."
"You? Never."
"Only on special occasions. And maybe funerals."
"You planning one?"
"Yours, if you keep holding that wine like it personally offended you."
"I was savoring."
"You were brooding. Elegantly."
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. "You know, if you ever dropped the whole prodigy act, you might be kind of fun."
"And if you ever let your guard down, you might be... tall, actually."
"That doesn't even make sense."
She grins. "Neither do you. That's part of the appeal."
Her smile lingers, then softens. Her gaze rests on mine for a moment.
"You're staring," she says.
"Can you blame me?"
Her voice lowers just slightly. "Where'd you go just now?"
"Just remembering."
"Oh?"
"We were ten. The first time I saw you. Just another name on the sparring list."
"You remember that?"
"Your uniform was too big. You didn't say a word. But when you picked up the training spear, everything shifted."
She laughs. "I tripped during the stance drill."
"Yeah. But that's not what everyone remembers."
I watch her now. Light from the chandeliers paints her in gold. Her eyes glow like live embers in the dark.
"You moved like you were born in battle," I say. "Even then, I knew. You were different."
The air goes still.
"We're nineteen now," I say. "Freshly graduated. And I'm still wondering if the gap between us will ever stop getting bigger."
She doesn't answer. But she doesn't look away.
Before either of us can say more, the music fades.
A hush rolls through the hall like a tide pulled back.
Lady Ilyana Pendragon enters.
The matriarch of House Pendragon wears black and gold, her cloak trimmed in runic thread. A fine scar runs along her left cheekbone, and her silver hair is braided back into a crown of twists that gleam under the chandelier light. Her face is aged, not by weakness, but by years of conquest and command. Just visible above her collar, curling along the left side of her neck, is the ancient Pendragon mark, a tattoo that shimmers faintly with echo resonance.
It's not just for show. That mark is an echo itself, passed down through generations of Pendragons. It's the origin of the name. The source of our legend.
It allows the bearer to transform into a great white dragon, a majestic beast of scale and flame, one whose breath can melt armies and leave kingdoms in ash. The flames burn blue, unnatural and beautiful, fueled by soul and legacy. Every Pendragon heir inherits the mark. One day, I will too.
There are stories about what it means. How the Pendragons were once kings themselves, conquerors before there was an Empire. When Caelus Vire sought to unite Caerthas, he turned to House Pendragon for strength. It was our fire that cleared the way. Our blades that carved the map. Some say the Empire was born in the shadow of the dragon's wings, raised from the ashes we left behind.
And ever since, the Pendragons have stood just beside the throne. Equal in reverence. Equal in fear.
Lady Ilyana does not smile. She never does. But when she speaks, the room listens.
"To the future of Pendragon," she says. "To the two who carry our name with pride. One by birth. One by bond. Let this night mark their place in history."
She raises a glass.
The hall echoes the toast.
I raise mine, still untouched.
Lyra's crown brightens just slightly, like it hears its name.
We clink glasses. Hers is half empty. Mine still tastes like unmeet expectations.
And overhead, carved into the stone, the Pendragon sigil burns with soft golden light. The dragon, wings unfurled, watching.
Always watching.
Moments latter a messenger arrived breathless, muttering something about an echo surge in Azmere Pass. Strong enough to stir dormant relics.
Of course it couldn't wait. Of course the council was already convening.
The music faded. The guests were ushered out. And the Pendragon estate returned to what it truly was: Not a home. A war table.