Dawn had barely broken over the transformed ruins of Paris when the news struck the draconic palace like a thunderbolt. In the black marble corridors, servants stopped dead in their tracks, parchments slipping from their trembling hands. Guards exchanged worried glances, their scales quivering with palpable tension.

An entire barracks. Vaporized.

Not just destroyed - that, they would have understood. Slave revolts, escape attempts, accidental collapses, all of that was part of the brutal daily routine of their empire. But this time, it was different. Terrifyingly different.

No cry had torn through the night. No sound of struggle, no crash of stone or metal. Just silence. A silence so perfect it became deafening. And in the morning, where the barracks housing sixty-three human slaves had stood, there remained only emptiness. Not even foundations. As if the place had never existed.

The rumor had spread with the particular speed of bad news. First whispered among the guards of the South district, then carried by flying messengers to the captains, climbing each rung of the military hierarchy with growing urgency. Within hours, it had crossed the districts, breached the palace walls, and finally landed on King Maélor's onyx desk.

The effect was immediate.

The summoning bells resonated throughout the palatial complex, their metallic vibrations mixing with the muffled growls of dragons awakened with a start. In the nobles' apartments, servants rushed to prepare ceremonial attire, while their masters tried to decipher the implications of this emergency summons.

What could possibly drive Maélor to convene the entire court on a Tuesday morning?

The great draconic palace, in the heart of transformed old Paris, vibrated with invisible tensions. The corridors were filled with tail flashes, nervous claw clicks, hushed conversations, all directed toward the same point: the throne room.

It was a room of chilling solemnity. An immense nave of obsidian and onyx, whose walls engraved with ancient tales seemed to spy on those present. At the far end, Maélor reigned, a sovereign, colossal silhouette, crowned with a black mantle of scales as ancient as the kingdom. At his side, seated slightly back on a chair carved from ancient rock, Eldorath, the former king, observed in silence, eyes half-closed, his mere presence enough to freeze the most audacious. To the right of the throne, Elystria, dressed in an amethyst gown, remained standing, straight as a sword, her gaze piercing.

The representatives of noble families occupied the marble tiers, dressed in their richest attire. Some maintained worried silence, others hadn't bothered to hide their annoyance.

All knew that an emergency summons boded nothing good.

Lord Vorthak, of the House of Purple Flames, nervously adjusted his cape. Beside him, Dame Zephyria discreetly drummed on her ivory fan, a tic she could never suppress in moments of stress. Further away, young Count Drakmoor tried to maintain dignified composure, but his scales trembled with anxiety.

Only Syléane was missing, having left several weeks ago to "pacify" the recently conquered Chinese territories. Her absence was cruelly felt.

A herald in golden livery stepped forward to the center of the hall, his voice carrying to every corner:

- "Let there appear before His Majesty King Maélor, Alaryon, commander of the South district, to account for the events that occurred in his jurisdiction."

The heavy bronze doors opened with a dull creak that echoed in the silence. Alaryon appeared, alone, his silhouette outlined against the corridor light. He was imposing, even by draconic standards, his dark green scales marked with scars that testified to numerous battles. But today, something in his bearing betrayed an unusual uncertainty.

He walked up the central aisle with firm steps, but those who knew him well would have noticed that slight rigidity in his shoulders, that way he had of keeping his head high a little too ostentatiously. Arriving at the foot of the throne, he bowed deeply, according to protocol, before raising his head.

His gaze briefly met Elystria's. She didn't return his silent greeting, content to observe him with that particular intensity she reserved for delicate situations. Her violet eyes didn't blink, but something in her expression suggested she was already anticipating the revelations to come.

- "Speak," ordered Maélor, his voice rolling like distant thunder. "Explain to us how an entire barracks could disappear under your surveillance. Explain to us this... humiliation."

The word cracked like a whip in the rarefied air of the hall. Several nobles flinched. A "humiliation" from the king's mouth was never a good sign for whoever was responsible.

Alaryon breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. He had rehearsed this moment dozens of times in his head during the journey to the palace, but now, facing this assembly, facing these scrutinizing gazes, the words suddenly seemed insufficient.

- "Your Majesty," he began, his voice carrying despite the tension. "At dawn yesterday, during the daily inspection tour, we discovered that barracks 7-Delta had... disappeared. Not destroyed. Not burned. Disappeared."

He paused, letting the information sink into minds.

- "No guard heard the slightest sound during the night. No alert was triggered. Surveillance patrols conducted their rounds normally, without noticing anything abnormal. And yet, in the morning, where sixty-three human slaves had been housed, there was nothing left... inside."

A murmur ran through the assembly. Lord Vorthak leaned toward his neighbor, whispering something that made the noble frown. Dame Zephyria had stopped playing with her fan, her eyes fixed on Alaryon with new intensity.

- "Continue," growled Maélor, and his fingers tightened imperceptibly on the throne's armrests.

- "We immediately launched a thorough investigation. Searched every square inch of ground, analyzed magical residues, questioned all potential witnesses. Nothing. As if that portion of worthless humans had been... teleported."

Alaryon discreetly swallowed before continuing:

- "However, we discovered a troubling element. A few days before the disappearance, one of our specialized dragons, Erazem, had been charged with probing the mind of a young slave who was causing... behavioral problems. A certain Adrien."

The name seemed to resonate strangely in the hall. Elystria felt something contract in her chest, but she didn't flinch.

- "Erazem was one of our best probers," continued Alaryon. "Experienced, meticulous, prudent. He had explored thousands of human minds without ever encountering difficulty. But this time..."

He stopped, searching for his words.

- "This time, something went wrong. Gravely wrong. Erazem never emerged from the probe. His mind was... damaged. He is currently in a vegetative state, unable to communicate or even react to external stimuli."

This time, the silence that followed was different. Heavier. More disturbing. That a dragon could be rendered harmless by a simple human slave was not only improbable, but frankly incredible.

Eldorath opened his eyes for the first time since the beginning of the audience. His ancient gaze settled on Alaryon with an intensity that made the commander shiver despite himself.

- "Did you recover anything?" asked the former king in his voice roughened by millennia.

- "Yes, Your Majesty. In fragments, we were able to reconstruct part of what Erazem... encountered in the boy's mind."

Alaryon briefly closed his eyes, as if preparing to relive a bad dream.

- "There was no normal human consciousness. No coherent memories, no recognizable mental structure. Just... a void. An absolute void. And in that void..."

His voice became more muffled:

- "Two eyes. Immense. Of burning orange, like molten lava. They burned with anger in that total darkness. Not human anger, emotional and chaotic. Something colder. More calculated."

This time, it was Elystria who flinched. Imperceptibly, but she flinched. Those eyes... that description...

Orange... burning with anger...

A name crossed her mind like lightning: Mordred.

No. It was impossible. Ygdrasyle had sworn to her that he was dead. Crushed under the rubble during their introduction to Paris before the invasion. She had believed him, she had wanted to believe him, because it was simpler that way. Because the truth would have been too complicated to handle.

But those eyes... She knew only one being capable of bearing such a gaze. A gaze that had never lowered before anyone, not even before the king. A gaze that burned with that particular flame, a mixture of contained rage and unshakeable determination.

- "What if Ygdrasyle had lied?"

The thought struck her like a punch. Ygdrasyle had always been jealous of Mordred, of his charisma, of his ability to inspire loyalty even among their enemies. He had always seen in him a potential threat to the established order. What if this "death" had been too convenient to be true?

While Alaryon continued his account, detailing the reinforced security measures and fruitless searches, Elystria battled with her own demons. In her chest, something she had thought dead for so long began to awaken. A gentle warmth, almost forgotten, that slowly spread through her veins.

She remembered their conversations, those stolen moments between official obligations where they could simply be themselves. Mordred had that particular way of looking at her, as if he saw through all the facades, all the masks she was forced to wear. He was the only one who dared contradict her, the only one who didn't bow before her status as princess.

And now, perhaps... perhaps he was still alive. Perhaps he was still fighting, somewhere in the shadows, protecting those who couldn't protect themselves.

The idea should have frightened her. Should have triggered in her all the reflexes of family loyalty, all the conditioning of a princely education. But instead, she felt something else. Something that dangerously resembled... hope.

- "Enough," suddenly cut Maélor, his voice cracking in the air like thunder.

Alaryon immediately fell silent, head bowed.

The king rose slowly, and the effect was spectacular. His massive silhouette seemed to fill the entire space of the hall, casting a shadow that engulfed the front rows of nobles. Even the most arrogant instinctively lowered their eyes, seized by this demonstration of raw power.

- "You will return to the site," he ordered, each word weighing like a sentence. "You will personally supervise a complete excavation. Every stone will be turned, every grain of sand analyzed. We will mobilize all necessary means: psychic sensors, magical drillers, nyctoreceivers. If someone or something escapes us down there, we will dig it up."

He paused, letting his gaze weigh on Alaryon like a sword of Damocles.

- "And if you fail again... you will not return."

The threat was clear, unambiguous. In the silence that followed, one could hear only the breath of eternal torches and the accelerated heartbeats of the assembly.

- "Yes, Your Majesty," replied Alaryon in a voice that was firm despite the sweat beading on his scales.

He bowed again, deeply, then turned and walked back up the central aisle with steps that tried to appear assured. But Elystria noticed the way his shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of responsibility and threat that now pressed upon him.

When the doors closed behind him, a nervous murmur ran through the assembly. The nobles exchanged worried glances, aware that this affair far exceeded a simple slave escape. Something greater, more dangerous, was brewing in the shadows.

But Elystria remained perfectly still, her gaze riveted on the closed doors. In her chest, this new warmth continued to grow, fed by a possibility she didn't yet dare name.

If he's alive... if he's really alive...

The seed of hope had just sprouted in the heart of the draconic princess. And despite all the dangers it represented, she didn't seek to uproot it.