The Cryo Sovereign's Secret

In the southernmost reaches of Mictlan territory—where even flame-breathing boars thought twice before wandering—the peaks curved into each other like clasped hands holding a secret. And within those hands lay a secret indeed: Citlali's house.

Perched boldly against the mountainside, the home stood out violently from the surrounding wilderness.

Its walls were riddled with graffiti. Symbols of rebellion, painted flames, and one rather crude depiction of the "Lord of the Night" with a mustache and a dress.

One particular scrawl read in bright red:

"IF YOU'RE LOST, TURN BACK. IF YOU'RE A GOD, WIPE YOUR FEET."

Inside, the rebellion continued—not against gods, but against order.

Wine bottles rolled on the floor like tumbleweeds in a saloon.

Snack wrappers formed a crunchy red carpet to her worn-out recliner.

Stacks of light novels created literary skyscrapers that threatened to topple at any moment.

And in the middle of it all, Citlali stood, breathing hard, her hands on her hips as two very unconscious mysteries lay on the floor.

One, a snow-colored dragon, majestic even in his groaning, feather-crowned glory.

The other, a man—not a boy, not a teen, a man—with tanned skin, spiked white hair, and eyes that shimmered with aquatic energy... if only they would open.

Citlali exhaled long and slow. "Phew... Now what do I do with these two?"

She nudged Felix's tail with her toe. "You, I get. The Aether's still tangled in there. Like a ball of cosmic yarn someone let a toddler play with."

Her eyes shifted to the man.

"But you... you're a problem. That soul of yours is practically newborn—raw, delicate... pure."

She crouched, studying his face.

"Yet you look all grown-up. Strong build, adult frame, subtle trauma lines in the jaw... Is this why you're not waking up?"

No answer. Not even a twitch.

Citlali rubbed her forehead. "I swear if this turns into one of those 'he wakes up and imprints on you' stories, I'm burning every book I own."

She stood and stretched. "Whatever. If you're not gonna explode or scream, you're welcome to the floor."

With that, she dragged her bare feet past a stack of snack bags labeled "Spicy Lotus Chips – Burn Your Regrets Away!", stepped over a wine bottle, kicked aside a mysterious sword that may or may not have belonged to a dead warlord, and entered her bedroom.

The room was marginally cleaner. Her bed was unmade, her pillow oddly shaped (likely from hidden weapons or books), and her bookshelf towered over the bed like a threat.

She flopped down face-first onto the mattress, groaned, then rolled over and grabbed a novel from the bedside.

"Love Beneath The Lava Moon, Vol. 4"

She opened it lazily and whispered, "Let's hope this one has less betrayal and more actual kissing."

But before her mind could drift too deep into fictional romance, she glanced back toward the living room—just one brief second of hesitation.

The dragon breathed softly.

The man didn't move.

But something about the air felt… off.

As if three threads of fate had been plucked and now trembled in time's loom.

Citlali pulled her blanket over her head.

"Not my problem tonight," she muttered.

But even she knew…

Tomorrow?

It definitely would be.

Above the icy grandeur of Zapolyarny Palace, the night unfolded like an ancient lullaby.

Auroras shimmered and danced across the heavens—green, violet, gold—like Celestia was painting with emotions it couldn't express in words.

The snowflakes sparkled under their light, frozen midair like time itself had taken a breath and forgotten to exhale.

And there, half-entombed in a glacial cradle, lay Orion.

Naked. Motionless.

His skin turned a shade too pale for life, his breath so faint it could be mistaken for mist.

Crystals had formed along the sharp lines of his jaw, and his white lashes glittered with hoarfrost.

If not for the slight twitch of a finger, one could believe the cold had claimed him completely.

Then—

A rift tore open, smooth and silent, like reality itself respectfully bowed out of the way.

From the breach stepped Seraphyx—the Emblem of Winter's Embrace.

A vision of grace and paradox. His presence shimmered with layered grace: like death dressed in velvet and frost wearing perfume.

His boots crunched softly into the snow as he approached the body.

His sharp, slate-blue eyes narrowed. "I thought I sensed a remnant of VlastMoroz's Essence in this land."

He leaned down, his silvery-white braid trailing over his shoulder like a sash of moonlight.

And then, he smiled.

Not out of joy—out of recognition. Out of ancient grief briefly eased.

"Mother Rosen... will be pleased to see you alive."

He reached out, two fingers extended like a pianist about to strike a perfect note.

With a mere flick—

The ice cracked.

The frost turned to mist.

And Orion's body began to float upward, rising gently like a leaf caught in a slow breeze.

His form hovered in the air, face peaceful but ethereal energy swirling faintly around him.

Even in this weakened state, the Sovereign remnants inside him pulsed softly—Wind, Cryo... and something deeper, still sleeping.

Seraphyx caught him in his arms like a mother catching a child fallen from the stars.

"I won't let them take you this time," he whispered, and without further word, he turned—

And stepped through another rift.

---

Destination: The Realm of Nyxhara.

The hidden dimension where Arian had been re-forged.

A world of starlit gardens and crystalline cities, where the last hope of the Sovereigns burned quietly in exile.

And as he arrived, with the barely-breathing body of their lost king...

Rosen, Mother of the Arian People, opened her eyes.

A starlit horizon stretched above crystalline towers, their spires gently pulsing like the rhythm of a sleeping world. Floating bridges carved of pure aether connected city peaks, and below them—like a coiled guardian god—rested the colossal, serpentine form of Mother Rosen.

Her body wrapped thrice around the entire capital of Arian.

Scales as dark as midnight, speckled with constellations. A mane of pale mist flowed from her head like glacial rivers, her horns curving with elegance and age.

She did not breathe like mortals—she moved the climate with her breath.

She dreamt snowfall into existence.

A rift peeled open above her coiled form, and Seraphyx emerged, his boots touching down upon her frozen back, cradling Orion in his arms.

"Mother… you won't believe it."

His voice cracked with emotion—soft, almost boyish in its awe.

He gently raised the limp body toward her massive, slumbering form.

One colossal eye opened—ancient, pale, slit-pupiled, and sorrowfully wise.

She raised her head, just slightly. The movement alone sent a blizzard curling over the edges of Nyxhara.

"Indeed… Orion is alive."

Her voice echoed across the capital like a hymn from beneath the ocean, slow and mournful. "But his body is more empty now…"

A pause.

"The other two souls… are gone."

Snow began to fall across Nyxhara.

Not harshly.

But gently—like the world itself had paused to weep, quietly.

Seraphyx looked down at Orion's face. Though still beautiful, still noble… there was a silence in him now. A missing harmony. A broken chord.

Rosen exhaled. Entire forests below were dusted in frost at her sigh.

"Take him to Kaelya immediately."

Her voice deepened. Firm, protective.

"Make sure he lives."

She lowered her head once more, the glow in her eye fading—but not entirely.

"And gather the other Emblems… and the Royal family."

There was a long silence. The snow thickened.

"The lost king has returned."

"King?" Seraphyx blinked, adjusting his grip on Orion. "His coronation hasn't happened yet."

Rosen's voice rumbled low, layered with unshakable certainty.

"In my eyes… he is worthy enough for the title."

There was no room for argument.

Only snow.

Seraphyx bowed his head and nodded, vanishing into a rift with Orion held close.

For a moment, only silence lingered over Nyxhara.

A pause.

A breath.

And then—

"Rosen," a new voice cracked across the skies like thunder made of wine and sarcasm,

"Try to keep the snowfall and blizzards to Arian alone, will you?"

The voice was lazy, amused, and a little too smug.

"There are other Sovereigns here too. We don't want to start a climate war, now do we?"

High above, west of Arian, a floating structure shimmered into clarity—Raiclaus' Chaotic Palace, drifting sideways through the sky like a cathedral that never learned manners.

On its jagged balconies stood Raiclaus herself.

"And why are you still in that massive dragon form?" she groaned, theatrically exasperated.

"Seriously, Rosen, just inhabit a humanoid form already. You look like you're starring in some ancient mythbook. Again."

Rosen didn't respond right away.

But then, slowly, peacefully, her eyes reopened.

And she spoke.

"My children aren't scared of this form anymore."

Her tone was low. Gentle. As if she spoke through the roots of a mountain.

"I may not be able to move much... but like this, I feel my purpose."

"They see me as their guardian. And they feel safe… in my embrace."

As if to punctuate the thought, she unfurled one wing—just one.

It spread over the entire capital like a divine canopy.

And with it, the blizzards calmed.

The snow curled upward in elegant spirals, dissolving into stars.

The climate obeyed.

Even Raiclaus paused for a moment.

"...Right. Fair enough," she muttered, swigging from her bottle.