The Last Daughter -- Dragon-Blooded Sorcery School Quest

You realise that you've stepped into the middle of a private conversation at approximately the point where there's no elegant way for you to quietly back out again.

You'd spotted the door to a mid-level ritual chamber left ajar in one of the lower towers — flagrantly irresponsible, where any of the younger students could wander in and make a mess of things or get themselves killed. That this particular ritual chamber only needs renewal once a year, and won't be due again until long after you graduate makes this less serious, but the principle of the matter doesn't change.

You expect to find a careless third or fourth year inside doing Dragons know what — using the space as an impromptu workplace, or selecting it as an insufficiently discreet spot to try and meet a lover. By the time your hand has touched the door to shove it open in front of you, you've only just begun to really register the voices you're hearing.

"Look, it's the same as it was the last time we talked about this. It's up to you."

"That isn't fair! You can't just shove it all onto me! So either I'm the heartless villain, or I'm choosing to put you in danger just to suit me?"

"What do you want me to—"

The door slams open, and both you and the two young men inside freeze in place.

"Fucking Dragons, Ambraea, are you trying to scare us to death?" asks Simendor Deizil, recovering from his shock first to give you an utterly incredulous look.

"You should have sealed the door behind you," is your weak reply.

You stand in a circular chamber. At the centre sits a large glass tube, surrounded by complex binding circles set into the floor and ceiling, a collection of paper seals stuck fast to its surface with wax at irregular intervals. It gives off an unearthly, green-tinged glow, illuminating both the room and the figure of the bound spirit within. It's halfway between a man and some strange fauna, a giant flower where a head should be, roots branching off in all directions from a green torso. In its chest, a single, slit-pupiled eye is set, sleepy, half-lidded, but still watching you as you enter the room. It floats suspended in water, unmoving and pacified while the binding holds.

Its magic is used primarily for gardening, or something else breathtakingly mundane that you can't quite think of at the moment. One of many such chambers in the Heptagram, half practical, half lesson for the students.

Keric straightens up from where he's been leaning against a shelf along the far wall. It's hard to tell given the lighting, but you think his face is colouring. "Well, yes, plainly, otherwise we wouldn't have you bursting in on us like you're trying to catch us in the middle of something!"

"I thought you were a junior student!" you say, mortified.

Deizil actually laughs at that, taking a step away from Keric. "Oh, yes, I believe that. You thought some poor kid was in here using a room with a bound demon sleeping in it to get some privacy and cry a little, so you wanted the excuse to scare them half to death about not sealing the door properly!"

"It's an important rule!" you say. "You should both know better!" Are students really looking for a place to cry on so regular a basis? It seems strangely childish. Although maybe you're just the wrong person to ask about such things. "What are you even doing here?" you add, more to change the subject away from you than anything.

"Having a private conversation," Keric says, voice tight.

Deizil looks from him to you. Then he shrugs. "I'm tired of sneaking around and being evasive. We're having an argument about how his family hates me."

Keric puts his face in his hands, letting out a hiss of frustration. "Close the door!" he says to you.

You do as he says, and immediately regret it — now you're shut in the room with them, and you can't exactly leave without looking ridiculous. "Why tell me?" you ask.

"We've been arguing about it off and on for months," Deizil says, "circular, back and forth. I'm sick of it."

"Why her, though?" Keric asks. It's a very good question.

"Well, she's here, she barged into the middle of this conversation, and whatever else it's not like she's the type to just go run and use it against us, so fuck it." Deizil sits down on a nearby stool, looking exhausted.

Now thoroughly trapped in this ridiculous situation, you can't deny a flicker of curiosity. You glance to Keric. "Your family... hates him?"

"No," Keric says. "No! I mean, it's not anything that personal or petty. They don't approve of... the company I keep. It's about Deizil's family, and him being a bad influence, it's not really about him!"

"His great grandmother has made a comment or two," Diezel adds.

He can only mean one great grandmother in particular. You grimace. Mnemon is not a woman who anyone should feel comfortable having express that sort of sentiment for them.

"Have you tried not being a bad influence?" you offer.

Deizil laughs out loud, long and hard. "You know, even after everything, I think I'm actually going to miss you, Ambraea."

"I don't know what brought that on," you say, wondering if you should feel insulted or not.

"No, you wouldn't," Deizil agrees.

You look between the two of them, a twinge of strange sympathy blooming in your chest. Matching Deizil's spirit of unwise candor, you say: "I do know what this kind of judgment from family can feel like," you tell Keric.

Keric, much to your annoyance, actually lets out a scoff. "What? Your patrician girl?"

You fix him with a hard look. "Yes, 'my patrician girl.' Who the Scarlet Empress once advised me, directly, I should... 'have my fun with' and then cast aside. To be easily replaced by any number of willing substitutes, she assured me." He certainly does not need to know the details surrounding that conversation — not all secrets are yours to give up.

Keric's derisive expression dies, leaving him looking more than a little stricken. "Ah," he says, clearly considering what it would feel like to hear such a thing from your mother. "That is... my apologies."

"Accepted," you say.

There's an odd silence then between the three of you, until Keric, almost reluctantly, glances to Deizil. He says: "She might actually have a point, you know. You could try to not be a bad influence, in a sense."

Deizil grimaces, looking immediately dubious. He seems to be taking some particular meaning from Keric that's opaque to you, however. "... Maybe."

"She's not unreasonable," Keric tells Deizil. "Just... rigid, sometimes. She's not cruel for no reason."

"Not for no reason," Deizil mutters. It's obvious that they're talking about Mnemon again.

Keric looks back to you, and says, by way of example: "She asked about you in the middle of that same exchange, in fact, the last time I saw her. Entirely civil."

You try not to match Deizil's grimace. "What did you tell her?"

Keric gives you a surprised look. "The truth," he says, as though there were no other possible answer.

For some reason, this fails to reassure.

---

The stretch cliff where you'd first met your sorcery mentor always looks very different from the first time you'd been to it, at night, in the middle of a snowstorm. It's a crisp autumn day, the fog keeping low enough over the ocean to let in a bit of sunlight. At first when you arrive, it's just you, the sound of crashing waves far below, and the call of birds overhead.

You frown, cross your arms, and survey the stretch of grass leading up to the edge of the cliff. Everything is entirely still. "I know you're here," you say.

There's a further, silent moment, nothing moving but the grass in the sea breeze. Then the ground shifts alarmingly underfoot. Slowly, almost luxuriously, serpentine coils rise up from the earth itself, slipping up from the grass as easily as if from a pool of water. In retrospect, it's quite obvious where your inspiration for Verdigris' new abilities came from. Soon, the Lesser Elemental Dragon Diamond-Cut Perfection lays on the cliff's edge, their elongated body half encircling you, their jeweled scales a glittering rainbow in the sunlight. They regard you with a single, large eye.

"What gave me away?" they ask, their voice thrumming in your head.

"Your presence lends the place a certain aura," you lie. It had been a complete guess — if Perfection hadn't been here, there hadn't been anyone else around to embarrass you if you'd been wrong.

They give a scoff, but the explanation is halfway flattering enough that they don't choose to contest it. "You had something terribly urgent to speak to me about in person?" they ask.

"I do," you say, doing your best to banish your nerves. Perfection in their draconic form is more than a little overwhelming, after long enough away from them, even at the best of times. And these aren't the best of times. "You are aware that the Empress is missing?"

"I have heard this," Perfection says, as if it's of little account to them.

"It changes my situation a great deal," you say, determined not to get annoyed.

"I imagine so," the dragon says.

"I am trying to speak about my capacity to keep up my end of our bargain!" you say. Maybe you hadn't entirely succeeded at not letting yourself become annoyed.

Perfection raises their head from where they'd rested it on the ground, moving it closer to peer down at you more directly. "I made a bargain with an Exalted sorcerer," they say, voice turning serious almost grudgingly, "I believe I still have a talented Exalted sorcerer pacted to me standing right here. Certainly, you would be more useful if you were planning on becoming a Great House Matriarch inside of the next century, but you'll certainly give me much more than my efforts' worth, over the long term."

You falter a little. It's a relief, but you hadn't expected this to weigh so little with them. "I can't promise how things are going to go after I leave this island," you say. "There might not be as much of a long term as I would prefer, if things go badly."

"Ambraea," Perfection says, with an uncharacteristically delicate air, "I don't know if you've fully considered this, but you are a Terrestrial."

"... Yes," you say, not even remotely sure where they're going with this, "I am quite aware that I'm a Dragon-Blood."

"So, 'long term' in your case is... several hundred years at the most, unless you get particularly resourceful. Which, do not misunderstand me, is quite enough time for us both to be very useful to each other. You're a valuable investment! But I'm two-thousand years old, give or take, and from my perspective, you're always going to be a temporary one."

The way that they talk about your own eventual mortality is a little disquieting, however many centuries it might ideally be from now. "You don't always act like you're two-thousand," you say. "It can be easy to forget."

Perfection gives a draconic impression of a shrug, resting their head back down on their folded forelegs. "Well, achieving dragonhood is a rebirth, of sorts. Particularly for a gemlord — this body, this power, this perspective, it's all so different from the way I spent most of those two millenia, sometimes I don't feel like exactly the same person. I think you bring that out in me, to be entirely honest."

"Is that a good thing?" you venture.

"Yes," Perfection decides. "I think I would be quite pleased if you managed to make it to four or five hundred — I've come to quite enjoy your company. I quite think I'll miss you when you're dead."

That draws out a bit of a laugh from you. "I'll see what I can do," you say. You'd never intended to settle for a mere two or three hundred years of life, should you get anywhere in that neighbourhood — what's the point of being a sorcerer otherwise? The encouragement doesn't hurt, though. You appreciate the vote of confidence.

"Yes, I expect you will," Perfection agrees. "You're quite good at exceeding expectations, after all. Don't let it go to your head. If you're really so worried about not being able to keep your obligations to me..."

Perfection lifts up a huge forelimb, holding it out to you. You do your best not to flinch as you watch your faint reflection grow larger in one diamond-shod talon, right before they touch it to your forehead. There's a flash of white, and a rush of cold Earth Essence strong enough to send you staggering back half a step.

"What was that?" you ask.

"One last gift before you go out into the wide world," Perfection says. "You'll be able to hear riches now — it may make locating them easier, in the future."

You frown. "Hear riches?" you ask, confused. Still, as you concentrate, not quite sure what you're looking for, you become aware of a faint musical hum at the edge of your hearing. Reaching down, you bring one of the pouches at your belt up and press it to your ear — sure enough, the sound is coming from the handful of small gemstones you keep inside.

"It's attached to our bargain," Perfection explains, "consider it an additional perk."

"Thank you," you say, after a moment's thought. "A useful ability — much as you might seem to be the ultimate beneficiary, in the end."

"One might argue that this is the entire point of cultivating a sorcerous disciple," Perfection says, sounding perfectly pleased with themself.

"I suppose it is," you say. What you don't say is that, after everything, you're very glad that you met them all those years ago. You're sure that they know, and their ego doesn't need the help.

---

Resplendent Wood, Realm Year 765,
One year, eight months after the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress

You have sat in the Heptagram's lecture hall countless times over the years, taking your seat somewhere on the benches rising up around the circular presentation area in the centre of the floor. It forms the base for the Heptagram's central residency tower, and the large, vaulted room is one of the first ones that anyone attending the school sees.

Tonight, though, for the first time, you stand in the centre of it, the one looking up at an audience and presenting your hard-won knowledge. Unfortunately, that audience consists entirely of the school's staff, sitting near to one another, all watching you intently.

"... and so, I was able to induce my familiar to physically merge her Essence with that of an Earthen substance, effectively giving her access to a form of dematerialisation." You have pinned a series of diagrams to a wooden presentation board. You stand beside it, and have referred to it frequently as you explained the intricate technical details of your research and answered questions relating to your methodology and techniques. Now, you step over to the end of the board, to a diagram of a rough human form, the Essence channels clearly marked. "As I continued my research, however, I became convinced that, with sufficient preparation, a human body infused with Earth Essence could be used instead."

"Interesting," says Ragara Bhagwei. It's not the first time he's spoken up, but it's the first time he's said anything that wasn't a difficult or disarming question about your experiments. He leans forward in his seat, eyes intent on your diagram. "I take it you have a practical demonstration planned."

"Yes," you say, stepping away from the board.

The idea for this part had come from the way Verdigris had hidden in your stone armour during your fight with the Anathema. It had taken some doing, and was likely only possible at all due to your close sorcerous bond with Verdigris, but your efforts had borne fruit.

You approach the nearby table where Verdigris has been coiled the entire time, waiting politely for her cue. You pull back the sleeve of your school tunic, holding out your bare forearm to her. Almost daintily, she uncoils herself, winding her body around your arm the way she's done countless times before. This time, however, as she makes contact with your skin, you experience a cold blending of foreign Essence with your own, and she seems to sink directly into the flesh of your arm without actually taking up the physical space. In a moment, the bronze serpent has vanished, leaving behind what looks deceptively like a metallic snake tattoo wound around your arm.

"That is an impressive trick," Cynis Bashura says. "It causes no ill effects? For you or for the spirit?"

"None that I've observed," you say. As you watch, the snake tattoo shifts a little, slowly climbing your arm in a leisurely manner. She can pop back out when it suits her, or on command, and doesn't seem particularly averse to the entire process. For you, the sensation has taken some getting used to, but it's undeniably useful. "I document that process as well as the modifications to the working in my written research, along with what I have already gone over." It sits on the desk near to where Verdigris had sat, a formidable stack of notebooks, all meticulously organised. You've done your legwork for this project over the past three years.

"I feel obligated to say," you add, "that I received a great deal of advice and consultation from Nellens Ovo. I regret that he is not here to see the final results." He had, at no point, been genuinely encouraging, the emotion seemingly being a little bit beyond him — a man you're not sure could have ever done well in the larger Dynasty, beyond the very particular scholarly atmosphere of the Heptagram. Still, he had helped a great deal, and taught you quite a bit, and you regret his death.

"He would be pleased to have been mentioned, and I'm sure would have found something to complain about," First Light says. Your mention of the slain instructor casts a subdued air over the room, but seems to be received particularly well. There's a moment of silence on that note, before First Light asks: "I'm curious, though. What specific preparations did you make to normalise the interplay between her Essence and yours? It couldn't have been—"

The presentation continues on for most of an hour — during that time, Verdrigris stays hidden against your skin, seemingly entirely comfortable.

When it's over, and seems to have gone over well, and your written research has been handed over to be reviewed, you're much more relieved than you would have preferred to admit. This had just been the culmination of years of your life, and having it over and done with is a weight removed from your shoulders that had been there for so long you hadn't even noticed it anymore.

You're clearing the presentation area of your things when you become aware that you're not quite alone in the lecture hall — one of the instructors has remained.

"Hello, Dominie," you say, inclining your head respectfully. "I'm pleased you found my work interesting."

"It was," Bhagwei admits. You can't quite read the expression in his eyes as he looks at you.

Thinking back on your past interactions with the Dominie, and so close to graduation, a certain boldness takes hold of you. "Are you pleased that I'll be leaving your school soon?"

He gives a faintly amused sort of sigh. "I am always pleased to see a student graduate. I wouldn't have founded a school, if it were otherwise." You think he's just going to deliberately avoid taking your meaning, for a long moment, but then, almost cautiously, he goes on. "You have been a promising student, and you have lived up to your potential so far. I wish you luck."

You stop sorting the papers in your hands, giving him a surprised look. "I'm sorry, sir. I was under the impression that you didn't like me."

"I don't, being entirely frank," he admits, without heat or malice. "I do not care for your presence here, because of who and what you are. That has never precisely been your fault, however. And I don't envy you the choices you'll have to make now."

This sounds horribly like pity, which is not exactly the tact you would have preferred in terms of him finally coming around on you in some way or another. "You seem to have done quite well for yourself, only distantly associating yourself with your house," you say. Since this is apparently a personal conversation.

"Well, yes," Bhagwei says, "but I do have one. I remain the son of a house founder, whatever our relationship was like, the last time I spoke with him. This gave me the latitude I needed. You, unfortunately, will not have the luxury of holding the Dynasty at arm's length to comfortably become a hermit researcher or reclusive teacher — if that's even truly what you want."

You frown at that. He has a point — many things are easier to do, with the tacit support and protection of a Great House behind you. If you associate yourself with one, however, you will not be able to afford the connection to be viewed as distant or trifling on your part, under the current climate. "I suppose so, Dominie," you say.

He seems pleased that you've taken his meaning, and at least aren't outright disputing it. "The Dynasty and our circumstances will attempt to squander your potential, Ambraea, one way or another. Try not to let it — for your sake, more than mine."

It's a bleak statement, realistically, but it's also the most encouraging thing he's ever said to you. Somehow, you can't help but find the sentiment uplifting. "I intend to do my best," you say.

"Good," he says, nodding. "I will be interested to go over your research in detail — good luck, Ambraea."

With that, he walks away. It's the last time you'll talk to him privately before leaving the Isle of Voices. Although not, of course, the last time you see him.

---

Resplendent Wood, Realm Year 765,
One year, nine months after the disappearance of the Scarlet Empress

Once again you find yourself in the lecture hall. Far fewer people are arrayed around the stands than you're used to. This time, though, you're sitting in one of the benches, Maia on one side of you, Sola on the other, the other five surviving members of your year nearby. You all look down at Ragara Bhagwei, who stands beside a simple desk featuring a stack of ornate wooden scroll cases.

Outside, it's a cool, foggy summer day, one of the last any of you will spend here as a student. The air is heavy with a feeling that's both surreal and transitory, as if you're all waiting for something that had once seemed so far away that you don't quite know how to feel about it being in front of you.

The other schools, very likely, go in for more extravagant graduation ceremonies than this — audiences, elaborate celebrations and rituals. But this is the Heptagram, small and isolated and strange, in its way. You've all presented your final research project, you've all proven that you have achieved initiation where others have failed. That's enough.

The Dominie scans over you one last time, then turns back to the scrolls. "That is everyone," he says. He raises a hand, and the scrolls all seem to float up into the air — you don't need to check with a mirror to know that it's one of the school's servant spirits, but it doesn't stop it from looking a little impressive. "Eight," he says. "I am looking at one of our largest-ever cohorts of seventh year graduates. And also, in several other ways, one of the most unusual." His gaze encompasses an Imperial daughter pacted to a Lesser Elemental Dragon, a woman who had initiated after finding and claiming a legendary sword hidden on the island, a self young sorcerer-prince of House Simendor, and a necromancer, among others.

Bhagwei continues: "There is a rare and unique degree of talent in this generation of elite sorcerers, which might be used for the good of the Realm and the advancement of our scholarship. I urge all of you to remember the years spent here in this school, under the same roof, in pursuit of knowledge, much as the outside world and its petty grudges and politics will push you apart." He's oddly idealistic, in his way, beyond a mere disinterest in Dynastic politics. It's a little sad, you think — it strikes you as the kind of mindset that can perhaps only exist undisturbed in a place like the Heptagram, away from the more complicated world of the mainland Blessed Isle.

These words delivered, he looks suddenly to you. "Ambraea," he says, and the first of the scroll cases seemingly floats through the air and into your hands. From there, he begins to list the names of the graduating students in order of social precedence: "V'neef L'nessa. Tepet Usala Sola. Mnemon Keric. Sesus Amiti. Ledaal Anay Idelle. Simendor Deizil. Erona Maia." One by one, as he says each name, the rest of the scrolls go to their designated recipients.

You feel the weight of the wooden case in your hands for a moment. Then you slide the scroll out, carefully unfurling it. In exquisite calligraphy, it declares that Ambraea, Chosen of Pasiap, twenty-second daughter of the Scarlet Empress, is recognised as a graduate of the Heptagram and a fully qualified sorcerer. Below this is the formal seal of the Heptagram, pressed into the paper in blue jade. Around you, everyone else follows your example and pulls out their own scrolls.

Bhagwei continues, now dropping into a cadence that tells you he's explained this part countless times before: "Copies of each of your certifications have been sent to your houses and households. Additionally, to the Sagacious and Scrupulous Registrars of Sorcerous Puissance, for their official records. The Registrars will have already recorded your names in the White Registry. From this day forward, you are each registered imperial sorcerers."

He pauses, his eyes flicking to Amiti, who is fidgeting in her seat, and plainly at the point of interrupting. "Yes, you too, Amiti, it's a legal technicality. They know what you are. In your case, the Registrars will also have sent your name to the Immaculate Order. Not that you've been particularly secretive about your skills."

"Oh! that's fine, then," Amiti says, seemingly satisfied so long as the metaphysical differences between sorcery and necromancy are being acknowledged.

L'nessa gives a quiet sort of sigh, while Idelle shoots Amiti an exasperated, despairing look. Seated farthest from you, you're dimly aware of Keric shushing Deizil, who is trying very hard not to laugh out loud.

Bhagwei chooses to ignore all this, only raising his voice marginally to speak over the quiet interruptions. "As registered sorcerers, the Empress is entitled to assign an Obligation to each of you, the timing and nature of which will be of her choosing — in her absence, the Deliberative may assign an Obligation in her stead."

Sorcerous Obligations are traditional great workings or tasks, completed by sorcerers for the benefit of the Realm itself, sometimes only being handed down years after a sorcerer becomes registered. It's something you've been expecting to be assigned for most of your life, directly from your mother's hand. You have no doubt that whatever she would have found for you would have been challenging and unusual, a test of your abilities beyond what the Heptagram has demanded, tailored exactly to your skills and prior accomplishments.

To your annoyance, you feel a lump forming in your throat — you hadn't fully realised how keenly you'd wanted that before now. Verdigris coils a little tighter around your neck. Beside you, Maia stirs, leaning subtly toward you. She isn't going to touch you more overtly than that in this setting, but it helps.

"As alumni of the Heptagram, you are entitled to return to use our facilities and resources for future research," Bhagwei says. "It is customary to undertake guest instructor duties in return, but the specifics of which will be discussed on a case by case basis. I bid you all good luck."

You do your best to shake off your melancholy, try to hold onto your earlier relief and excitement. Your entire life is ahead of you — it's time to seize it.

Article:

A great deal will happen to you in the coming months — you will see many friends, potential allies, and family members over that time. For now, though, before each of you go in different directions immediately following graduation, you and your Hearth will take a moment to celebrate your graduation.

You have access to a Dynastic stipend effective immediately upon your graduation, in perpetuity until either the you are adopted into a Great House or someone with the authority to puts a stop to it. The latter is unlikely to be a concern for quite a few years — for now, you have the funds that a young Dynast should hope to enjoy.

What do you do? You will all enjoy yourselves regardless, in different ways.

[ ] Hire a ship to sail up the coast for a few day's relative privacy

[ ] Take in a series of plays, concerts, and other entertainments in Chanos

[ ] Let Sola drag you both out into the countryside for a night under the stars