Mavern looked deeply troubled, the weight of recent events etched plainly across his features, but Soron rely smiled at the sight of his concern— not mockingly, nor with indifference, but with the patient calm of a man who had lived through far worse storms than this.
"The cult has always been at war, my child," Soron said softly, his voice carrying no strain.
"It’s been at war since before you or I ever drew our first breath, and it will continue to be at war long after our bones have turned to dust."
He paused for a mont, allowing the silence to sink in, before continuing.
"The land we control may swell like a tide or recede like a breath, but land is not the soul of the cult. It’s the ideology that must never die. And it won’t. Not even if I perish. Not even if the last fortress is razed and we are hunted to the edge of existence. Even then... the cult will survive. So do not worry about our survival."
And with that, he took a slow sip from his tea, the movent graceful, deliberate, almost serene.
"My lord... that’s not what I’m afraid of," Mavern said quietly, his voice tightening. "It’s the assets. The web I spent six decades weaving is being burned thread by thread. The enemy has begun a deep purge! They’re exposing our people, parading them like criminals through the streets, executing them worse than strays."
He clenched his fists slightly as he leaned forward, his voice fraying around the edges.
"If things continue to unfold this way... I fear we’ll lose sothing far more important than territory. We’ll lose the trust of the shadows. No one will dare beco a double agent for the cult again, not out of loyalty to the alliance, but out of fear that we can no longer protect them. In the war of soft power, we are losing already—"
Mavern explained, as this ti Soron nodded in agreent, his expression turning more serious than before.
"Yes," the old god said after a mont, his voice quieter now, as though the realization had settled into him fully.
"You are right to be concerned. If the shadows begin to falter... for if the informants and spies who once acted without hesitation begin questioning whether the cult can protect them, then we are not facing a tactical loss."
He looked up, his eyes sharp despite the wrinkles carved deep into his face.
"We are facing a psychological one."
Mavern didn’t respond imdiately, his throat going dry, as the air around them turned heavier than before.
Soron leaned back slightly, the motion slow, his aged spine protesting as he adjusted his seat, before he let out a long, tired breath that sounded far older than the man himself.
"The righteous alliance has always relied on fear to make us bleed," Soron continued, "but we... We relied on belief. Not just in . Not just in the elders. But in the idea that we would rise again. That we were part of sothing unshakable. That even if they died, the cult would live on stronger."
His voice didn’t rise, but the room still seed to fall silent around it, as if every word pressed deeper into the stone.
"But now, I fear that belief is fading."
Mavern stared at the steam rising from his cup, his lips parting slightly before closing again, as though unsure if he should interrupt—until finally, he forced himself to speak.
"Then what do we do, my lord?" he asked. "How do we give them belief again... when your presence alone is no longer enough to inspire them?"
Soron didn’t answer imdiately.
Instead, he reached for the kettle and poured more tea into both cups, the motion slow and steady, while the rising steam coiled between them like a ghost from the past, as though the silence itself needed to be allowed its ti to breathe.
Only once both cups were full did he speak again.
"We give them soone new to believe in."
Mavern looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. "Soone new?"
Soron t his gaze.
"No," he corrected softly. "Soone old... made new again."
A pause passed between them, long and loaded, before Soron finally leaned forward, the light catching the edge of his gaunt cheekbone, as his voice dropped lower.
"We find the bearer of the prophecy."
Mavern’s eyes widened, not in shock, but in understanding, as he realized exactly which prophecy Soron ant, even before the old god continued.
"We find the next dragon."
Mavern said nothing, but his silence spoke louder than any protest.
Because they had tried.
Again and again.
For the last thirty years, the cult had poured ti, resources, and lives into training the next dragon— grooming orphans from forgotten corners of the universe, invoking ancient rituals, and injecting candidates with the most potent awakening serums they could craft.
And every ti... they had failed.
Sotis the candidates were too weak.
Sotis their personality was too volatile.
And on the rare occasion they did find one who showed promise, soone with the right instincts, the right blood, the right spark, they never lived long enough to see their potential realized.
They were hunted.
Intercepted.
Assassinated.
Always just as they began to rise.
Mavern clenched his fists beneath the table, the bitter mory of their last failed candidate still fresh in his mind.
Noah Ashburn— the best Dragon they had seen in the last 200 years.
A boy from the Shikar ruins. Quiet. Disciplined. Brilliant.
Dead due to Dupravel Nuna, hunted... betrayed and killed.
"My lord..." Mavern said slowly, his voice catching on the words. "We’ve been trying. For decades. We’ve pushed everyone with even a drop of the Tiless Assassin’s blood to the edge, awakened rites no one rembered how to control, and spilled oceans of resources into candidates who barely made it past the Grandmaster stage—"
He looked up, eyes tired. "And even when we did find soone... they never survived long enough to beco the symbol we needed."
Soron’s expression didn’t change, but the lines around his eyes seed to deepen.
"I know," he said. "I rember each of them."
He paused, gaze distant.
"But we cannot stop."
"If they failed.... They were never the true dragon to begin with."
"When the true Dragon rises... the cult will rise with him. That, I am sure of!"
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