One touch to soothe the storm. One soul to bind a dynasty. To save her family’s crumbling Mage Tower, 19-year-old Lyra Vane accepts a lethal commission at the storm-shrouded Blackstone Manor. Her payment? A pouch of Dragon Blood Crystals—enough to buy a kingdom. Her task? To survive as the Soul-Weaver for a "Sacred Hatchling," a dragon-blooded infant whose volatile magic has torn every previous nurturer to pieces. While the Duke’s brothers—the suspicious Inquisitor and the predatory Illusionist—watch her with daggers and deceit, Lyra ignores the shadows. Using her rare "Mana Threading," she does the impossible: she tames the untameable. Under her touch, apocalyptic storms turn into gentle sighs, and the manor’s dying nobility find new life. Soon, the very family that loathed her now refuses to let her go. As rival sovereigns send gryphon knights to snatch the miracle weaver at any cost, the Blackwoods bare their fangs. "The crown can be taken," the Duke declares, "but the Weaver stays." In the moonlit sanctum, Archduke Silas—the cold "Dragon Slayer" himself—corners Lyra, offering not more crystals, but an Eternal Blood Oath. "You have tamed the storm in the cradle, Lyra," he whispers, his own forbidden magic spiraling out of control. "Now, what of the monster who has waited three hundred years for your touch?"

Chapter 1"Strip.""Leave not a single thread."The arched ceiling of the grand hall pulsed with an unforgiving, glacial magic. Martha struck her cold-iron cane against the obsidian floor, issuing the command to the gathered hopefuls.Lyra Vane stood rigid, her fingertips slick with freezing sweat.This was the Night-Star Empire's most coveted selection for a Soul-Weaver. None had anticipated that stepping into Blackstone Manor—a fortress suspended within the howling abyssal storms of the far north—would demand such immediate humiliation. They were to be scoured by raw abyssal magic.Any lingering scent of inferior potions meant instant banishment. A cheap contract brand on the flesh? Banishment. Several apprentice mages had already snatched up their cloaks, spitting curses into the shadows as they fled.Once the heir to a fallen mage tower, Lyra knew the biting sting of the gutter well. House Blackwood ruled the Night-Star Empire with ruthless authority. Their newborns carried the volatile Abyssal Dragon Blood, rendering their demands for a Soul-Weaver dangerously absolute.She needed the monthly bounty of Pure Dragon-Blood Crystals. It eclipsed the meager coppers she scraped together mending fractured magical artifacts by fourfold.Confirming the armored guards had vacated the hall, Lyra untied her sash. The coarse, threadbare linen fell to her ankles.Martha prowled closer. The housekeeper’s scanning crystal glided from Lyra’s collarbone down to her calves. Her flesh remained flawless, untainted by dark residue, glowing only with the pristine, golden veins of a Hand of Sacred Light."You pass."Five hundred candidates had entered. Barely a hundred remained.Martha ascended the obsidian dais, her voice cracking like a whip."At two o'clock, Lord Cassian will oversee the trial personally!""The test: Magical Resistance and Soul Resonance. Only ten will survive the cut!"A feverish murmur swept through the naked crowd. Everyone in the Night-Star Empire knew of Lord Cassian. As the ruthless commander of the Secret Police, rumors claimed he tore high-tier abyssal beasts apart with his bare hands. His magic teetered on the razor's edge of madness, forever trailing the metallic stench of blood and frost.The women whispered, their eyes alight with a dark, desperate hunger."If I could just catch Lord Cassian's eye, I'd willingly serve as his blood-thrall!""I'm changing into my corset woven with succubus runes."The throng surged blindly toward the teleportation circle. Lyra slipped away, bracing herself against the freezing gales as she vanished into the Blackwood pine forest.Pressing her back against a jagged trunk, she retrieved a hidden scrying stone. The crystal flared to life. In a drafty, crumbling stone tower, her twin sister lay motionless. Flora Vane stared at nothing, her wrists shackled in heavy, magic-suppressing iron. She looked like a hollowed-out alchemy puppet.A phantom fist crushed Lyra's heart.Three years ago, to save the exorbitant toll of a teleportation gate, Flora had walked the desolate ash-wastes. An abyssal beast had shredded her soul-meridians into ribbons.Their estranged father had offered nothing but scorn, leaving Flora’s soul to rot in the abyss-blight. To suppress the violent magical seizures, Lyra had no choice but to chain her sister, working herself to the bone repairing broken artifacts day and night.If she secured the Pure Dragon-Blood Crystals, she could buy back their ancestral mage tower. She could finally bathe Flora in a sacred, untainted sanctuary.Lyra brushed the accumulating frost from her lashes and pulled her faded cloak tighter against the biting wind. She would seal this brutal Blood-Oath Marriage Contract—or die trying.Two o'clock.The second trial grounds lay upon the tempest-swept lawns directly before Blackstone Manor’s colossal iron gates.Violent winds whipped frost into a blinding frenzy. Above, the manor's floating central spire fractured the bruised, sunless sky with an icy luminescence. The remaining candidates stood rigid on the sprawling black-quartz grounds, their very breath solidifying in the sub-zero air.They had draped themselves in fortune and silk. Some wore dresses of night-spider silk pulled tight enough to crack ribs, while others showcased shimmering elven light-armor. A vibrant, desperate garden of vanity, each woman hungering for a single glance from Lord Cassian.Lyra drifted to the absolute rear of the formation.Martha stood atop the grand stairs, a statue of severe authority."The second trial commences. Unleash your soul resonance."A ripple of profound disappointment swept through the ranks. Where was the promised Lord of the Secret Police?Lyra tilted her head back. Her gaze pierced the blizzard, locking onto the seventh-tier balcony of the central spire. There, a towering silhouette bled into the gloom.He leaned against the stone balustrade, one gloved hand gripping the gargoyle-carved railing. The gale tore at his pitch-black military coat. He projected no active aura, yet the suffocating stench of fresh carnage and abyssal frost slammed into their chests like an anvil.Lyra snapped her eyes to the frosted stone at her boots. Martha’s crystalline slate flickered with a cruel, blue light."First row, crimson robes. Advance.""Third row, shadow cloak. Advance."The ambient magic thickening the air grew suffocating. Nine names called. Nine slots filled. One remained.Lyra curled her numb fingers into white-knuckled fists. Flora’s soul was fraying into dust. She could not fail. As Martha’s predatory gaze swept the crowd one final time, Lyra broke rank. Her voice shattered the howling blizzard."Housekeeper Martha. I offer myself."A hundred pairs of eyes impaled her like poisoned daggers. Amidst the sea of decadent silks and shimmering enchantments, Lyra stood in a weathered, anti-magic cloak. Beneath it, she wore a shapeless, ash-grey cotton tunic. Her hair was ruthlessly pinned back by a splintering wooden hairpin, devoid of any allure.The women sneered, their contempt a palpable venom in the air.Martha’s voice dripped with icy disdain. "What is the meaning of these rags?"Lyra dipped into a shallow, perfect curtsy. "I am auditioning as a Soul-Weaver to soothe a dragonling, not an Illusionist peddling seduction.""This tunic bears no jagged runic engravings. The fabric is soft; it will not snag on the infant’s scales. My hair is bound tightly to prevent rogue strands from sparking a static eruption within the ambient magic.""The survival of the Dragonling Heir vastly outweighs a Weaver’s vanity."A collective gasp of sheer, acidic jealousy rippled through the onlookers.Lyra kept her gaze lowered. Stripped of the wealth to buy enchanted armor, she wagered her life on absolute, cold logic.High upon the central balcony, Lord Cassian’s abyssal gaze cleaved through the storm, locking onto the solitary patch of ash-grey."For the safety of the heir?"His dark, gravelly murmur carried the bite of shattered ice, sending a visible shudder through the elite shadow-guards flanking him. A drab cloth devoid of magic, masking a razor-sharp tongue. She played the part far better than the perfumed whores reeking of lust potions below.A pity the ruthless calculation in her eyes bled through the facade. A clumsy disguise, paraded directly beneath the nose of the Secret Police.The final ten were marched into a cavernous hall paved in liquid obsidian.Martha’s voice struck like an iron anvil. "The finale. You will demonstrate your Soul-Weaving before Duchess Vivienne and his Lordship. Three minutes each. Only one remains!"Thunderous, synchronized footsteps echoed from the vaulted corridors. Ten shadow-guards, encased in dread-plate armor, marched forward. Each carried a metallic cradle wrapped in hissing, magic-dampening chains.The candidates inhaled sharp, panicked breaths. Suppress ten violently volatile cradles? In three minutes?Crystal sentinels levitated into the gloom above, their mechanical, frost-blue pupils mapping every tremor in the women's magical veins. To the right, a teleportation array flared with blinding violet light. The ruling elite stepped forth.Leading them was a matriarch draped in dark-gold plumage. Her gaze was a honed ice-blade—Duchess Vivienne.Beside her walked the Lord of the Secret Police. He wore a severe, pitch-black military uniform, the high collar fastened by a glinting silver clasp. An abyssal, suffocating weight bled from his every step. The hall’s magical lanterns actually dimmed in submission to his presence.Lyra’s eyes locked with his for a fraction of a second. A visceral, primal terror seized the very core of her soul. Trailing behind them, an elderly steward cradled a heavily warded bundle. From within the barriers, the Dragonling Heir let out a wet, agonizing shriek."Duchess Vivienne. Lord Cassian."The guards and servants crashed to one knee in absolute unison. The remaining candidates hastily bowed their heads, their hearts hammering like caged birds.The sharp, rhythmic clack of heels echoed against the marble. Duchess Vivienne halted before the first candidate. She raised a hand heavy with a Blood-Dragon signet ring.A brutal slap cracked through the hall, sending the woman sprawling to the floor."Energy-channeling crystals embedded in your soles? Are you actively trying to trigger my grandson's magical backlash? You lack the barest sliver of common sense, yet you dare claim the title of Soul-Weaver?"She pivoted to the second woman. Another vicious backhand."Reeking of lust potions! Who are you trying to bed? If those alchemical toxins seeped into the heir's scales, casting your worthless corpse into the Abyss wouldn't cover the debt!""And you!"The third blow leveled a woman whose robes were slit to the thigh."Dressed like a tavern whore! Peddling your flesh in my halls!"Three strikes. Fast, merciless, and dripping with authority. The metallic tang of blood bloomed in the stale air. The surviving candidates turned a sickly ash-white, violently trembling. A bag of Pure Dragon-Blood Crystals was meaningless if they didn't live to spend it.Lyra clasped her hands over her stomach, commanding her frantic pulse to slow. The unhurried, predatory footsteps resumed. Finally, they stopped mere inches from Lyra's boots.Chapter 2"Strip.""Leave not a single thread."The arched ceiling of the grand hall pulsed with an unforgiving, glacial magic. Martha struck her cold-iron cane against the obsidian floor, issuing the command to the gathered hopefuls.Lyra Vane stood rigid, her fingertips slick with freezing sweat.This was the Night-Star Empire's most coveted selection for a Soul-Weaver. None had anticipated that stepping into Blackstone Manor—a fortress suspended within the howling abyssal storms of the far north—would demand such immediate humiliation. They were to be scoured by raw abyssal magic.Any lingering scent of inferior potions meant instant banishment. A cheap contract brand on the flesh? Banishment. Several apprentice mages had already snatched up their cloaks, spitting curses into the shadows as they fled.Once the heir to a fallen mage tower, Lyra knew the biting sting of the gutter well. House Blackwood ruled the Night-Star Empire with ruthless authority. Their newborns carried the volatile Abyssal Dragon Blood, rendering their demands for a Soul-Weaver dangerously absolute.She needed the monthly bounty of Pure Dragon-Blood Crystals. It eclipsed the meager coppers she scraped together mending fractured magical artifacts by fourfold.Confirming the armored guards had vacated the hall, Lyra untied her sash. The coarse, threadbare linen fell to her ankles.Martha prowled closer. The housekeeper’s scanning crystal glided from Lyra’s collarbone down to her calves. Her flesh remained flawless, untainted by dark residue, glowing only with the pristine, golden veins of a Hand of Sacred Light."You pass."Five hundred candidates had entered. Barely a hundred remained.Martha ascended the obsidian dais, her voice cracking like a whip."At two o'clock, Lord Cassian will oversee the trial personally!""The test: Magical Resistance and Soul Resonance. Only ten will survive the cut!"A feverish murmur swept through the naked crowd. Everyone in the Night-Star Empire knew of Lord Cassian. As the ruthless commander of the Secret Police, rumors claimed he tore high-tier abyssal beasts apart with his bare hands. His magic teetered on the razor's edge of madness, forever trailing the metallic stench of blood and frost.The women whispered, their eyes alight with a dark, desperate hunger."If I could just catch Lord Cassian's eye, I'd willingly serve as his blood-thrall!""I'm changing into my corset woven with succubus runes."The throng surged blindly toward the teleportation circle. Lyra slipped away, bracing herself against the freezing gales as she vanished into the Blackwood pine forest.Pressing her back against a jagged trunk, she retrieved a hidden scrying stone. The crystal flared to life. In a drafty, crumbling stone tower, her twin sister lay motionless. Flora Vane stared at nothing, her wrists shackled in heavy, magic-suppressing iron. She looked like a hollowed-out alchemy puppet.A phantom fist crushed Lyra's heart.Three years ago, to save the exorbitant toll of a teleportation gate, Flora had walked the desolate ash-wastes. An abyssal beast had shredded her soul-meridians into ribbons.Their estranged father had offered nothing but scorn, leaving Flora’s soul to rot in the abyss-blight. To suppress the violent magical seizures, Lyra had no choice but to chain her sister, working herself to the bone repairing broken artifacts day and night.If she secured the Pure Dragon-Blood Crystals, she could buy back their ancestral mage tower. She could finally bathe Flora in a sacred, untainted sanctuary.Lyra brushed the accumulating frost from her lashes and pulled her faded cloak tighter against the biting wind. She would seal this brutal Blood-Oath Marriage Contract—or die trying.Two o'clock.The second trial grounds lay upon the tempest-swept lawns directly before Blackstone Manor’s colossal iron gates.Violent winds whipped frost into a blinding frenzy. Above, the manor's floating central spire fractured the bruised, sunless sky with an icy luminescence. The remaining candidates stood rigid on the sprawling black-quartz grounds, their very breath solidifying in the sub-zero air.They had draped themselves in fortune and silk. Some wore dresses of night-spider silk pulled tight enough to crack ribs, while others showcased shimmering elven light-armor. A vibrant, desperate garden of vanity, each woman hungering for a single glance from Lord Cassian.Lyra drifted to the absolute rear of the formation.Martha stood atop the grand stairs, a statue of severe authority."The second trial commences. Unleash your soul resonance."A ripple of profound disappointment swept through the ranks. Where was the promised Lord of the Secret Police?Lyra tilted her head back. Her gaze pierced the blizzard, locking onto the seventh-tier balcony of the central spire. There, a towering silhouette bled into the gloom.He leaned against the stone balustrade, one gloved hand gripping the gargoyle-carved railing. The gale tore at his pitch-black military coat. He projected no active aura, yet the suffocating stench of fresh carnage and abyssal frost slammed into their chests like an anvil.Lyra snapped her eyes to the frosted stone at her boots. Martha’s crystalline slate flickered with a cruel, blue light."First row, crimson robes. Advance.""Third row, shadow cloak. Advance."The ambient magic thickening the air grew suffocating. Nine names called. Nine slots filled. One remained.Lyra curled her numb fingers into white-knuckled fists. Flora’s soul was fraying into dust. She could not fail. As Martha’s predatory gaze swept the crowd one final time, Lyra broke rank. Her voice shattered the howling blizzard."Housekeeper Martha. I offer myself."A hundred pairs of eyes impaled her like poisoned daggers. Amidst the sea of decadent silks and shimmering enchantments, Lyra stood in a weathered, anti-magic cloak. Beneath it, she wore a shapeless, ash-grey cotton tunic. Her hair was ruthlessly pinned back by a splintering wooden hairpin, devoid of any allure.The women sneered, their contempt a palpable venom in the air.Martha’s voice dripped with icy disdain. "What is the meaning of these rags?"Lyra dipped into a shallow, perfect curtsy. "I am auditioning as a Soul-Weaver to soothe a dragonling, not an Illusionist peddling seduction.""This tunic bears no jagged runic engravings. The fabric is soft; it will not snag on the infant’s scales. My hair is bound tightly to prevent rogue strands from sparking a static eruption within the ambient magic.""The survival of the Dragonling Heir vastly outweighs a Weaver’s vanity."A collective gasp of sheer, acidic jealousy rippled through the onlookers.Lyra kept her gaze lowered. Stripped of the wealth to buy enchanted armor, she wagered her life on absolute, cold logic.High upon the central balcony, Lord Cassian’s abyssal gaze cleaved through the storm, locking onto the solitary patch of ash-grey."For the safety of the heir?"His dark, gravelly murmur carried the bite of shattered ice, sending a visible shudder through the elite shadow-guards flanking him. A drab cloth devoid of magic, masking a razor-sharp tongue. She played the part far better than the perfumed whores reeking of lust potions below.A pity the ruthless calculation in her eyes bled through the facade. A clumsy disguise, paraded directly beneath the nose of the Secret Police.The final ten were marched into a cavernous hall paved in liquid obsidian.Martha’s voice struck like an iron anvil. "The finale. You will demonstrate your Soul-Weaving before Duchess Vivienne and his Lordship. Three minutes each. Only one remains!"Thunderous, synchronized footsteps echoed from the vaulted corridors. Ten shadow-guards, encased in dread-plate armor, marched forward. Each carried a metallic cradle wrapped in hissing, magic-dampening chains.The candidates inhaled sharp, panicked breaths. Suppress ten violently volatile cradles? In three minutes?Crystal sentinels levitated into the gloom above, their mechanical, frost-blue pupils mapping every tremor in the women's magical veins. To the right, a teleportation array flared with blinding violet light. The ruling elite stepped forth.Leading them was a matriarch draped in dark-gold plumage. Her gaze was a honed ice-blade—Duchess Vivienne.Beside her walked the Lord of the Secret Police. He wore a severe, pitch-black military uniform, the high collar fastened by a glinting silver clasp. An abyssal, suffocating weight bled from his every step. The hall’s magical lanterns actually dimmed in submission to his presence.Lyra’s eyes locked with his for a fraction of a second. A visceral, primal terror seized the very core of her soul. Trailing behind them, an elderly steward cradled a heavily warded bundle. From within the barriers, the Dragonling Heir let out a wet, agonizing shriek."Duchess Vivienne. Lord Cassian."The guards and servants crashed to one knee in absolute unison. The remaining candidates hastily bowed their heads, their hearts hammering like caged birds.The sharp, rhythmic clack of heels echoed against the marble. Duchess Vivienne halted before the first candidate. She raised a hand heavy with a Blood-Dragon signet ring.A brutal slap cracked through the hall, sending the woman sprawling to the floor."Energy-channeling crystals embedded in your soles? Are you actively trying to trigger my grandson's magical backlash? You lack the barest sliver of common sense, yet you dare claim the title of Soul-Weaver?"She pivoted to the second woman. Another vicious backhand."Reeking of lust potions! Who are you trying to bed? If those alchemical toxins seeped into the heir's scales, casting your worthless corpse into the Abyss wouldn't cover the debt!""And you!"The third blow leveled a woman whose robes were slit to the thigh."Dressed like a tavern whore! Peddling your flesh in my halls!"Three strikes. Fast, merciless, and dripping with authority. The metallic tang of blood bloomed in the stale air. The surviving candidates turned a sickly ash-white, violently trembling. A bag of Pure Dragon-Blood Crystals was meaningless if they didn't live to spend it.Lyra clasped her hands over her stomach, commanding her frantic pulse to slow. The unhurried, predatory footsteps resumed. Finally, they stopped mere inches from Lyra's boots.Chapter 3"Strip.""Leave not a single thread."The arched ceiling of the grand hall pulsed with an unforgiving, glacial magic. Martha struck her cold-iron cane against the obsidian floor, issuing the command to the gathered hopefuls.Lyra Vane stood rigid, her fingertips slick with freezing sweat.This was the Night-Star Empire's most coveted selection for a Soul-Weaver. None had anticipated that stepping into Blackstone Manor—a fortress suspended within the howling abyssal storms of the far north—would demand such immediate humiliation. They were to be scoured by raw abyssal magic.Any lingering scent of inferior potions meant instant banishment. A cheap contract brand on the flesh? Banishment. Several apprentice mages had already snatched up their cloaks, spitting curses into the shadows as they fled.Once the heir to a fallen mage tower, Lyra knew the biting sting of the gutter well. House Blackwood ruled the Night-Star Empire with ruthless authority. Their newborns carried the volatile Abyssal Dragon Blood, rendering their demands for a Soul-Weaver dangerously absolute.She needed the monthly bounty of Pure Dragon-Blood Crystals. It eclipsed the meager coppers she scraped together mending fractured magical artifacts by fourfold.Confirming the armored guards had vacated the hall, Lyra untied her sash. The coarse, threadbare linen fell to her ankles.Martha prowled closer. The housekeeper’s scanning crystal glided from Lyra’s collarbone down to her calves. Her flesh remained flawless, untainted by dark residue, glowing only with the pristine, golden veins of a Hand of Sacred Light."You pass."Five hundred candidates had entered. Barely a hundred remained.Martha ascended the obsidian dais, her voice cracking like a whip."At two o'clock, Lord Cassian will oversee the trial personally!""The test: Magical Resistance and Soul Resonance. Only ten will survive the cut!"A feverish murmur swept through the naked crowd. Everyone in the Night-Star Empire knew of Lord Cassian. As the ruthless commander of the Secret Police, rumors claimed he tore high-tier abyssal beasts apart with his bare hands. His magic teetered on the razor's edge of madness, forever trailing the metallic stench of blood and frost.The women whispered, their eyes alight with a dark, desperate hunger."If I could just catch Lord Cassian's eye, I'd willingly serve as his blood-thrall!""I'm changing into my corset woven with succubus runes."The throng surged blindly toward the teleportation circle. Lyra slipped away, bracing herself against the freezing gales as she vanished into the Blackwood pine forest.Pressing her back against a jagged trunk, she retrieved a hidden scrying stone. The crystal flared to life. In a drafty, crumbling stone tower, her twin sister lay motionless. Flora Vane stared at nothing, her wrists shackled in heavy, magic-suppressing iron. She looked like a hollowed-out alchemy puppet.A phantom fist crushed Lyra's heart.Three years ago, to save the exorbitant toll of a teleportation gate, Flora had walked the desolate ash-wastes. An abyssal beast had shredded her soul-meridians into ribbons.Their estranged father had offered nothing but scorn, leaving Flora’s soul to rot in the abyss-blight. To suppress the violent magical seizures, Lyra had no choice but to chain her sister, working herself to the bone repairing broken artifacts day and night.If she secured the Pure Dragon-Blood Crystals, she could buy back their ancestral mage tower. She could finally bathe Flora in a sacred, untainted sanctuary.Lyra brushed the accumulating frost from her lashes and pulled her faded cloak tighter against the biting wind. She would seal this brutal Blood-Oath Marriage Contract—or die trying.Two o'clock.The second trial grounds lay upon the tempest-swept lawns directly before Blackstone Manor’s colossal iron gates.Violent winds whipped frost into a blinding frenzy. Above, the manor's floating central spire fractured the bruised, sunless sky with an icy luminescence. The remaining candidates stood rigid on the sprawling black-quartz grounds, their very breath solidifying in the sub-zero air.They had draped themselves in fortune and silk. Some wore dresses of night-spider silk pulled tight enough to crack ribs, while others showcased shimmering elven light-armor. A vibrant, desperate garden of vanity, each woman hungering for a single glance from Lord Cassian.Lyra drifted to the absolute rear of the formation.Martha stood atop the grand stairs, a statue of severe authority."The second trial commences. Unleash your soul resonance."A ripple of profound disappointment swept through the ranks. Where was the promised Lord of the Secret Police?Lyra tilted her head back. Her gaze pierced the blizzard, locking onto the seventh-tier balcony of the central spire. There, a towering silhouette bled into the gloom.He leaned against the stone balustrade, one gloved hand gripping the gargoyle-carved railing. The gale tore at his pitch-black military coat. He projected no active aura, yet the suffocating stench of fresh carnage and abyssal frost slammed into their chests like an anvil.Lyra snapped her eyes to the frosted stone at her boots. Martha’s crystalline slate flickered with a cruel, blue light."First row, crimson robes. Advance.""Third row, shadow cloak. Advance."The ambient magic thickening the air grew suffocating. Nine names called. Nine slots filled. One remained.Lyra curled her numb fingers into white-knuckled fists. Flora’s soul was fraying into dust. She could not fail. As Martha’s predatory gaze swept the crowd one final time, Lyra broke rank. Her voice shattered the howling blizzard."Housekeeper Martha. I offer myself."A hundred pairs of eyes impaled her like poisoned daggers. Amidst the sea of decadent silks and shimmering enchantments, Lyra stood in a weathered, anti-magic cloak. Beneath it, she wore a shapeless, ash-grey cotton tunic. Her hair was ruthlessly pinned back by a splintering wooden hairpin, devoid of any allure.The women sneered, their contempt a palpable venom in the air.Martha’s voice dripped with icy disdain. "What is the meaning of these rags?"Lyra dipped into a shallow, perfect curtsy. "I am auditioning as a Soul-Weaver to soothe a dragonling, not an Illusionist peddling seduction.""This tunic bears no jagged runic engravings. The fabric is soft; it will not snag on the infant’s scales. My hair is bound tightly to prevent rogue strands from sparking a static eruption within the ambient magic.""The survival of the Dragonling Heir vastly outweighs a Weaver’s vanity."A collective gasp of sheer, acidic jealousy rippled through the onlookers.Lyra kept her gaze lowered. Stripped of the wealth to buy enchanted armor, she wagered her life on absolute, cold logic.High upon the central balcony, Lord Cassian’s abyssal gaze cleaved through the storm, locking onto the solitary patch of ash-grey."For the safety of the heir?"His dark, gravelly murmur carried the bite of shattered ice, sending a visible shudder through the elite shadow-guards flanking him. A drab cloth devoid of magic, masking a razor-sharp tongue. She played the part far better than the perfumed whores reeking of lust potions below.A pity the ruthless calculation in her eyes bled through the facade. A clumsy disguise, paraded directly beneath the nose of the Secret Police.The final ten were marched into a cavernous hall paved in liquid obsidian.Martha’s voice struck like an iron anvil. "The finale. You will demonstrate your Soul-Weaving before Duchess Vivienne and his Lordship. Three minutes each. Only one remains!"Thunderous, synchronized footsteps echoed from the vaulted corridors. Ten shadow-guards, encased in dread-plate armor, marched forward. Each carried a metallic cradle wrapped in hissing, magic-dampening chains.The candidates inhaled sharp, panicked breaths. Suppress ten violently volatile cradles? In three minutes?Crystal sentinels levitated into the gloom above, their mechanical, frost-blue pupils mapping every tremor in the women's magical veins. To the right, a teleportation array flared with blinding violet light. The ruling elite stepped forth.Leading them was a matriarch draped in dark-gold plumage. Her gaze was a honed ice-blade—Duchess Vivienne.Beside her walked the Lord of the Secret Police. He wore a severe, pitch-black military uniform, the high collar fastened by a glinting silver clasp. An abyssal, suffocating weight bled from his every step. The hall’s magical lanterns actually dimmed in submission to his presence.Lyra’s eyes locked with his for a fraction of a second. A visceral, primal terror seized the very core of her soul. Trailing behind them, an elderly steward cradled a heavily warded bundle. From within the barriers, the Dragonling Heir let out a wet, agonizing shriek."Duchess Vivienne. Lord Cassian."The guards and servants crashed to one knee in absolute unison. The remaining candidates hastily bowed their heads, their hearts hammering like caged birds.The sharp, rhythmic clack of heels echoed against the marble. Duchess Vivienne halted before the first candidate. She raised a hand heavy with a Blood-Dragon signet ring.A brutal slap cracked through the hall, sending the woman sprawling to the floor."Energy-channeling crystals embedded in your soles? Are you actively trying to trigger my grandson's magical backlash? You lack the barest sliver of common sense, yet you dare claim the title of Soul-Weaver?"She pivoted to the second woman. Another vicious backhand."Reeking of lust potions! Who are you trying to bed? If those alchemical toxins seeped into the heir's scales, casting your worthless corpse into the Abyss wouldn't cover the debt!""And you!"The third blow leveled a woman whose robes were slit to the thigh."Dressed like a tavern whore! Peddling your flesh in my halls!"Three strikes. Fast, merciless, and dripping with authority. The metallic tang of blood bloomed in the stale air. The surviving candidates turned a sickly ash-white, violently trembling. A bag of Pure Dragon-Blood Crystals was meaningless if they didn't live to spend it.Lyra clasped her hands over her stomach, commanding her frantic pulse to slow. The unhurried, predatory footsteps resumed. Finally, they stopped mere inches from Lyra's boots.