Ouyang was sunk in memory when a jarring voice cracked through it like a chipped cymbal on a quiet lake.

The Felian family and the Weihai family had been bound like braided rope for over a century, steady as winter pines in wind.

Lately, after Oritos Weihai became commander of the kingdom’s Second Legion, the Manto family pushed to knot that rope tighter, like clasping hands at a banquet.

As the Manto heir apparent, Felian got the shining task dropped on his shoulders like a ceremonial cloak.

The Weihai line, unlike the bustling Manto brood, was a thin grove—few saplings, long shadows, and worry chewing the roots.

In Yulithilis’s generation, it was only her and two male cousins; three fragile lanterns in a long hall.

Duke Weihai had only one direct child, Yulithilis, and she was a girl—an open gate to Felian’s ambition, a warm light in winter.

Felian might be the designated heir of Manto, but his seat was a boat on choppy water, not yet tied to any pier.

His brothers were wolves with bright eyes, circling, and he knew no one sleeps soundly until the chieftain’s drum beats for him.

But if he married the duke’s only daughter, then even if his brothers dazzled like comets, the duke’s face would be the anchor—his title set.

So he kept drifting toward Yulithilis whenever he had time, like a moth tracing a candle flame; in his mind, that was “building feelings.”

He heard she’d returned from training today; his heels practically sprouted wings as he hurried over, joy like a drumbeat in his chest.

Truth was, Yulithilis returned last night; Felian heard it but didn’t dare intrude at midnight, so he counted sleepless stars and came at dawn.

He was a familiar face at the ducal manor, a sparrow who knew every eave, so the guards waved him through without a blink.

He found Yulithilis—and a garden trampled like silk crushed under boots; anger flared in him like oil catching flame.

He’d done his homework for the chase; that garden was her shrine, the thread she tied her spirit to, delicate as dew on lotus.

He looked closer and saw the culprits. A one-meter lizard, scales red like embered tiles. A black cat perched on its back like a shadow.

A little girl fed the cat with both hands, soft as feeding a stray under eaves. A gopher crouched nearby, earth riddled with fresh, round holes.

“Damn it!”

Felian saw the tangle in Yulithilis’s face and felt the gallant in him swell like a peacock tail; cheer her up, win a promise—why not today?

The entry point was obvious as a loose thread: the garden wreckers.

“Get out of the garden!” He puffed himself up, sure as a rooster at dawn; couldn’t he see her brows knotted like willow leaves?

Perfect time to show off. Luck bright as noon. The girl’s back looked cute, but that didn’t blunt his hunger to perform.

He read Yulithilis’s bitten lip and thought he grasped it—she didn’t want them ruining the flowers, yet some reason gagged her.

If she couldn’t speak, he could. He planted his feet and swung the words like a baton.

“This garden isn’t your playground. Even a random bloom here costs hundreds of gold. Can you pay that bill?”

He was thrilled to have a stage, blind to the storm gathering in Yulithilis’s eyes; her face soured not at the beasts, but at this fool.

Creator God above—neither beast in that garden was simple; each was a mountain wearing grass as a hat.

After a few days together, Yulithilis had coaxed plenty from the Flame Lizard, Sarayka. Sarayka could take human shape, yet wasn’t fourth-tier.

Her strength sat at third-tier, lord-class. Her shapeshifting came from blood, not rank—a secret written in bone like a seal in wax.

Her father was Dragon King of the Flame Dragon clan; her mother was human, a spring meeting a volcano, forbidden fire touching rain.

Such unions were a taboo carved in stone; even a Dragon King couldn’t smooth that ridge by force.

At last they compromised. The elders would ignore Sarayka’s existence, but she could never set foot in Dragon Valley, as if a gate barred by mist.

Sarayka wasn’t even born yet when the scandal burned like summer drought; after peace, the Dragon King led his human wife into the Forest of Calamity.

There, in that shadowed green, Sarayka was born like a spark sheltering under thunderclouds.

Human lives are brittle as frost; after birthing Sarayka, the Dragon King’s human wife fell silent and cold.

He stayed with his daughter for a time, a red sun lingering at dusk; about ten years ago, he rushed in with a warning.

“Trouble in Dragon Valley,” he said—then vanished like a bird swallowed by fog.

Sarayka carried human blood, and her father was a fourth-tier who walked as a man; under both moons, she gained a human form early.

To be precise, she had two forms. One bore the Flame Dragon’s power, yet her human blood clipped the dragon’s canvas—no wings, no horns.

The other was human, pure and small, a child by draconic measure, her eyes bright as new leaves after rain.

Forget her father; even Sarayka’s own lord-class power could turn the human world upside down like a table in a tavern brawl.

And that black cat—mysterious as midnight wells.

Sarayka was scary, yes, but Yulithilis felt little pressure; the lizard was simple as a clear stream and easy to coax with sweets.

The black cat was different. Yulithilis couldn’t place its weight; her instincts pricked like thorns in fog.

The lizard was a child; a pat on the head worked. The cat felt like an old street fox, sly and seasoned, a grin under a hood.

From the Forest of Calamity until now, Yulithilis still couldn’t read the cat’s map; she never knew what it wanted to stir.

She thought about asking Saya, but the girl only smiled at the cat like a flower tilting toward sun and stayed winter-cold to everyone else.

For now, the cat had found a toy and played quietly among the blooms, paws light as drifting soot.

Relief first, then dread. Yulithilis had just stopped fearing an outbreak when that idiot Felian kicked the beehive.

She wanted to slap him, palm hot as summer wind. She’d barely steadied two terrifying beasts; he poked them with a stick.

If something snapped, he’d be a sinner before humankind; first the manor would burn, then the city of Raviasen would cough smoke.

Any way she counted, the Weihai family would bleed most, like a silk roll catching flame.

Too late. Felian puffed himself up, roared at the garden like a stag on a cliff, and charged, hands ready to drag someone out by the collar.

Annoyance hit Ouyang first, a cold wave. He turned and watched the clown charge with a grin, pride strutting like a crow.

Unhappy? More like a thunderhead. The moment had been warm as tea and honey, the memory tender as old sandalwood.

One rat dropping, entire stew ruined. A single off-key gong, and the festival sours.

“Meow! (Lizard brat, roast that idiot!)”

After days together, Sarayka already took the black cat as boss, the way a young wolf shadows the pack leader.

The boss spoke; she didn’t hesitate. She exhaled a jet of flame that leapt like a red banner and wrapped Felian head to heel.

“Ahhh!”

Yulithilis froze for a breath, then dread forced her hand; she gathered water into a globe, moon-clear, and slammed it onto the blaze.

Felian lay half-dead, a burnt scarecrow on dark soil; hair shriveled like singed straw, skin blistered, clothes char-black.

Ouyang watched him twitch and weighed a clean finish, a quiet blade; Yulithilis’s plea landed first, heavy as a hand on the wrist.

She wanted him gone, yes, but a corpse in her house would sprout problems like mushrooms after rain.

Ouyang meowed once and flicked his paw, a lazy fan. Toss that idiot as far as you can throw him.

“Cough… You… just wait… I… Felian will take this back…” he rasped while servants hauled him off like a broken banner.

Yulithilis hid a thumbs-up behind her sleeve, a tiny lantern of glee in the dark.

Great aggro pull. Stalked by at least two lord-class beasts, Felian was likely finished; peace would return like snow after noise.

An unintended willow, sudden shade. She’d been thinking how to shake him, and he’d marched off to provoke them for her.

She giggled as the servants carried Felian away, a silver bell half-muffled by sleeves.

The servants weren’t laughing. Their hearts clenched for Saya, a small sparrow in a hawk’s sky.

In their eyes, the Flame Lizard and the black cat came with the girl; the lizard’s outburst would bring a storm of enemies to her door.

To Ouyang, to Saya, to Sarayka, Felian wasn’t even a pebble on the path; no one spared him a heartbeat.

After he’d had his fill of play, Ouyang leapt onto a tall tree, a black leaf in high wind, and watched the manor’s roofs breathe.

In his eyes, everything inside the duke’s grounds twisted like heat-haze, lines bending and writhing like snakes under glass.

“Threads of fate cross here again and again, knotting into a snarl. Duke Weihai… let my guess be right.”