Bethany stood on the edge of the sprawling marble terrace. Her gaze swept over the Eighth Terrace estate that now bore her name. Grounds were a masterpiece of manicured perfection; rows of glowing moon-lilies swayed in the artificial breeze, and silver-leafed trees cast long, elegant shadows across paths of crushed pearl.
Beyond the lavish gardens sat a set of pristine stables and a private caretaker's cottage, all enclosed within a perimeter that promised a silence she had never known in the House of Reni.
Her heart soared with a dizzying sense of relief. This was hers—a free space, isolated from the suffocating weight of her father's presence and his endless rantings about her duty. No longer would she have to weigh her every word against his volatile temper.
A small, sudden thump in her chest made her pause. Was this worth her loyalty to the Guild? She pursed her lips, the mercantile side of her brain turning the question over like a rare coin. She had never planned on being disloyal; she had been a devoted tamer even before the hydra hunt. Now, it seemed even her loyalty had a price, and that price was the very freedom she breathed.
She turned and stepped through the tall glass doors of the manor. The interior smelled of fresh cedar and expensive wax. A Guild-appointed attendant waited in the foyer, bowing low as she approached.
"Could a missive be sent to my auntie, Teirelle Merborn?" Bethany asked. Her voice gained a new, steady authority. "I wish to extend an invitation for her to become Governess of my estate. If she accepts, see to her transportation and get her settled in the caretaker's cottage. Ensure a missive is also sent to my parents to secure my things and transport them here for me."
"I'll see to it immediately, Lady Reni," the attendant replied.
Bethany climbed the winding staircase to the fifth floor. Her boots were silent on the plush runners. The master suite was vast, dominated by a massive bed draped in sea-foam silk and a bath carved from a single block of translucent jade. In the corner, standing like a silent sentry, was a mannequin.
She approached it, her eyes widening. Someone had attached a note to the chest piece.
Lady Reni, may this aid you in your next mission. If I may ask a favor? Offer care or advice to Lord Sî'Nareus during this transition. ~Alric.
She looked at the gift. It was a set of light laminar armor, crafted from the golden-flecked hydra bone they had harvested from the lake. The material was impossibly light yet harder than steel, shimmering with an iridescent luster. Beside it rested a bow carved from the same bone, its limbs reinforced with hydra sinew, and a quiver of arrows that hummed with latent power.
Yes, she thought. Her fingers traced the smooth, lethal curves of the bow. It was a deal well made.
A flash of gold caught her eye through the window. Ashara was spiraling over the garden, her wings catching the sun-crystal light as she chased a cluster of glow-motes. Beyond the dragon, Bethany noticed a figure approaching the gate.
He moved with a stride that was familiar yet transformed. The young man wore a full set of golden hydra laminar that gleamed with a predatory brilliance, and the Shadow-Twilight spear held firmly in his hand.
Bethany made a small sound of interest; her breath hitched as she watched him. The smith's son was gone, replaced by a man who looked every bit the high-terrace lord. She bit her lip, a flush warming her cheeks as she watched his steady approach.
Lord Sî'Nareus had arrived at her gate.
Regulus paced beside Crispin. His senses vibrated with a dense, shimmering interest that the lower terraces had never provided. The Eighth Terrace was a flood of life and high-frequency movement; data streams of scent, heat, and vibration washed over his iridescent scales in a constant, complex tide.
He leaned in and rubbed his massive head against Crispin's thigh. The contact was grounding. The golden gleam of the new hydra laminar armor felt right to Regulus; it was a structural match to his own iridescent mane—a visual declaration that the Tamer and the Sovereign were becoming a singular, cohesive force.
Crispin walked with a new cadence—purposeful and heavy. He no longer carried the frantic frequency of a boy worried about coppers or leaking troughs. He looked more armored than he ever had in the past, protected by both the Guild's steel and the weight of his name.
A sharp distortion cut through the ambient scent of jasmine. Regulus's nostrils flared. Necrotoxin. He sniffed again, his internal processors locking onto the cold, oily signature he remembered from the Shadow-Thicket.
"What's wrong?" Crispin asked. His hand dropped instinctively to the Shadow-Twilight spear. "What are you sensing?"
Regulus sent a steady, cooling pulse through the bond to keep Crispin's heart rate from spiking. "Something worth tracking," he rumbled through the Shadowmane's throat. "Focus."
He continued to scan the surrounding plaza as they moved. Two humanoids stopped to track their progress—Lucien and Therone. Their respective black and white dragons were engaged in a low-altitude sparring match; wings snapped and embers drifted to the stone. Crispin glanced at them for a heartbeat, his expression neutral, before refocusing his attention forward.
"Strong partnership," Crispin noted quietly.
"Bethany better pair," Regulus replied.
Crispin let out a soft chuckle, a warmth blooming in his chest that Regulus felt as a rosy glow across the bond. "She is."
Regulus watched Therone as they passed. The other tamer's biology was a pillar of calm data. He drew in a deep breath, sampling the air around the two boys. No. The necrotoxin scent did not originate from them. He would archive the data and wait until after the expedition to the Wetlands before warning Crispin. There were too many variables on the terraces to hunt a ghost just yet.
"Three days, you said?" Regulus asked.
"Yeah," Crispin replied. His grip tightened on his gear. "We are being sent to trace a mythical creature being hunted. We have to document all sightings and traces, and most importantly, prevent its harm."
Regulus let out a low huff of approval; his golden mane bristled. "Good. Keep mythical safe."
"That's the goal, buddy," Crispin said, his voice steady with the weight of legacy. "It is our first official directive. Serve and protect."