Dawn broke over Central Concordia, spilling golden light through the gauzy curtains of Ryaz's chamber. He woke with a start, his skin damp with sweat, the sheets tangled around his legs. The room spun momentarily as he sat up, his head pounding with each heartbeat.

The first official day of the Accords ceremony. Cultural exchanges.

Ryaz pressed his palms against his temples, trying to focus through the fog of whatever his uncle's potion had done to him. Michael's side of the bed was already empty, the imprint of his body still visible on the silken sheets. A note rested on the pillow, written in Michael's neat hand: "Gone to represent at the cultural exchange as requested. Rest well. I love you."

The memory of last night's conversation filtered back through the haze. Michael representing the Fae at today's events. His father's seal on the message. It still felt wrong somehow, but Ryaz couldn't pinpoint why.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Enter," he called, pulling the sheets higher to cover the luminescent patterns that had appeared across his chest overnight.

Lord Pharraseus swept in, carrying a tray with another crystal vial of shimmering blue liquid. "Good morning, nephew. How are you feeling?"

"Disoriented," Ryaz admitted, eyeing the vial warily. "The potion had... unexpected effects."

"A common reaction during the first cycle," his uncle said smoothly, setting the tray beside the bed. "This should help stabilize you for the closed meetings today."

Ryaz hesitated, then took the vial. The pounding in his head and the fire beneath his skin left him little choice. He drank quickly, wincing at the bitter undertaste.

"Where is Father?" he asked as the coolness spread through his veins.

"Already in the preliminary meetings with the selkie delegation," Pharraseus replied, gathering the empty vial. "He asked that you join once you're feeling able."

Ryaz nodded, the fog in his mind beginning to clear as the potion took effect. "I'll dress immediately."

His uncle paused at the door. "The hybrid seemed quite... eager to represent us at the cultural exchange."

"Michael," Ryaz corrected firmly. "His name is Michael."

Pharraseus inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his eyes remained cool. "Of course. Michael. A great honor for one of his... background."

After his uncle left, Ryaz rose shakily and moved to the washbasin. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was subtly changed—his features seemed softer somehow, his lilac eyes now shimmering with flecks of green. The glow beneath his skin had faded with the potion but hadn't disappeared entirely.

He dressed carefully in formal robes, making sure every inch of luminescent skin was covered. Whatever was happening to him, he couldn't let it interfere with the Accords. Too much was at stake.

In the Grand Exhibition Hall, the cultural exchange was in full swing. A massive stage had been erected at the center, surrounded by tiered seating that allowed delegates from all races to view the performances. Michael stood at the edge of the Fae delegation's section, heart swelling with pride as the Fae dancers took the stage. His speach in introducing them had been nerve wracking, especially as usually that honor was held for the Emperor, but he felt he didn't make too much of a mess with it. 

He watched as they moved like living moonlight, their bodies weaving the ancient story of the Great Tree and the first Fae beings. Magical illusions blossomed around them—a towering tree that seemed to grow from the stage itself, its branches spreading overhead in a canopy of silver-green leaves. Light poured from the dancers' hands, creating shimmering patterns that merged and separated in time with the haunting music.

Michael felt a pang of longing. Ryaz should be here to see this. It was his heritage, his story being told with such beauty and precision.

As the performance reached its crescendo, the illusory tree burst into thousands of luminescent butterflies that flew out over the audience, drawing gasps of wonder from humans and appreciative murmurs from the other races. Even the dragons seemed impressed, though they tried to hide it behind stoic expressions.

All except one. Across the hall, Michael spotted Prince Kovax leaning against a column, his amber eyes scanning the crowd. He was searching for someone.

Michael turned away quickly, hoping to avoid notice. He'd spent the morning with Ryaz's scent all over him—a side effect of sleeping beside his partner during the fertility cycle. If Kovax had reacted to Ryaz's scent last night, he might well detect it on Michael now.

Too late. Kovax had seen him. The dragon prince pushed away from the column and began making his way through the crowd, his determined expression sending a chill down Michael's spine.

Michael slipped between groups of delegates, trying to surruptitiously  lose himself in the crowd, but Kovax moved with surprising agility for someone his size. Before Michael could reach the exit, he found his path blocked by the dragon prince's imposing figure.

"Where is he?" Kovax demanded without preamble, his nostrils flaring as he caught Ryaz's scent on Michael.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Michael replied coolly, though his heart hammered against his ribs.

Kovax's scales darkened along his jawline. "Don't play games with me, hybrid. The Fae prince. Where is he?"

"His Highness is unwell," Michael said, keeping his voice neutral despite the protective anger rising in his chest. "He's resting."

Something flickered across Kovax's face—concern?—before his expression hardened again. "Unwell," he repeated skeptically. "Is that what they're calling it?"

"What exactly are you implying?" Michael asked, stepping closer despite himself.

Kovax's eyes narrowed, but Michael caught the way his pupils dilated slightly, responding to Ryaz's lingering scent. "Nothing. Just curious why the precious prince would miss such an important event."

"It's really none of your business," Michael said, his patience wearing thin.

"Maybe not," Kovax agreed with a shrug that was too casual to be genuine. "Just thought he might want to see the dragon fire dance. It's quite... illuminating."

Michael's anger bubbled over before he could stop it. "Stay away from him," he warned, his voice low but intense. "Whatever game you're playing, Ryaz isn't part of it."

Kovax startled at the directness of the command, then let out a bark of laughter that drew glances from nearby delegates. "You think I'm interested in that pathetic, scrawny little leaf-hugger?" His voice dripped with derision, but something in his eyes didn't match his words. "Nah, he's not worth my time."

Before Michael could respond, Kovax turned and stalked away, shouldering roughly past a group of selkie delegates who chittered in disapproval.

Michael watched him go, a knot of unease forming in his stomach. Kovax's denial had been too vehement, his reaction too strong for mere political animosity. Whatever was happening between the dragon prince and Ryaz, it was something Michael didn't fully understand—and that frightened him more than he wanted to admit.

In the closed meeting chamber, Ryaz struggled to focus on the documents before him. The potion had stabilized his temperature, but left his mind foggy, his thoughts slipping away like fish in a stream whenever he tried to grasp them. Emperor Ru'unan sat at the head of the table, looking similarly distracted, while Lord Pharraseus dominated the discussion with the other delegation leaders.

"The trade routes through the Crystal Mountains have been contested for centuries," Pharraseus was saying, his finger tracing a line on the map spread before them. "Perhaps a joint stewardship could be arranged?"

Ryaz shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The heat was returning, creeping up from his core despite the potion. He tugged at his collar, feeling sweat beading along his hairline.

His father noticed, leaning over to whisper, "Are you well enough to continue, son?"

"Yes, Father," Ryaz murmured back, though in truth, he was anything but well. The room seemed to pulse around him, colors too bright, sounds too sharp. "Just warm."

Emperor Ru'unan frowned, his own complexion unusually pale. "Perhaps we should break for lunch soon. I find myself... fatigued."

Lord Pharraseus glanced up, his expression concerned but his eyes calculating. "Of course, brother. Just a few more points to discuss, and then we can adjourn."

Ryaz closed his eyes briefly, trying to center himself. When he opened them again, the documents before him seemed to swim on the page, the words rearranging themselves in nonsensical patterns. He blinked hard, forcing his vision to clear.

Something was very wrong with his uncle's potion. This wasn't stabilization—it was almost like intoxication, but worse. His body felt disconnected from his mind, his senses heightened to an almost painful degree.

By the time the meeting finally ended, Ryaz was barely holding himself upright. He stumbled slightly as he rose from his chair, catching himself on the table's edge.

"I'll escort Prince Ryaz back to his chambers," Pharraseus offered smoothly. "He needs rest before tonight's events."

Emperor Ru'unan nodded, his own movements unusually stiff. "I'll join you shortly. I need to speak with the human Prime Minister first."

As his uncle guided him through the corridors, Ryaz felt the potion's effects beginning to fade, replaced by the now-familiar burning beneath his skin. By the time they reached the suite, he was panting, his robes clinging to his sweat-dampened body.

"Uncle," he gasped as Pharraseus helped him to a chair, "something isn't right with the potion. It's making things worse."

"Nonsense," Pharraseus replied, already preparing another dose. "Your body is simply adjusting. The first cycle is always the most intense."

Ryaz wanted to argue, but the fire racing through his veins made coherent thought nearly impossible. He accepted the vial with trembling hands and drank deeply, desperate for relief.

The coolness spread through him immediately, dousing the flames. But with it came that same disconnected feeling, as though he were floating slightly outside his own body.

"Rest now," Pharraseus said, his voice seeming to come from far away. "I'll check on you in a few hours."

Ryaz nodded, already drifting into a state that wasn't quite sleep but wasn't consciousness either. He was vaguely aware of his uncle leaving, of the door clicking shut behind him. Then he was alone with the strange sensations coursing through his body and the increasingly urgent feeling that something essential was missing.

Ryaz woke with a start, his mouth dry and his head pounding. The room had darkened—how long had he been unconscious? He fumbled for the timepiece on the bedside table. Early evening. Hours had passed in that strange, disconnected state.

Another vial of blue liquid sat on the table with a note in his uncle's elegant script: "Take this before tonight's reception. It will last longer."

Ryaz stared at it, doubt crawling through his foggy mind. Each dose had left him more disoriented than the last, yet the burning beneath his skin had returned with vengeful intensity. He picked up the vial, weighing it in his palm. The liquid inside shimmered in the dim light, almost hypnotic.

"To the Ancestor's grace," he muttered, and downed it in one swallow.

The effect hit him immediately—stronger than before. Ice flooded his veins, extinguishing the fire but bringing with it a dizzying euphoria. The walls of the chamber seemed to press in on him, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

He needed to get out. Now.

Ryaz stumbled to his feet, nearly falling as the room tilted around him. He steadied himself against the wall, taking several deep breaths until the worst of the vertigo passed. The thought of attending the formal reception in this state was unthinkable, but staying alone in this room was equally unbearable.

The hotel bar. Yes. Something normal. Something to ground him.

The Grand Luminance Bar occupied the hotel's mezzanine level, offering sweeping views of Central Concordia through floor-to-ceiling windows. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow patterns across polished surfaces, and the soft murmur of conversation blended with the gentle notes of a piano.

Ryaz chose a seat at the far end of the curved bar, away from the clusters of delegates enjoying pre-dinner drinks. The bartender approached—a human with an intricate tattoo of magica symbols winding up his forearm.

"What can I get for you?" he asked with a respectful nod.

"Something... cooling," Ryaz managed, his tongue feeling oddly thick in his mouth. "Non-alcoholic."

The bartender nodded and moved away. Ryaz closed his eyes briefly, focusing on the simple act of breathing. In. Out. The potion swirled through his system, making everything simultaneously sharper and more distant.

"Here you are, sir. Crystal Frost—our specialty."

A tall glass appeared before him, filled with a pale blue liquid that glittered with actual ice crystals suspended in midair throughout the drink. Ryaz took a grateful sip, the mint and elderflower flavors exploding across his tongue with unexpected intensity.

Across the bar, he caught a glimpse of familiar silver-streaked hair. His uncle was there, speaking intently to someone Ryaz couldn't see. 

He turned his head slightly, eyes scanning the dimly lit room. Until he spotted him; Kovax, the dragon prince, slumped in his chair, his usual regal posture absent. His amber eyes were glazed and unfocused, staring blankly at nothing. 

Ryaz quickly turned away, praying Kovax hadn't noticed him. The last thing he needed was another confrontation, especially in his current state. He drained his glass, intending to leave immediately, but the sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness through him. The room tilted alarmingly, heat rushing to his face.

Too hot. Far too hot.

He stood, steadying himself against the bar. "Restroom?" he asked the bartender, who pointed toward a hallway behind him.

Ryaz moved as quickly as his unsteady legs would allow, feeling sweat beading along his hairline. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly before him, the bathroom door impossibly distant. By the time he pushed through it, his skin felt like it might burst into flames.

The cool tile of the washroom was a blessed relief. He stumbled to the sink, turning the cold water on full blast and splashing it over his face and wrists. His reflection in the mirror was alarming—eyes almost entirely green now, skin flushed and glowing visibly even through his robes.

"What is happening to me?" he whispered, gripping the edge of the sink.

The bathroom door swung open behind him. Ryaz didn't need to turn to know who it was—the scent told him everything. Peppery spice and smoke and wildness.

"Well, well," Kovax's voice was a low rumble, slurred slightly from alcohol. "Look who's hiding in the bathroom."