The Silver Dragon

Giana POV:

"Giana, if you still want to recall that memory, then drink the calming draught. Otherwise, we'll stop here."

Madame Eva's voice cut through the heavy silence of the stone therapy room, yet I barely heard a word she said.

My mind was filled entirely with the man who had died for me.

"I don’t need a sedative. Bring the basin."

Eva did not move at once, only stared at me.

"You have relived that afternoon eleven times," Eva said softly, her dark wand resting loosely between her fingers.

"The Pensieve is not a tool for self-flagellation, Mrs. Kowalski. If your mind rejects the final sequence again, the psychic backlash will tear your sleep cycles apart permanently."

"His name is Emmett," I snapped. "I’m going back in. Bring it."

Eva sighed, worn out by weeks of my stubbornness.

She flicked her polished wand.

From the shadows of the stone alcove, a dark granite basin carved with runes drifted across the room and settled on the pedestal between us.

Inside swirled a pool of mercury-bright mist.

"Clear your lungs," Eva instructed.

She raised her wand to my right temple.

The tip was icy cold, a sharp chill sliding down my neck.

With a slow, skilled tug, she drew a shimmering silver thread of gossamer from my skin.

It clung to the wood like liquid cobweb before falling into the basin with a faint, melodic chime.

As the memory unfolded across the stone, an uninvited face flashed through my mind—Colin Reynolds.

The radiant Avian boy with golden hair and broad wings, the star chaser of the skyball pitch whom I had chased blindly like a fool all through my youth.

The phantom of my foolish past devotion turned my stomach, and I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to look at him.

"Open your eyes, Giana," Eva whispered. "Do not fight the descent."

I leaned forward and dipped my face into the swirling mist.

The scent of old parchment, damp soil and bitter wolfsbane flooded my nostrils, and gravity vanished.

When my boots touched solid ground, the blinding gray fog dispersed, revealing the parlor of our small stone cottage on the outskirts of Wanling Keep.

I once again returned to my memories.

I stood watching my younger self.

I wore a brand-new crimson travelling cloak lined with gold—the proud colors of Blaze Spirit House.

The kitchen latch clicked.

Emmett walked into the parlor.

My heart clenched sharply.

He held a steaming ceramic mug of star-mist brew, his knuckles red and rough from scrubbing cauldrons.

His Abyssal House robe was faded from constant washing, with frayed threads hanging from the seams he had mended himself.

He looked haggard and fragile, his tall, lean frame hunched with exhaustion.

Then he lifted his head.

Those silver vertical pupils—the ancient, unyielding mark of Dragonkin blood—locked onto mine.

There was nothing but endless, bottomless stillness.

"Emmett," my past self said, her voice cold as biting frost. "We need to end this now."

I watched my younger self reach into her cloak and pull out a rolled sheet of thick vellum.

Beneath the red wax seal stamped with the Magic Council’s crest lay a Binding Severance Contract.

I stepped forward and slammed the parchment onto the wooden table between us.