Page 3 of Sereis
Zephyron arrived next, and the air itself seemed to celebrate. Lightning crackled between his fingers in lazy arcs, his storm-gray hair floating as if underwater. He took his platform with theatrical flair, static electricity making every metal surface in his vicinity sing.
Then came Garruk, and the floor trembled. Not enough to topple anything, but enough to feel it in your bones—this deep, grinding reminder that the earth itself bent to his will. He moved like a mountain deciding to walk, deliberate and unstoppable.
But then—
Everything stopped.
I didn't understand how I knew he'd arrived before I saw him. Maybe it was the way the temperature dropped, just a degree or two. Maybe it was how every other Dragon Lord turned to look, even Davoren with all his fury.
Sereis entered alone.
No retinue. No display of power. He wore simple white robes that moved like water, his black hair cropped short enough to see the elegant line of his neck. Where other Dragon Lords claimed space with their presence, he seemed to create stillness around him, a pocket of absolute quiet in Caelus's chaos.
His eyes were pale as winter dawn. Not cold, exactly, but . . . distant. Like he was looking at everything from very far away, or maybe from very deep inside. When he took his designated platform—just the single space meant for him, while others had claimed three or four for their attendants—he settled into perfect stillness.
I couldn't stop staring.
There was something about the way he held himself, spine straight but not rigid, hands folded but not clenched. Like he'd found some secret center of gravity the rest of us had lost. WhileCaelus whirled and Davoren burned and Zephyron crackled, Sereis simply . . . was.
My hands had gone still on the goblet I was supposed to be positioning. Through the transparent wall, those pale eyes moved across the preparation space, taking in the scrambling servants, the repositioned cushions, the chaos that Caelus created simply by existing.
Then his gaze found me.
I should have looked away. Should have remembered I was nothing, less than nothing, a collared servant who wasn't supposed to exist except when pouring wine. But something in his expression held me—not command, not desire, but . . . recognition? As if he saw something familiar in the girl standing frozen with a lightning-charged goblet in her hands.
"Wake up, little mouse!"
Caelus's clap came inches from my face, loud as thunder. I jerked back, nearly dropping the goblet, my cheeks burning with sudden heat.
"The Introduction Ceremony begins in minutes!" He peered at me with those storm-gray eyes that never quite focused on any one thing. "Where's my ceremonial cape? The one that changes color with my mood!"
"In your dressing chamber, my lord," I managed, voice steady despite my racing heart.
"No, no, I've changed my mind." He whirled away, hair floating. "Bring the one that generates static instead! It makes such delightful crackling sounds when I move. Actually—" He spun back. "Bring both! I'll decide when I see them!"
I bobbed the required curtsy and fled toward his chambers, grateful for the excuse to escape. But even as I ran through the servant passages, even as I gathered both ridiculous capes with their competing enchantments, I couldn't shake the image of Sereis's stillness.
Or the way those pale eyes had looked at me—really looked—like I was something more than furniture that poured wine.
Caelus chose the static cape, of course. It crackled with every movement as he swept into the main Conclave, and I followed three steps behind, carrying the ceremonial wine pitcher that weighed so much I kept swaying and stuttering.
The Introduction Ceremony had rules older than the volcano that formed this island. Each Dragon Lord must acknowledge the others in order of age—starting with Garruk who was almost as old as the stars—so people say—and ending with Zephyron, the youngest at a mere four centuries. The process would take hours, and I would pour for each acknowledgment, a witness to words that shaped the world.
"Remember," Tam whispered as we took our positions, "pour from the left for the elder, right for the younger. And whatever you do, don't spill on Davoren."
As if I needed the warning.
Davoren's fury was a living thing in the hall, controlled only by Kara's steady presence. She stood beside his throne—not behind it like a proper mate, but beside, her hand resting on his where it gripped the armrest. Those golden marks on her skin pulsed in rhythm with his breathing.
Garruk began, his voice like grinding stone: "Lord Morgrith, I acknowledge your presence and your shadow."
The formula was ancient, each word weighted with meaning. Presence meant you recognized their physical form. The second part—shadow, flame, storm, frost—acknowledged their essential nature.
I moved forward, pitcher steady despite the tremor in my hands. Pour from the left for Garruk, the elder. The wine—deep purple, almost black—fell in a perfect arc. Seventeen different ways to pour, and this was the simplest, yet it carried the most weight.
Morgrith responded in his echo-touched voice: "Lord Garruk, I acknowledge your presence and your stone."
Pour from the right. My feet knew the pattern, twelve steps between each throne, careful not to let my shadow fall across any Dragon Lord's space.
