It began in much the same fashion as when a small stone is cast into a still lake, scarcely grand enough to be remarked upon at first glance, yet sufficient to trouble the surface and send gentle rings wandering outward in widening circles.

  So it was with the rumours and the bits of news, half told stories and uncertain reports, matters that couldn't at once be proven and yet refused to remain contained. Word crept along that Caeloryn had come under attack, assailed by an aggressor not born of any neighbouring solar system but sprung from the vast and star-strewn reaches of the greater cosmos. It was said, too, that the Imperium Fleet had been called to arms and was even then in motion. Others whispered that the Imperial Family, in its secluded district and guarded halls, had concealed these happenings from the common folk.

  Taken one by one, perhaps such tales might've passed with little more than murmured interest. Yet Aeltheryl was already a land unsettled, for the impact of the First Bond's warning hadn't faded with time, as many had hoped, but had instead grown heavier upon the people. With each passing day, the desire to know what that warning had been meant to foretell only deepened and spread.

  The First Bond was not worshipped as a god, yet it was regarded as the foundation stone of all things, the very heart that allowed the whole planet to stand as a single nation rather than many quarrelsome lands. When questions arose that touched upon its solemn existence, neither the humblest labourer, nor the lesser noble, nor even the governors of distant regions were inclined to let such matters drift away unanswered.

  Thus it was that, amid this unrest and uncertainty, the rumours found fertile ground and took hold with surprising strength.

  And it wasn’t long before they were given proof.

  It began with images and recordings that slipped loose into the intranet, fragments captured in Caeloryn itself, taken by cadets, by researchers, or by any others who happened to be present when the assault fell upon the moon. These showed scenes never before witnessed, an enemy unknown and unseen locked in battle against the elder dragons, their forms clashing amid the dark and barren skies above Caeloryn.

  To any eye trained in the doctrines of warfare beyond the atmosphere, it would've been plain enough that the Imperium Fleet held the advantage from the first exchange to the final engagement. Yet such knowledge was held by few. To the greater part of the population, the images told only of their own kin struggling desperately against a foe whose nature they couldn't grasp.

  From that lack of understanding, fear was born.

  Fear, left to fester, soon hardened and turned into what many named righteous anger.

  For all the Imperium's efforts to contain the situation, to guide the flow of information and calm the rising tide, the matter swelled beyond their ability to command. A hunger for answers spread rapidly, and the search for further truth reached even towards that distant astral body drifting in the depths of the cosmos.

  No one could say how it began, nor precisely when, but in return for what could only have been lavish promises of wealth, accounts started to emerge. Men and women who had been present during the assault began to speak, their words leaking out in careful drops, each revelation adding weight to the growing mass.

  It was then that the swelling finally burst.

  A high-ranking official, whose name remained hidden, revealed that the Imperial Family had known of these hostile beings for thousands upon thousands of years.

  That they were known by a single name, spoken now with dread.

  Nemesis.

  This disclosure sent a great wave rolling across the world, first confusion, then sharp indignation, and at last a deep and burning fury. The planet itself seemed to feel the wound of betrayal, dealt by those believed to be chosen by the First, those sworn by ancient oath to defend their civilisation, both human and draconic together.

  The people rose in riots. Entire cities and broad regions erupted in protest against what they called an absurd and unforgivable omission, a silence maintained across whole eras. There was no longer any space for denial, no way to smother the truth, nor any hope of ignoring it until it faded away.

  And so, in the midst of that unrest, an announcement was made.

  It was declared that His Imperial Majesty himself would speak, and that his words would be heard by the whole world.

  ???

  The tidings had reached the Institute as well, and with such force that it stirred the cadets into a brief and ill-judged hunt for those who had let the knowledge slip. Men were questioned, corridors watched, and names quietly written down. Yet this show of vigilant resolve wasn’t long suffered, for the administration moved quickly to stamp it out, deeming it either pointless now that the secret had flown abroad like a startled bird, or unnecessary because the true whisperers had already been dealt with in ways unseen.

  Whatever the truth of it, the air within the Institute, already tight as a drawn weapon, grew tighter still. It was the sort of stillness in which one felt that even breathing too loudly might draw notice. To escape that feeling, many threw themselves headlong into their research or their drills, not out of zeal, but because exhaustion left less room for thought, and thought led always back to the same troubling matter.

  So matters endured, day following uneasy day, and then week, until at last word came that the Imperium itself would speak. Preparations were made with brisk efficiency. The population of the Institute was divided and directed into several auditoriums, each one fitted to receive the transmission from the planet they circled and to carry it onward with scarcely a heartbeat of delay.

  Seralyth, like all the rest, took her assigned place and entered one such hall. Rows upon rows of seats rose upward toward a stage, an arrangement familiar enough from lectures and debriefings held in quieter times. On this occasion, however, the stage had been altered, and a great projection screen stood ready there, pale and waiting.

  It would have been a small marvel to her if, upon her entry, neither cadets nor staff had taken notice of her at all. Had they treated her as merely another student, another citizen anxious for news of their homeworld, she might've almost have believed herself at ease.

  Such a marvel wasn't granted.

  There was no open hostility, nor any renewed hunt for culprits, yet her very title set her apart. Princess she was, and that alone made the moment awkward in a hundred unspoken ways. No one couldn't freely speak ill of her father while she was near, not even in half-formed murmurs or broken phrases passed between seats.

  Thus the space around her became strangely set apart. Elsewhere in the hall there was low conversation, questions asked and answered, doubts shared about what was soon to be said. Around Seralyth, however, there settled an island of silence, where every person present held their tongue, though the same thoughts weighed on them all.

  In this fashion they waited, with time stretching thin, until at last the vast screen shuddered and came alive.

  What appeared upon it was a throne room that seemed drawn from elder days rather than from the present age. Its aspect stood in clear contrast to the clean lines and measured forms of modern design, yet it spoke plainly of the traditions that had upheld the Imperium since its first founding.

  The hall was adorned beyond measure, with towering statues, rich carpets laid in careful order, banners hanging in heavy folds, and many other works besides. And yet all of this splendour faded at once beside the true centre of the scene, for behind the throne lay a dragon of such size that it beggared the mind. Coiled there like a living mountain, only its great head could be seen clearly, while the rest of its immense body vanished into structures that must have been built solely to bear its weight.

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  This was the Emperor’s bonded companion.

  Before that magnificent creature sat the Emperor himself, the man who ruled over all Aeltheryl, and whose word carried across its many intergalactic holdings.

  By the measure of years he stood in his late fifties, though one would not have guessed it by his bearing alone. His hair, grey and carefully kept, fell to his shoulders, and a full, stately beard framed his neck. In his face there rested an expression of open gravity, as though generosity and duty had found equal claim there. Even through a screen set hundreds of kilometres away, the weight of his responsibility could be felt. Citizens of every station, from the humblest to the highest, found their lips pressed tight as they gave him their full attention.

  His robes followed the old customs as faithfully as the chamber itself, and in one hand he held a golden sceptre, gleaming softly beneath the lights.

  This was His Imperial Majesty Aurelian Aerendyl, fourth of his name, Arbiter of the Pact, Sovereign of Humankind, Ruler of Aerendyl and its interstellar domains, and, as Seralyth needed no reminder, her father.

  Though closeness had never truly marked their relationship, the princess could tell at once how grave the moment was. She needed only to see that he had donned the heavy regalia of office for this address, a burden he didn’t take upon himself lightly, to know that what followed would matter greatly to them all.

  "My people of Aeltheryl, and all who live beneath the reach of our banners among the stars."

  The Emperor began, and his voice was measured and even, neither raised nor softened, yet carrying with it the quiet authority of long rule. He sat upright upon the throne, one hand resting upon the arm carved with ancient sigils, the other holding the golden sceptre steady against the floor.

  "Hear me, and give heed."

  He paused then, allowing the silence to stretch, as though he would have every listener settle themselves before another word was spoken. His gaze, calm and unwavering, seemed to pass beyond the walls of the throne room and into the countless halls and auditoriums where his image was borne.

  "You have come to know, by paths not of our choosing, of a name long held in guarded record."

  At this, his brow drew slightly inward, not in anger, but in sober acknowledgment.

  "You have heard of Nemesis, spoken now with fear and with anger, and you have learned that this knowledge was not freely given before this hour."

  The sceptre shifted a fraction in his grasp as he inclined his head, a gesture of concession rather than apology. "I will not deny what has been revealed, nor will I rebuke the unease it has stirred among you. Truth, once loosed, must be met with steadiness, not silence."

  His eyes lifted, and with them his voice took on a deeper cadence, as though he were reciting a tale remembered rather than a policy declared.

  "In ages unmeasured by our calendars, before planetary unification, before our cities bore their present names, there came to our world a being unlike any we had known." He turned slightly upon the throne, and behind him the immense head of the great dragon loomed, unmoving, yet unmistakably present. "The Progenitor Dragon, the First Bond, arrived not in triumph, but in grievous wound."

  A murmur of surprise might have risen in any lesser hall, but here there was only stillness as he continued.

  "It had crossed the void alone, bearing scars earned in battle against an enemy older than our histories and cruel beyond our imagining." His voice lowered, roughened just enough to lend weight to the words. "It did not speak then of flight, nor did it name its coming as retreat, for such words held no meaning for it. Yet in its broken scales and failing strength, we understood that it had faced Nemesis in the dark between the stars, and survived only by will and endurance."

  He drew a slow breath, and for a heartbeat the hall seemed to breathe with him.

  "From that meeting was born the First Pact."

  At these words, he raised the sceptre slightly, not in command, but as one might raise a hand over an oath long sworn. "Dragon and humankind, neither now complete without the other, bound themselves together not for conquest, nor for dominion, but for survival against a foe that would one day arrive."

  His voice grew firmer, steadier, shaped by certainty rather than memory. "The Imperium was shaped from that resolve. Our gifts, our sciences, our magitech, our fleets, and our doctrines of war were all tempered with that distant certainty in mind."

  "Three millennia have passed since that vow was sworn."

  He let the weight of time settle, then continued without haste. "For all those ages, Nemesis remained beyond reach, silent in the vastness of the cosmos. There was little cause to burden every generation with dread of an enemy so far removed that it might never find us again. And so this knowledge was guarded, not forgotten, and preparation continued without clamour or fear."

  Then his expression hardened, just enough for every viewer to notice.

  "That silence is broken."

  "Nemesis has found its path to us." His hand closed fully around the sceptre now. "Upon Caeloryn, it sent a scouting force, not as an army seeking victory, but as a blade testing armour. It sought to measure our strength, our unity, and the bond that binds dragon and human as one kin."

  He leaned forward slightly, and though the movement was small, it carried unmistakable force. "Let no one mistake this act. This enemy does not parley. It does not rule. It does not spare. It exists to unmake."

  Another pause followed, deliberate and controlled, before his tone shifted.

  "Yet I do not stand before you to speak of ruin."

  The severity eased from his features, replaced by something steadier and more resolute. "I stand to speak of readiness."

  "We have not slept through these centuries," he said, his voice firm but calm. "We have not forgotten the First Pact, nor the wound borne by the First Bond. What was forged in secrecy was not weakness, but patience. Now that patience ends, and resolve must be shown openly."

  He straightened fully, and his gaze sharpened as though meeting each citizen in turn. "I call upon all citizens of the Imperium, upon every intergalactic holdings and every station, to set aside division and doubt. This is not a war of pride, nor of expansion, nor of vengeance."

  "It is a war for continuance, for the right of our children to inherit the bond that has preserved us since our beginning."

  His voice rose then, not in volume, but in clarity.

  "Stand with one another. Stand with the Imperium. Stand with the dragons, whose fate has been entwined with ours since the world was young."

  At last, he inclined his head, solemn and unyielding. "Nemesis comes, but it comes to a people prepared by centuries of purpose."

  "By pact, by bond, and by will, we shall endure."

  And then, the voice of the announcement was cut short, as if a light had been suddenly snuffed, and so it left a whole world standing in the open air of its own bewilderment, to mingle freely with confusion, with inward turmoil, and with sentiments so sharp and shocking that many scarcely knew how to name them. Yet for all that stirred and seethed, none among them doubted the Emperor, neither the truth of the words that had been spoken nor the weight of the presence from which they had come, for the sound of that voice alone carried authority long proven.

  Be it the terror that crept into the hearts of those who feared for their own ending, who saw in their thoughts the shadow of death stretching towards their doorsteps and felt their courage falter beneath it.

  Be it the valour of those who rose up straight-backed and clear-eyed, setting their hands to the work of protection, resolved to shield their families, to guard their loved ones, to stand as walls before their homes, their world, their civilisation itself, and all the customs and days they had ever known.

  Be it the bold courage of those who yearned for the stars above, who hungered for renown and high deeds, and who longed to test themselves against a sworn enemy, that they might prove their worth in the hardest measure.

  Be it the sober pragmatism of those who understood, with little illusion, what such a war would demand, what costs it would levy, and what endings it might bring, and who were, by that very understanding, made all the more steadfast and resolved to see the struggle met fully, even unto its final hour.

  Thus humankind, already united in name and banner, found itself as the days passed little by little united also in heart and in soul, as many wills were drawn towards a single purpose.

  And together with this stirring, dragonkind felt the call within their own spirits, a deep stirring upon their souls that was neither new nor gentle. The First Bond rose again in their memory, awakened and reared from places long buried, etched not only in thought but set into their very bodies, as scars and strength remembered.

  This enemy was the foe fated to their kin, the ancient adversary who had driven them long ago onto a road from which there had been no turning back, in ages so distant that even dragons counted them as eons.

  They too came together in unity, but for them the cause bore another edge, for alongside duty and survival there burned the old fire of vengeance, remembered and carefully kept.

  Three millennia had passed since those first days, and only then, after the slow turning of countless years, did the bond between humans and dragons at last stand in perfect harmony, tempered by time and made whole.