Page 9 of Sereis
Sereis's pause stretched long enough that frost began creeping across his throne. When he spoke, his voice carried harmonics that made my bones resonate. "I do not deny the signature is mine. I deny creating the blade."
A murmur ran through the hall—even the servants behind the screens couldn't stay silent at that. To admit the signature butdeny the creation... it was like saying your handwriting appeared on a letter you never wrote.
"Elaborate," Garruk commanded.
"My magical signature is not a secret." Each word came precise as carved ice. "Any Dragon Lord who has observed my workings for a thousand years could replicate it, given sufficient power and patience. The blade is mine in the way a forged painting bears the original artist's style—technically correct, fundamentally false."
But his eyes kept returning to those shattered pieces, and I saw something there that made my chest tight. He wasn't lying—the truth-wine vapors in the air would have revealed that instantly. He genuinely didn't understand how his power had ended up in weapons he hadn't made.
Morgrith spoke next, his shadow-touched voice seeming to come from everywhere at once. "Your isolation these past three centuries—was it preparation? A way to build power without observation?"
The temperature dropped another degree. "I isolated myself because proximity to others threatened my control, not to plot theatrical kidnappings."
The word 'theatrical' landed like a slap. Several Dragon Lords shifted, and Davoren's marks flared dangerous gold. But Morgrith pressed on. "Three hundred years of solitude is rather excessive for maintaining control. Unless you were planning something that required such distance from scrutiny."
"Three hundred years." Sereis's voice had gone soft, which was somehow worse than shouting. "Three hundred years of meditation, of maintaining the Northern Range's barriers against wild magic, of keeping my domain stable while others played politics and traded favors. If I wanted to accumulate power in secret, Lord Morgrith, I would have done what you do—stayed visible while building shadow networks. Isolation is a terrible strategy for conspiracy."
The accusation hung there, veiled but present. Morgrith's shadows writhed, but before he could respond, Zephyron cut in.
"The frost-burns on the assassins were distinctive." Lightning crackled between his fingers as he spoke. "Deep enough to mark bone. That level of ice magic requires not just power but intimate knowledge of human anatomy. How many humans have you frozen from the inside out, Lord Sereis?"
A sound escaped Sereis that took me a moment to recognize—laughter. Bitter as winter wind, sharp as breaking ice.
"None in three centuries." He stood for the first time since taking his throne, and even through the mesh, his presence made the air itself hold still. "But if you're asking about capability rather than action, then yes—I could freeze every human in this volcano without leaving my throne. I could turn their blood to ice between one heartbeat and the next. I could create winter in the heart of summer and make it last until the stars burned cold."
The hall went silent. Even Caelus stopped fidgeting.
"If I wanted Lady Kara," Sereis continued, each word dropping like ice into still water, "I would challenge Davoren directly under ancient law. Dragon to dragon, fire against ice, as the old ways demand. I would not send human assassins to fail at a task I could accomplish in seconds."
The admission of capability made everyone tense. Kara's hand had found Davoren's arm, golden marks pulsing faster. The other Dragon Lords exchanged glances—calculating, measuring, preparing for violence.
But I heard something else in his words, underneath the threat. Frustration. Genuine, deep frustration at being accused of something so far beneath what he'd actually do if he choseto act. Like accusing a master painter of forging copper coins—technically possible, fundamentally insulting.
"You speak of what you would do," Davoren's voice cut through the tension like magma through ice. "But the evidence speaks of what youdiddo. Your signature, your magic, your methods."
"Methods?" Sereis turned to face him fully, and frost spread from where his feet touched the floor. "My methods? If those were my methods, you'd be attending your mate's funeral, not a trial."
The truth of it rang through the hall like a struck bell. No one could argue—if Sereis had truly wanted Kara dead or taken, she would be. The fact that the assassins had failed, that she'd been able to fight them off, actually argued against his involvement.
But the evidence remained. The ice blade. The frozen ships. The magical signatures that sang his name.
I watched him stare at those shattered blade pieces, and recognized the look of someone seeing their own power turned against them, shaped into accusations they couldn't defend against because they didn't understand how it had happened.
"Refreshments!" Caelus announced, because apparently attempted murder trials required intermission.
The word cracked through the tension like lightning through ice. Several Dragon Lords turned to stare at him, but Caelus was already gesturing dramatically, his cape creating static displays that competed with the gravity of the moment.
"We've been at this for hours," he continued, oblivious to or simply ignoring the incredulity around him. "Parched throats lead to poor judgment. Besides, I have a fascinating new trade proposal that relates directly to transportation security—relevant to our current discussion, don't you think?"
Davoren looked ready to incinerate him, but ancient law was ancient law. If a Dragon Lord called for refreshments during atrial, refreshments were served. Even if the trial might end in execution.
We emerged from behind the screens like shadows becoming solid. My hands found the pitcher—truth-wine, still frozen solid from Sereis's temperature drop. Other servants carried food that no one would eat, water that would sit untouched, all of it ritual and meaningless except for the wine that could burn lies from your throat.
My circuit included Sereis's throne. Of course it did.
I moved through the patterns Caelus had trained into my muscles—twelve steps between positions, pour from the left, never let your shadow cross their space. The other Dragon Lords took their refreshment with the same disinterest they'd show furniture delivering itself. But as I approached Sereis, that stillness of his seemed to deepen, like winter recognizing winter.
The truth-wine had begun to melt, slow drops of purple so dark it looked black in the volcanic light. I positioned myself at the proper angle, pitcher raised—
