The Dragon Heir

Chapter 127: A Con of Draconic Proportions

Vernia Drakonski shut her eyes and whispered a prayer to the ancestors, hoping—just this once—that the artifact would actually work.Because if it didn’t, and Mother finally noticed it missing from her treasury... oh, she was dead. Well, not literally. Anyone else would’ve been turned to ash on the spot by the wrath of a gold-core pathwalker, but being her mother’s daughter only earned her a mind-numbing lecture on the dangers of ancient artifacts—and yet another round of grounding.

Again.

Solitude wasn’t . But after a childhood sculpted into the sect’s next marble-faced matriarch—less a girl, more a monument to ancestral expectations—even granite craved cracks. But she didn’t it. Any of it. Titles? Expectations? The gilded cage of command? The girl who fantasized about alley wraiths slipping through Lower District shadows, swallowed by mist and mischief? Governance demanded iron resolve, not a will corroded by daydreams of flight.

Rule? Ha. Not in this lifetime. Or the next twelve.

The only thing refined about her was the noble mask she wore. Deep down, she envied the freedom the gangs had in the lower districts. No stiff posturing, no suffocating legacies, just raw, reckless liberty. But when your mother was a gold-rank cultivator and the outside world was teeming with things waiting to eat you alive, disappearing wasn’t so simple. It took . And Vernia she had it—or at least, she had enough to get there.

The problem? Like everyone else at high yellow-core, she’d hit a wall.

Mother had sniffed, Ancestors’ teeth, Vernia couldn’t unravel a knotted shoelace without a manual.

She groaned, shifting on her stool before daring to crack one eye open at the offending artifact in her hands—a mirror, plain at first glance but set apart by its ornate carvings. Its frame, smooth yet aged, looked like polished wood, though she had no idea kind. Etched with spirals that morphed into… .

Not that she’d name them aloud. Such topics were verboten beyond sealed chambers, but she knew the tales—ancestors scaled and sovereign, lords of primordial beasts, progenitors of the Drakkari. Strength incarnate. Magic unchained.

The mirror’s carvings wrapped around the frame, their talons gripping its edges, sinuous bodies curling along its sides. At the base, two of them coiled around a strange symbol: a hiltless sword, encircled by their twisting forms. This was where her mana pooled, crystallized into spirituality, then… nothing.

Vernia exhaled sharply. The reflection staring back at her was just her own. No thunderous revelations. No ancestral wisdom. Just Vernia, all sharp cheekbones and tired azure eyes.

So... another failure.

“Come on, you ancient hunk of kindling,” she muttered. “Don’t tell me you’re as useless as last time. Though, honestly, if you’re broken, maybe that’s a mercy.”

She stared at herself a moment longer. Artifacts used to work without fail. But a few decades ago, something changed. Every single one—cursed or blessed—went silent, their connection to the astral plane severed.

Frustration burned in her chest. With a huff, she moved to put the mirror back—

Two crimson orbs flared in the glass, pupils slit like dagger wounds. A silver draconic maw materialized, teeth glinting, and Vernia’s breath turned to ice in her lungs. The stool clattered as she recoiled, but the mirror clung to her grip, hungry.

, she thought, half-delirious.

Before she knew it, a vicious wave of ink emerged and swallowed her whole.

***

I’d always wondered what it would be like to come face-to-face with my supposed doppelganger.

Stephan had told me she had my face—their Vernia. But even after arriving in Varkaigrad, I quickly realized how that scenario was.

She wasn’t just some noble. She was the protected individual in the city, a , for fuck’s sake, of the Flameclaw Sect—the ruling Drakonski family of Varkaigrad.

Still, I’d entertained the idea. Maybe I could infiltrate the nobility, work my way close enough to confirm the truth. If she really did have my face, then maybe—just maybe—the Flameclaw Sect held answers to my past. Because sharing a face with a princess I fully transformed into whatever I was now? That was too big of a coincidence to ignore.

But now?

Now, I was staring directly at herself.

Crimson silk, ivory lace, jewels glittering like trapped stars. And the . Thalador’s beard, the layers of protection humming in her necklace alone could’ve vaporized a one of those stage 4 creepers. I itched to dissect the spellwork, but her gaze pinned me. Not fear there.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

No, her eyes burned with the fervor of a zealot stumbling upon a holy relic.

The intensity of her scrutiny made my skin crawl.

This wasn’t how I expected things to go. I’d barely started wrapping my head around these strange abilities—this dreamscape manipulation, this I had on the world through certain artifacts. I still didn’t know how that water tunnel worked, only that it was linked to objects like these.

Like last time—the pendant that girl had worn. The one marked with a hiltless sword surrounded by waves.

And now, this mirror Vernia clutched.

That same symbol.

Then she into motion, practically vibrating.

“IT WORKED!” she shouted. “Ancestors’ claws, it worked! You’re here! You’re !” Her voice cracked between aristocratic poise and giddy disbelief. “I the texts about this mirror weren’t metaphors—well, knew. There was a 30% chance this was just a cursed hallucination, but ! The spitting image from the sacred texts! The draconic face, the wings, the claws built to tear, the gaze that could pin a lesser mortal. Well, except for the…” She waved vaguely at my tentacles, which twitched lazily in the air. “...modifications. But that’s fine! , even! Proof of ascension!”

Then, as if remembering herself, she immediately her head to the ground.

“Forgive this unworthy ember, O scaled sovereign! My flame leapt untamed—but who’d not singe composure? Centuries since even your shadow grazed mortal sight!”

I schooled my face to still waters.

Indeed. This script lacked all rehearsal.

After whatever I’d just done, Vernia had been pulled into the mirror—into this vast, dark space. I could the tether to my real body again. Knew this was just a projection, one I could sever at any time. And by Thalador, I was .

But I steeled myself.

Mechanics could wait. Causality could smolder.

This? This was kindling. An opportunity.

She thought I was an ancient dragon—her ancestor. With artful pantomime, I could get . Maybe even something about the Flameclaw Sect. Hell, if I was lucky, I might even learn the truth about origins.

I raised my head, letting the silence stretch.

Time to start the con.

“Raise your head, child.” The words slithered out, ripe with a pomposity that made my tentacles cringe. We were likely the same age.

“Forgive my impertinence, O Scaled One!” Vernia’s voice trembled, though her posture stayed rigid—a princess trained to grovel .

“No offense taken, child.” My voice rumbled, deep and distorted, like stone grinding against stone. () “Your… is… intriguing.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she practically vibrated with excitement. “Of course! When I studied the texts related to this mirror, they only said, But I never imagined—” Her fingers twitched, barely restraining herself from reaching out to prod me like some ancient artifact. “Your form! I never imagined the mirror would bring me face-to-face with ! You’re just as as the texts described your sacred form!”

That gave me something to work with.

So, this artifact was to function this way. That meant I wasn’t just some random anomaly—this was an established phenomenon. I could unravel more from here.

What I do was blurt out,

No. I needed to take this slow.

She had expected the mirror to provide sacred knowledge. Her desperation was a key I could twist. So why not ?

Fortune favored bold charlatans.

“What the mirror’s texts say is true, child,” I said, weaving my voice into something cryptic and measured. “Your bridged realms, child. Now, lay bare what you seek.”

()

Vernia inhaled sharply, as if moved by divine wisdom. “Compassionate ancestor! You scent my ashes before I smolder.” She clenched a fist, summoning a flickering red flame in her palm. “And now I know you would be to learn how I have you.” Her voice dipped with shame.

“Ancestor, I… I’ve .” The flicker of flame danced on her palm. “The red core eludes me. I’ve meditated, honed techniques, even…” She hesitated, pride crumbling. “…stolen forbidden scrolls. Am I… unworthy?”

That was… insane for someone only sixteen. What the fuck were they feeding her? Or was she just some kind of monstrous prodigy?

And yet, she thought she was a ?

The standard was ridiculous, but I supposed being a princess came with different expectations. Privilege’s burdens were a different beast.

Still, now I had a better grasp of her request. And confirmation of her fire affinity.

I thought back to how Lotte had helped me connect more deeply with my lightning affinity. It hadn’t just been about raw power—it was about resonating with the behind the element itself.

And maybe… just maybe… I wouldn’t have to resort to cryptic riddles after all.

No one I’d ever met talked about elemental , regardless of their path. But Lotte had let a few slip: lightning’s concept of , and three others—fire, water, and earth.

I chuckled, low and gravelly, letting the distortion of the mirror twist the sound.

“How the cubs mewl over molehills now… they struggle to break past such a meager bottleneck…”

Cringeworthy? Undoubtedly.

Effective? Vernia’s awestruck paralysis confirmed it.

I let the silence stretch, let the weight of my words settle before I unfurled my wings and flickered out of sight—phasing into the space just behind her.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t even .

Not fear.

Reverence.

Intoxicating, this power to awe.

Leaning close enough to set her gemstones chiming, I breathed: “Foolish hatchling. You grovel for sparks when pyres await. Fire It does not beg.”

Her flame sputtered. “T-Takes?”

“The Concept,” I hissed near her ear. Her shudder sent emberlight skittering. “” The word kindled the gloom. “Not of realms. Of Let your core feast on its own chains.”

Her breath hitched.

And then—

A spark.

Flames surged to life in her palm, not just flickering, but roaring, hotter, than before.

Before revelation could curdle to questions, I severed the tether, dissolving into prismatic smoke. Let mystery ferment in her marrow.

Whether my stolen wisdom held merit mattered less than preserving this divine facade.

As Lotte oft crooned: