Chapter 16

Kaelya knelt first—her jet-black hair falling like a curtain across her face, her voice steady but steeped in quiet urgency.

"Lord Rosen… we have assembled here, just as you asked."

Next to her, Ignarion lowered his head, the icy weight of his glacier-carved armor creaking ever so faintly. The cold did not bother him—it never had—but even he seemed subdued under this skyless pressure.

"Lord Rosen, please bless us with your divine wisdom."

Morven, ever composed, allowed himself a rare flicker of humanity—a slight smile that never reached his eyes. His voice was calm, but carried the tension of old regrets.

"Lord Rosen… we have returned to your grace."

Then came Seraphyx.

He did not kneel. He stood still, statuesque—like something designed to be holy, but long since emptied of its flame. His pink hair drifted faintly in the unnatural stillness of the chamber, and though his skin still bore that ceremonial perfection, it no longer glowed.

There was no divine warmth.

No presence within.

Only the emptiness of a vessel waiting to be filled.

His eyes, once reflecting something greater, were now glassy—cold. Not with hatred, but with vacancy.

"Mother… please. Give us purpose once more."

His words were quiet, but they echoed with hollow longing.

And then—the fog stirred.

Not gently. Not politely.

The mist shrank back, recoiling like a wounded animal as the temperature dropped sharply, unnaturally.

From its depths emerged a shape vast enough to eclipse reality itself.

A face came forward—colossal, hauntingly majestic, and incomprehensibly old.

VlastMoroz, the true Cryo Sovereign, pushed through the veil of fog.

Her head alone was the size of a palace, yet it moved with the silence of snow falling on graves. Crowned in jagged horns like frozen constellations, her eyes burned with ancient knowledge and a terrifying stillness.

Scales shimmered with a glacial palette—ashen white, deep sapphire, and a spectral violet glow that pulsed faintly beneath her skin, like a memory refusing to fade.

She looked not at them, but through them—especially at Seraphyx.

The vessel.

The shell.

The hollow waiting to be made whole.

As her vast, ethereal mouth parted just slightly, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Her voice emerged—not loud, but so deeply resonant it vibrated through the bones of the chamber. It was cold, yes—like a winter wind that carved through skin—but beneath that frost was something older. Warmer. A mother's ache.

"Ignarion. Kaelya. Morven."

She spoke slowly, each name a verdict.

"You three… have disappointed me."

The temperature dropped. Not by degrees—by worlds. The mist recoiled further, frost cracked beneath their knees, and a crushing silence followed.

All three stiffened—hardened warriors, servants of frost and legacy—and yet, they felt like children beneath her gaze.

Chills bolted down their spines. Their hearts pounded as if trying to escape their chests. Breath caught in their throats.

A synchronized gulp echoed through the still air.

In fragile unison, voices laced with fear and shame rang out:

"Please tell us our mistakes, Lord Rosen."

That was when the great dragon leaned forward.

Her colossal, world-worn head descended like a falling moon, until her gaze was but meters from them. Her breath no longer frosted the air—it crystallized it, and yet… somehow, it didn't hurt. It lingered, cold but comforting, like a mother's palm on a fevered forehead.

But her eyes…

Those eyes broke them.

"Even now…" she said, softer, and far more terrifying,

"you address me as 'Lord Rosen'… unlike Seraphyx."

Her gaze drifted toward the silent vessel—who hadn't moved, hadn't spoken since his last words. Yet… he had called her Mother.

Not a title. Not a symbol. A truth.

"He is hollow, and yet… he remembers who I am. You three, filled with pride and power, have forgotten."

She closed her eyes briefly.

When they opened again, her next words carried sorrow so dense it hurt to hear:

"Does this form of mine… scare my children as well?"

Her voice trembled—not from weakness, but from centuries of heartbreak buried beneath her power. It rumbled with restrained anguish, like a glacier creaking before collapse.

The chamber shook with her presence, yet she did not roar.

She did not rage.

She mourned.

Seraphyx stepped forward, the gentle clink of his boots against the frost-covered stone echoing in the silence like a whisper in a cathedral. Though his body was still, his words carried a strange serenity—like snowfall under moonlight.

"Mother, please… allow me to apologize on their behalf."

His voice was calm. Unshaken.

"It's true—your current form is terrifying. Anyone who lays eyes on it would tremble from the very bottom of their soul."

He looked up at her—not flinching, not kneeling. Just honest.

But then… he smiled. Soft. Warm.

Not fake reverence—genuine love.

"But your heart, Mother… it hasn't changed. It's still the same. Still as kind and beautiful as it has always been."

The enormous dragon—Rosen—was silent. Her massive eyes, glistening with a sadness older than most civilizations, stared at the boy who had once carried her will.

And then… she sighed.

It was the sound of glaciers crumbling under the weight of memory.

"If it weren't for this form of mine," she said, voice quieter now, "I would've descended upon Arian myself… I would've held my children. Spoken to them. Laughed with them."

She turned her eyes from Seraphyx to the others, and her breath visibly trembled.

"But now… only Seraphyx does not fear me. And that's only because a fragment of my consciousness lingers within him."

She slowly pulled her massive head back, retreating into the heavens above the fog she commanded. And then—she exhaled.

A great, heaving breath.

A cloud of dense, freezing fog burst from her maw, flooding the entire chamber. It wasn't just mist—it was memory, divine power, and sorrow made manifest.

The chamber—vast beyond vision—was swallowed whole.

Nothing could be seen. Not the ceiling. Not the walls. Not even each other.

Only frost. And silence.

And then…

It cleared. Slowly. Like a dream slipping away with morning light.

She was no longer there.

No dragon.

No claws.

No wings.

In her place stood a woman.

Beautiful—but not in a way that was mortal.

Dark blue hair cascaded down her back like a river at midnight. A thick, luxurious fur coat hung from her shoulders—its folds hiding nothing beneath, yet not a trace of indecency stained the sight.

Her body radiated warmth, despite the ice that clung to the air.

Her features… resembled Seraphyx.

But where his face was divine in design, hers was something more.

More eternal.

More motherly.

More human.

Not beautiful because of appearance—

But because of essence.

The woman before them—the sovereign now clothed in mortal form—gently adjusted her fur coat, the fabric whispering against her skin. Her posture was elegant, casual even, as if she hadn't just shifted the atmosphere of the room with her presence alone.

She tilted her head, lips curling in a soft, teasing smile.

"Shall we talk now? Does this form still scare my children?"

She tugged the coat slightly tighter, as though it would help with the modesty she clearly didn't care about.

"I hope you don't mind the revealing outfit," she added, her tone playfully coy.

Seraphyx exhaled sharply.

His eyes half-lidded, his voice somewhere between exasperation and affection:

"Revealing is an understatement, Mother."

There was a moment of silence.

Then, at last… a collective sigh.

The air shifted. Lighter now. Less suffocating.

Kaelya, Ignarion, and Morven all slowly raised their heads, tension melting from their shoulders as if they had just been pulled from the depths of a frozen lake.

"Thank you, Mother… for showing us mercy." Morven's voice was quiet, humbled.

Kaelya placed a hand over her chest, eyes finally meeting Rosen's.

"It's true… your dragon form is terrifying beyond measure. We didn't mean disrespect. It's just… impossible to look at without feeling like our souls are unraveling."

Ignarion, ever the analyst, squinted slightly at their surroundings. His breath came more evenly now.

"This illusion… it's nothing like Seraphyx's. It's not just the environment that's shifted—

—you've changed us from within. Our emotions. Our instincts. Our fear itself."

He looked at her with reverence. "This is power far beyond illusion. This is… divine empathy."

Rosen's smile faded just slightly, a flicker of something more somber crossing her eyes.

She looked down at her own hands—slender, human, familiar—and then let her gaze drift toward the chamber walls that still shimmered faintly with lingering fog.

"I would've chosen this form long ago… but as you all know…"

Her voice dimmed. Not weak. But weighed down by memory.

"…after that war, I lost the ability to shift freely."

A pause. Short, but profound.

The sorrow wasn't in her tone—it was in her restraint. She wasn't grieving the power she lost.

She was grieving the time she hadn't spent with her children in this form.

Seraphyx, Kaelya, Ignarion, and Morven lowered their heads again—not in fear, but in quiet understanding.

"We understand, Mother."

They said it together.