The Last White Dragon, The Last Black Dragon

The office always felt like it was watching me. Shelves lined the walls, reaching high toward the ceiling, each packed with tomes bound in leather so worn their spines looked ready to split. Dragon lore. Histories of Amor’s saints. Records our ancestors had gathered when kingdoms and mindless humans burned our libraries to ash. Others may have let the knowledge fade into dust, but not us. We hoarded it, protected it, as though the ink itself kept the world safe. There’s a reason why the term ‘book dragon’ exists.

Tall, arched windows framed in black iron stood behind my father’s desk, their glass darkened by the night beyond. The chandelier overhead glowed a muted gold, casting heavy shadows across the carpet patterned in reds and ivory. The desk itself was a fortress of dark wood, scarred from years of use, its surface scattered with parchment and quills. A typewriter sat at one corner, its steel keys glinting faintly in the light. My father sat behind it all as though the weight of centuries belonged solely to him, his presence more oppressive than the shelves filled with secrets. Though, I rarely saw him use the new implement that made writing letters easier. He much preferred still using a quill pen against parchment. We didn’t even have a car in our name yet either. Something about how Nobles are always so quick to abandon customs so easily at the prospects of a new shiny toy. However, father, are we not a noble family ourselves?

The scent of old paper clung to the air, dry and sharp. The kind that seemed to coat the back of the throat in a musty way. Even the silence felt thick, like it had seeped into the room and taken root between the books. I always hated how it pressed down on me, as if every dragon’s eye in our history archives stared at my back. Being here made me remember that my blood was not entirely my own. It belonged to duty, to codes I never chose, to battles not yet fought but expected of me.

“Father, you called?” My voice sounded smaller than I intended as I stepped closer to the desk. His intimidating presence always seemed to have had that effect on me.

He didn’t look up immediately. His eyes swept across the parchment before him, his pen scratching one last note before setting it aside. “I hope you have gotten close to the Saintess.” His gaze finally lifted, sharp and heavy as it landed on me. “The awakening of the final Black Dragon will not be far off. We must make certain that the Goddess Amor is pleased with our vigilance, our dedication to keeping her world safe from Krono’s mischief.”

“Yes, Father.” The words left my mouth automatically, a reflex drilled into me since I was a child. Obedience first, thought later. Yet even as I spoke them, something inside me twisted.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as I continued.

“Darren Romancio, the King’s son, might be the last Black Dragon. There are signs. The shadows during our combat recently in class, the disruption in mana when he is upset or angered. The whispers our order has reported. All of them point to the cycle being closer than it has ever been.”

I swallowed, my eyes flicking to the shelves that lined the walls. Countless volumes spoke of that same cycle, written and rewritten by hands that feared it more than they understood it. The birth of the Black Dragon always meant ruin, always meant death. Yet to explain to my father Darren’s name , someone so familiar, so close… it struck deeper than I expected. A friend whom I had made as a result of Historia. A person I considered a rival in combat, arts… and even Historia’s hand. A fleeting moment stung my mind. Rosaria… her pleas as she had confessed her love…

“The Saintess must be by your side when it happens,” my father continued, snapping my attention back to him. “Have you confirmed her?”

I nodded slowly. “I have found her, yes. She has already shown her powers. She healed a grievous wound before the eyes of many students. There can be little doubt she is the one Amor has chosen.”

A faint smile touched his lips, rare and fleeting. “Good. Then we will not falter this time. The kingdom will have its light when the shadows rise. She will be announced soon enough, and all will know where their faith belongs.”

I inclined my head, though my chest felt tight. “Yes, Father.”

His gaze lingered on me, assessing, as if searching for cracks in my composure. “You are certain?”

“Yes?” The word came too quickly. I realized it as soon as it left me, but I did not take it back.

He nodded once. “Then we will trust in Amor’s guidance. If the ceremony reveals her, then the rest will fall into place. Until then, stay your course. Do not doubt. Do not hesitate. The Romancios are bound to this path, and so are we. You must remember that.”

I bowed my head, hiding the flicker of unease that pulsed through me. “Of course, father.”

“Good. You may leave me now.” He reached again for the parchment on his desk, already retreating into the ink and words that seemed to matter more than flesh and blood.

I turned toward the door, my boots muffled against the heavy carpet, but my thoughts were louder than any step. The Saintess. Historia. My father spoke as if certainty were already ours, as if the ceremony would be nothing more than confirmation. And yet…

Her smile haunted me. Sweet to others, cold to me at times. Calculated in the quiet moments I thought I misremembered at times. There was something too polished about it, too perfect, like a mask worn so long it fused to the skin.

And then there was her. Rosaria.

I caught myself thinking her name and clenched my fists as though I could crush the thought before it spread. She was not supposed to matter. She was not supposed to be anything but the daughter of a Baron. Yet every time she looked at me, her eyes said something else, something that twisted against the neat, ordered lines my father had laid out for me.

Historia had the title. Historia had the power, the recognition, the prophecy. But Rosaria… she had doubt in her voice when she spoke of the Saintess. She had fear, anger, something rawer and more human than I could explain.

Was I choosing the right person? Or was I choosing the one I blindly believed out of my own personal desire for the woman who stole my gaze?

The silence of the office clung to me even as I stepped out into the hall, colder now than before. The books had not spoken, but their weight pressed on me all the same. The ceremony was drawing closer, and with it came a shadow I could not name. Ominous. Heavy. The kind of dread that even fire could not burn away.

And no matter how I tried to bury it, the question would not leave me.

…

What if I was wrong?