Lux had tolerated the interrogation for what felt like an eternity, her answers to their probing questions mere whispers, vague replies and clipped dismissals. She offered nothing genuinely useful, yet meticulously dispensed just enough to avoid provoking outright violence, a delicate dance on the edge of a blade.
One of the interrogators, younger and crueler than the rest, his face a mask of sweating bravado, decided to gamble everything on a single, venomous taunt.
"You're a dragon," he sneered, his voice laced with a raw, ugly fear. "And you're going to be put down like the common beast you are."
Lux turned to him, her movement slow, deliberate, like the shifting of ancient tectonic plates.
No words passed her lips.
No surge of outward anger rippled across her face.
Just her eyes—those startling crimson orbs, now utterly devoid of warmth, cold as distant stars, piercing with an intensity that seemed to flay the man's soul bare. They bored into him, making his throat tighten and his carefully constructed bravado wilt into a pathetic, shivering husk.
Something in that gaze hollowed them, drained the colour from their faces, stole the air from their lungs. Something ancient. Something terrifyingly inhuman.
Then it hit her. A sensation, sharp and undeniable—not just a feeling, but a powerful, surging presence, reaching from the deepest, most untouched parts of her being, like hungry claws scraping at the very edge of her perception. Her mother's resonant voice, long a phantom, echoed now from memory, clear and strong:
"When the tide comes, little one, you'll know. It doesn't ask. It claims."
It felt like standing before the raw, untamed ocean—vast, violent, yet infinitely patient. An immense, elemental force pressing against the very architecture of her mind, not to crush her, but to awaken her. To unleash something long dormant.
Still, her face remained a mask of perfect calm. Impassive. Untouched by the storm brewing within.
And it was in that precise, charged moment that Baron Paul Andrell, a shadow of calculated intent, entered the chamber.
"Ah, my sincerest apologies," he said, his voice smooth as polished stone, a thin, almost invisible smile playing on his lips. "The old body, you see, isn't quite what it used to be, necessitating these… unscheduled delays."
The interrogators, each one suddenly pale, sweat-slicked, and utterly quiet, turned as one towards their master, their relief a palpable wave in the room.
The Baron was not alone. Behind him stood his ever-present butler, a silent, grey shadow, and another figure—a man of the cloth, distinct and commanding. A priest, robed in **pristine white and shimmering gold**, with the faint, ethereal aura of sanctified magic clinging to him like the lingering scent of rich incense, subtly vibrating in the air.
Baron Paul spoke lightly at first, his voice an effortless murmur, musing aloud about the weighty burdens of rulership and the perilous price of secrets, his words dancing around the true purpose of his visit. But all the while, his eyes, those calculating, cold jewels, never once left Lux.
Measuring. Assessing. Weighing. Every flicker of her expression, every subtle shift of her posture, absorbed into his relentless calculus.
The priest said nothing, but his glowing, almost luminous gaze, filled with an otherworldly light, studied her with an intense scrutiny, like a sacred text written in blood and prophecy, unfolding before his very eyes.
Then the Baron's tone shifted, subtly but decisively. The veneer of polite charm evaporated like mist in a sudden draft. His voice became dry and clipped, sharp as a winter wind.
"Tell me," he said, his gaze piercing her with a new intensity, "what is a dragon truly worth in gold?"
Lux blinked, a slow, deliberate movement. Then, a smile, small and dangerous, touched her lips.
"Why ask me?" she replied, her voice soft, almost conversational, yet edged with an ancient knowing. "Ask a dragon when you see one."
Paul's smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
"But you are one."
She tilted her head, her expression one of innocent curiosity. "And your proof?" The challenge hung in the air, a silken thread of defiance.
Elsewhere, in the estate's bustling war room, a young, eager knight, quill poised, scrawled out a missive—a sealed letter, bearing the distinct, arrogant crest of the Baron's House, destined for the Duke himself. Across the heavy parchment, in bold, triumphant strokes, were the chilling words: "We've found her. The beast's kin lives."
Back in the gilded chamber, Lux closed her eyes.
That feeling—the tide her mother had spoken of, the vast, primal force—it surged within her, no longer distant. It was no longer a vague scratching at the edge of her awareness, but a pressing, undeniable weight.
It crashed.
It clicked.
Like a hidden lock releasing under an ancient, immense weight, a new clarity, a brilliant, crystalline understanding bloomed in her mind. It wasn't a sudden gift, but the culmination of observation and the relentless, often frustrating, internal experimentation she'd endured with her mother. All those attempts to reach what seemed unreachable, to grasp what was intangible, had laid the groundwork. This particular awareness, the ability to perceive what instinct alone couldn't afford her, was forged in effort, not simply bestowed. It was the meticulous picking up of finer details, of sorting through innate talent and the raw truth of things, that now allowed her to truly sieve and understand. Now, with the raw surge of the 'tide,' the disparate pieces snapped into place, illuminating every shadowed corner of her perception.
Latent Sense Awakened: Mana Perception.
And suddenly, the world was no longer simply shades of stone and shadow. It was an explosion of vibrant colour, pulsing heat, and tangible intent. She could now discern it all, clearly, vividly—the intricate, glowing threads of raw power that wove through the very air, a luminous tapestry; the shimmering aura of the priest's sanctified faith, a beacon of purest white light against the ambient hum of the chamber; the deep, resonant thrum of latent magic within the ancient stones of the manor; and, most powerfully, the vast, surging storm waiting, coiled and ready, in her own draconic blood, a crimson tide of power she could now sense. A symphony of unseen energies, previously a dull static, now vibrant and alive around her.
She didn't react.
Not yet.
But she opened her eyes—
—and for the first time since her capture, since the world had crumbled to ash, she was truly, utterly awake. Her crimson gaze, no longer merely cold, now held the depth of ancient knowledge and a terrifying new awareness.