The throne room of the Rammaset Empire was never built for peace.

  Every inch of it gleamed like memory carved into stone the black marble floors streaked with veins of gold, pillars etched with the histories of wars won and empires buried. The victories over barbarians, Mountain rebels, and the Unification of the continent. The Empire built by the Rammasets stood on the ashes of war, and an empire born out of war, will very seldom find peace.

  Light filtered through the stained crystal dome above, splitting into ribbons that painted the room in shades of blood and amber.

  The King sat at its centre. The great Alaric III, the longest-reigning monarch in the empire’s recorded history. His crown was a circlet of obsidian etched with runes older than the empire itself.

  The passage of years had not made him frail, only heavier. His hands, once those of a warrior, now bore the calluses of command.

  But his eyes pale and sharp as a winter sky, betrayed the weight of sleepless nights. After all a king must maintain appearances in front of his subjects.

  Besides him stood three princely men, the sons of the monarch.

  Each different in bearing and physicality, yet bound by the same inheritance of expectation.

  The eldest, Cyran, wore the colours of the Imperial Military, his posture rigid, gaze precise. He was the heir apparent the pragmatic, disciplined, and cautious to a fault, The Prince of War.

  The second, Renard, leaned casually against a pillar, his uniform half-unbuttoned, his smirk practised. A soldier of instinct, not protocol. The price of Ambition, as the nobles had come to call him.

  The youngest, Eiden, stood slightly apart from the others, his expression unreadable he had the scholar’s quiet intensity behind eyes.Unlike his brothers all he wanted was Knowledge. The Prince Who Read.

  And before the Royal Family stood Magister Kohler.

  “Your Majesty,” Kohler said, voice still having the authority of a military leader “You’ve summoned me.”

  Alaric nodded once, slow and deliberate. “The reports from the western front have arrived. Rinnett’s army presses again. They’ve broken through the Oshen Trench, despite the new artillery lines.”

  He looked to his sons. “And yet… the Wyrmbound Initiative remains idle.”

  Cyran stepped forward immediately. “Father, with respect, the Initiative was not designed for warfare. It’s still in testing. The cadets aren’t soldiers—they’re unstable weapons. You saw what happened in the Ascension project. The war is still under control, but if the veins become hostile...then...”

  Renard scoffed. “Unstable or not, they’re stronger than half the fleet. We’re bleeding men at the borders while we keep our strongest in cages.”

  “That’s enough,” Alaric said, not raising his voice. Authority didn’t need volume. “I’ve seen the reports. I’ve seen what the Veins do to men. But I’ve also seen what Rinnett has begun to breed. The war machines they have on front lines...they dwarf our's. Only because we pour our resources into your program.”

  He turned his gaze to Kohler. “You know their kind best, Magister. Tell me, why shouldn’t I unleash our Wyrmbound if it means saving the Empire?”

  Kohler bowed slightly. “Because, Your Majesty… the Wyrmbound were never meant to win wars between men.”

  The silence that followed was heavy, sacred in its tension. Even Renard stopped his restless shifting.

  Kohler took a step forward. His golden eyes caught the refracted light, making him look almost reptilian. “The Initiative’s purpose is older than the Empire, older than even the crown you wear. It was not built to conquer Rinnett — it was built to reclaim Terra.”

  Eiden frowned. “Terra? You speak of it as if it were real.”

  “It is real,” Kohler said simply. “And it will be our's again.”

  He touched the projection rune on his gauntlet. The air above the council table shimmered, resolving into an image: two planets locked together by threads of light. One — vibrant blue and green, oceans alive. The other — the storming, amber world they now called Zeus.

  “These are not myths,” Kohler continued. “Zeus and Terra were once twins they are halves of one system. When the first dragons fell, they tore a scar between the worlds. The Veins were the bridge...the arteries that once carried life between them. When they went silent, we lost our home.”

  Alaric leaned forward, eyes fixed on the image. “And now?”

  “Now,” Kohler said, “they’re waking. The Ascent Gate has confirmed it. The cadets from the latest cycle including Squadron Leader Arata — have touched the Song. The Veins have responded.”

  His gaze flicked briefly toward Cyran. “The link between the worlds can be restored. But not with armies.It will be done with resonance.”

  Renard crossed his arms. “And how long before this grand resonance saves us from Rinnett’s artillery?”

  Kohler smiled faintly. “The war with Rinnett is smoke, Young prince is just a distraction. When Terra opens, Rinnett will mean nothing. Neither will Rammaset.”

  That silenced even him.

  Cyran broke the quiet first, voice low. “You’re telling us to ignore a war that’s burning half the continent because of a… prophecy?”

  Kohler’s eyes turned to him, patient, unsettling. “I’m telling you the war you’re fighting is not the one that matters.”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Alaric sat back in his throne. His hand rested against the carved dragon head on its armrest. For a long while, he said nothing. Then, quietly: “Do you think I don’t see the storm coming, Magister? My people starve while our coffers bleed into ruins and rituals. The nobles whisper that I’ve grown old. That I’m ruled by myth.”

  He looked up. “Tell me why I shouldn’t end the Initiative tonight.”

  Kohler’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because if you do, Your Majesty, the next war won’t be fought between men. It will be between worlds. And if you cripple your Wyrmbound now… there will be no one left strong enough to bridge that divide.”

  The chamber darkened as the projection faded.

  For a moment, all that could be heard was the faint hum — the same, subtle pulse Arata heard in his veins when the world listened back.

  Alaric exhaled slowly. “Then I pray your conviction proves worth the blood we’ve spilled.”

  He gestured sharply, dismissing the sons. They bowed... the three of them reluctantly withdrew, Cyran with quiet discipline, Renard with frustration, Eiden still thinking of the planet Terra.

  When the hall was empty but for the two men, the King spoke softly.

  “You’ve known since the beginning, haven’t you? That the Veins would wake in our lifetime.”

  Kohler smiled faintly, the expression not reaching his eyes. “Your Majesty, the Veins were never truly asleep. They were waiting for someone to listen.”

  ...

  That night the Palace slept under rain.

  Water struck the stained-glass dome above the throne room in slow percussion, each drop a whisper too soft to reach the guards outside. The corridors were empty at this hour; only the candles along the archivists’ wing still burned, small and shivering.

  Eiden moved through them like a shadow that had remembered how to walk.

  He wasn’t sneaking for the first time — only for the first time without guilt.

  Curiosity, he told himself, was no crime.

  Only what one chose to do about it.

  Kohler’s laboratory was hidden beneath the Hall of Memory, accessible through a single elevator rune disguised behind a mural of the first dragon hunt. The sigil flared to his touch it was faint blue against the bronze wall and the mural split soundlessly, revealing a narrow spiral of iron steps descending into the dark.

  Each step hummed. The sound was faint, rhythmic, a pulse too slow to be the Veins.

  When he reached the bottom, the air changed. It smelled of ozone, copper, and the sweetness of old wine.

  The chamber was enormous — easily the size of the cathedral above — and alive with machines that looked less built than grown. Glass columns stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with faintly luminous liquid. Shapes floated inside them: bones, nerves, embryonic structures of something not entirely human.

  At the center of it all stood Magister Kohler.

  He wasn’t alone. A figure in ministerial robes. Lord Merris, High Minister of Civil Rites — stood beside him, watching the vats with something between awe and fear.

  “I thought you preferred your books to laboratories, Prince Eiden,” Kohler said without turning.

  His voice was calm, not surprised.

  Eiden hesitated. “You are not surprised?”

  “I hoped you would,” Kohler replied. “Curiosity is a rare virtue among royal borns.”

  Merris bowed stiffly. “Majesty, this facility is classified—”

  “Enough, Minister,” Kohler cut him off. “If he’s to inherit the world we build, he should see what its foundations look like.”

  Eiden stepped closer to the nearest column. Inside, suspended in viscous light, was a human form — no, a blueprint of one. Translucent muscles stretched across a lattice of scales. The veins glowed faintly, like threads of sapphire. The thing’s eyes were closed, but Eiden could see them moving beneath the lids, dreaming.

  “What are they?” he asked softly.

  "Wyrmbounds" Kohler replied.

  "Why are they in suspension Tubes?" Eiden asked.

  “There are two kinds of Wyrmbound,” Kohler continued, his tone sharpening.

  “Those shaped by ancient infusions — unpredictable, born from rituals no living mind fully understands. And those created in our controlled chambers, their abilities… limited, structured, restrained.”

  He looked towards the young prince.

  “The labratory contains…,” Kohler sighed as he continued. “Failed prototypes, but with each generation, The infusion chambers can hold one percent more draconic blood... with every iteration, a more perfect Wyrmbound. One day, they’ll hold a perfect harmony.”

  Eiden’s fingers brushed the glass. The temperature was warm — disturbingly warm. “They’re alive.”

  “For now,” Kohler answered.

  Merris shifted uncomfortably. “The king forbade human subjects.”

  “The king forbade failure,” Kohler said mildly. “I simply obey the spirit of his law.”

  Eiden swallowed hard. “And the blood you use— it’s dragon blood?”

  Kohler’s smile deepened. “Mostly. Sometimes Veins carry other strains, the Night Dragon’s remnants, the Storm Wyrm’s marrow, even fragments from creatures the archives don’t name anymore.”

  Eiden’s mind raced. “Could the process work with… something else? With a synthetic core instead of blood?”

  Kohler turned then, studying him as though seeing him for the first time. “That question,” he said quietly, “is the reason you’ll outlive your brothers.”

  He walked toward another console. “Yes, theoretically. Dragon blood is not special because of what it is, but because of what it remembers. Any substance capable of recording and transmitting memory could serve. You’re thinking of replacing divinity with design.”

  Eiden’s heart quickened. “Memory as code.”

  “Exactly.”

  The Magister’s tone was almost proud. “Be careful, though. Every experiment with memory eventually becomes an experiment on the conscience. If you want...you can use this lab.”

  "Really?" Eiden asked with a sprakel in his eyes.

  "Only when I am not here." Kohler replied.

  Eiden left the chamber long after the torches had burned low.

  As he climbed back toward the throne room, the murals of dragons seemed to move in the candlelight — wings flexing, eyes half-open, as if waking from centuries of sleep.

  He reached the top and stood alone before the great doors of the Hall of Memory. Beyond them, his father dreamed of ending a war. His brothers dreamed of crowns.

  Eiden closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, the vats still glowed, pulsing softly in time with his own heart.

  He whispered to no one:

  “Maybe we don’t need dragons anymore. Maybe we just need to figure out how they were made.”