In the timeless expanse of his city, where the cosmos wove its silken threads through the fabric of reality, the Assigner shifted upon his throne. It was no mere seat of stone or wood, but a living eddy of black light, an obsidian tide that cradled him at the very nexus of what was and what could ever be on Tripolis.
Before him the great book of worlds lay open, its pages turning without wind. Every leaf bore the breathing pattern of a life, every ink-stroke the lattice of a destiny. Tonight the script flared with restless light: storm-wracked seas, a mortal ship, and his children—Anchor and the Lord of Light—entangled with the Vlachy and the Nereids in designs far beyond their mortal companions' grasp.
Vectra approached, her arrival a disturbance so slight it might have been a change in his thought. Black tattoos on her skin of shifting constellations he wove into her reflected his power: living records of every vow she had ever kept.
"Master," she murmured, "I don't think it's wise to let your children meet with Salacia."
The Assigner's eyes opened—twin furnaces of cold fire. His silver mane spilled over shoulders carved like the pillars of creation.
"No," he said, the word ringing through the aether like a planet-wide bell. "It's probably not. And yet, what can I do, Beloved?" The smirk eased his divinity into a mortal-like feature. Vectra enjoyed his jokes even less than she enjoyed his schemes.
"The pact with the Vlachy binds us," Vectra dared. "Milada must be returned."
"Then you should not have sent her to Valorian," he said, throwing his head back, shedding the mane of the wolf. The white of his hair remained, silky and beautiful.
"Theron," Vectra begged. She kneeled. "I sent her there because I did not think Areilycus would survive the journey. I hoped to rid you of him, I hoped the Anchor would throw herself into the Valorian sun out of grief. Please, forgive me."
The Assigner's gaze deepened to an impossible red, and the very space around him bent. His form loosened, flowed, and in a breath he was serpent: a Titanoboa of living star-pearl, white scales catching every newborn photon. He coiled around Vectra, a single slow spiral, until she felt the weight of entire galaxies press close.
His forked tongue flicked—a whisper of pure divinity—tracing the sigils on her skin. Her breath shivered between pain and rapture as she felt his will slide through her very essence.
"My pact," the White Snake said, voice low as continental drift. "My rules."
When he unwound, she sank back to one knee, vision swimming with the terrible ecstasy. Nothing more was spoken. Nothing more had to be.
***
The gentle rasp of a tiny tongue drew a laugh from Areilycus as the baby dragon nuzzled his cheek. Warmth returned to his skin, olive-gold light replacing the fevered pallor of days past.
"Easy, little star-eater," he teased, feeding the hatchling a wriggling fish. The creature's wings buzzed like wet silk.
Bonnie leaned in with a steaming bowl. "And you and your sister—you're close?" she asked, tipping a spoonful to his lips. He protested, saying he didn't need sustenance like Sensibles do,
"Twins," Ari said after swallowing, "forged when our star collapsed. We are halves of a single burst of light. Of course we are close."
He told her, between sips and smiles, of their celestial kin: Milada the Anchor, Cleopatra, keeper of every green and breathing thing; Rosum, the mind's true north; fiery Bara, bringer of change; Lasicus, master of emotion, Volmira, who lived in unshaken peace, bound by her neutrality.
Bonnie scratched the baby dragon's wing, half in wonder and half in worry. "What did Edward drag us into?"
Before Ari could answer, the sea itself did.
***
The wind screamed like a thousand banshees as black clouds split and re-formed, flinging sheets of icy rain. Siren-song threaded the storm, an unearthly melody that made the very rigging quiver.
On deck Mila and Edward fought the wheel together, the ship shuddering as if some vast thing below had nudged it. In the lightning's flash she saw them: immense shadows gliding beneath the waves.
"What was it you said about sharks being enemies with them?" Mila yelled.
The sirens shrieked in frustration, their wails slicing the rain, but the great sharks held their slow, sovereign vigil around the ship.
"See?" Edward grinned. "Neppie cast a shield around this beauty before he left me. Salacia's minions can thrash all they want—The Lioness won't bow to their whims."
Then the sea-witches showed themselves: pale, drowned faces twisting in the gale. "Celestial," one hissed, "come willingly to our Queen and these mortals you cherish will be spared."
Edward grasped Mila's arm. "It's a snare. I need you here, the bitch queen knows I need you!"
Before she could reply, Ari burst from below, eyes lit with the same crimson flare that ringed her own. Side by side they faced the storm.
"We have never backed down from a fight," Ari said, voice ringing with stellar force. "If we would end their war, we must enter it."
The sirens' screams rose to a maddened pitch. The crew sank to their knees, clutching their bleeding ears.
The twins exchanged a look of trust. Together they dove from the pitching deck into the black water, letting the tails of the sea-witches drag them toward the lightless floor of the world.