Oren couldn’t tear his eyes away from the girl.

She approached step by step, silvery hair like liquid tassels spilling over her chest, her skirt fluttering in the wind. When her gaze met Oren’s, her beautiful eyes seemed to bloom like flowers unfurling—shimmering with colors too vivid to name.

Oren froze, slowly lowering the toy in his hands to the ground. Though only three years old, some primal instinct—or perhaps the girl’s unearthly grace—rooted him in place. He stared at her face as if it were the only thing worth seeing in his entire life.

When she finally stood before him, she offered a wry smile and gently ruffled his hair. Her voice, crisp and soft, carried a whisper:

"Seems I’ve laid eyes on you first."

Before Oren could react, she patted his head again and asked,

"Is your father here?"

Oren didn’t move. But moments later, the door behind him burst open. A finely dressed man and woman stepped out. The woman called to Oren,

"Oren, we’re leaving soon— Who’s this?"

Oren turned, shrinking slightly as he replied,

"Mom, this sister is—"

"Princess Dysaia of the Silver Dragons."

The girl cut him off, bowing gracefully to the couple with a serene smile.

"Hello, Duke Rodni. Twenty years since we last met."

At her words, the duke’s face drained of color. After a long pause, he wiped sweat from his brow, yanked his hand from his wife’s grip, and bolted back into the house. His wife stared after him, bewildered.

"Where are you going?!"

"He likely needs time to face reality," Dysaia murmured politely. "But regardless—I must claim my due."

"Due?" The woman yanked Oren close, eyes sharp with suspicion. "What due? Who *are* you? Do you even know who you’re speaking to?"

Dysaia remained poised. "Of course, Duchess. I know House Rodni’s power well..." She paused, then continued, "But your family’s rise? That was granted by *my* mercy."

Her words landed like ice. The duchess’s face twisted. Then she laughed sharply, glaring at Dysaia as if at a fool.

"Preposterous! Everyone knows House Rodni’s glory! My husband braved the Dragon Ruins in the continent’s heart, offering its treasures to His Majesty! You claim *mercy*? You’re just—"

She choked off. A flicker of memory surfaced—the strange surname the girl had used. She shoved it away, refusing to recall.

Dysaia’s smile deepened. "You remember now, don’t you? I am Dysaia. Princess of the Silver Dragons. The Eternal Vigilant."

As she stepped forward, the duchess stumbled back, clutching Oren until her shoulders hit the wall.

"Your husband trespassed into my palace," Dysaia said calmly. "He wept before my throne, begging for aid. Out of mercy, I let him take a few trinkets. In return, he swore an oath."

"Oath?" The duchess’s voice trembled.

"Yes. Having nothing else to offer, he pledged this: *‘Twenty years from now, the first thing I see upon entering my home shall be my payment to you.’*"

"No!" The duchess locked her arms around Oren, screaming. "You can’t take my son! Nothing—not *anything*—will let you take him!"

Dysaia’s expression didn’t waver. "I’m sorry, madam. His oath was bound by draconic magic. Break it, and your tongue is forfeit. Break it *after* losing your tongue? The magic tears you apart from within."

"Lies!" The duke reappeared in the doorway, hefting a meter-long longsword. He swung it between his family and Dysaia, roaring, "You tricked me! You chose this moment to steal my son! I won’t allow it!"

"Your Grace," Dysaia said evenly, "you set the terms. Where is the trickery? I fulfilled your wish—you rose to glory. Now—"

"Foul sorcery!" The duke swung his blade down hard.

Dysaia sighed. "Humans... can’t even keep their word?"

***CRACK!***

A glowing silver rune-barrier materialized, halting the sword mid-strike. Light flared—blinding, ancient. The duke gasped.

"That’s the—"

***SPLUT!***

Blood erupted from his mouth. He collapsed, coughing violently. His tongue tumbled onto the floor, etched with the same fading rune.

"Your Grace," Dysaia said softly, "had I schemed to take your son, *my* tongue would’ve been severed." She showed her own—marked identically.

Gagging on blood, the duke clawed at his ruined mouth, spitting incoherent curses. Dysaia shook her head sadly and turned toward Oren.

"Humans... After millennia, you never cease to disappoint me."

The duchess clutched Oren tighter, shrieking through tears:

"No! Please! For a mother’s sake—I have a daughter! Only a month old! Take *her*! Spare my son! House Rodni *needs* him! The family *needs* him!"

Dysaia raised her hand, voice gentle but firm.

"I deeply regret this. But the oath stands. I beg you—don’t make this courtyard run red." She added quietly, almost to herself, "And once I claim your son... I cannot abandon him. Our bond continues. If I break it, the magic claims *me* too."

"Over my dead body!" the duchess spat.

Dysaia bowed slightly. "As you wish."

Her hand reached out—

Oren wrenched free. He darted past his mother and stood before Dysaia, small but resolute.

"I’ll go with you." His voice didn’t waver. "Just don’t hurt my mom!"

Dysaia stared. Then she straightened, a faint, wondering smile touching her lips.

"Humans... How does a child so noble become an adult?"

She turned to leave. "Come. Dawn approaches. I’ll return to my palace by morning."

Oren nodded, trotting after her. His mother seized his wrist, whispering fiercely:

"Don’t be afraid, Oren! We’ll rally every soldier in the domain tomorrow! Your father is Duke Rodni! No one defies House Rodni and walks away!"

The boy hugged her tightly, murmuring into her ear:

"Thank you, Mom. Stay safe."

He ran to his father next, cradling the bloodied face against his small chest.

"You too, Dad. Stay safe."

Releasing him, Oren followed Dysaia down the dirt path. He glanced back once.

His family’s castle rose like a mountain against the sky.

His mother’s sobs. His father’s bloodied mouth.

They became phantoms that haunted him for the rest of his life.