Vensalia stood at the edge of the castle’s ruined courtyard, taking a long, steady breath. The weight of what had just happened—the bonding with the two dragons—still lingered within her, a strange mix of awe and trepidation. But there was no time for lingering. The dragons, now resting with their eggs in a safe spot just beyond the castle's perimeter, were safe for now, but she couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

Her body still felt strange, as if she had been thrust into a world she had no right to be in. But the bond with the dragons had given her a sense of purpose, an anchor in the chaos of this new existence. She couldn’t just stand there. She needed to understand this place—this ruined castle that had once been her family’s home. She needed to find out what was left, what could still be of use.

The dragons were far too large to fit through the narrow corridors of the castle’s heart. Their bodies, massive and regal, had remained outside, keeping watch over their eggs. But Vensalia wasn’t concerned. They were connected now, and as long as they were resting, she could search the ruins without fear.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty halls as she moved deeper into the castle, her eyes scanning the shadows for anything of interest. The walls around her, though cracked and worn, still held faint traces of the beauty they once had. The grand murals on the walls had faded, but she could still make out the outlines of majestic dragons, their forms immortalized in paint and stone. These were her ancestors, their power and legacy woven into the very fabric of the place.

As she moved further into the castle, she came upon a great hall, its high ceilings once adorned with delicate chandeliers, now shattered and broken. Dust hung in the air, and the floor was uneven, covered in rubble from the destruction that had torn the place apart. Vensalia’s gaze swept across the room, searching for anything that could aid her in understanding her new world.

At the far end of the hall, something caught her eye. A large, intricate door, though damaged, still stood partially ajar. She approached cautiously, her heart racing with curiosity. As she pushed the door open, it creaked loudly, the sound reverberating through the silence. Inside was a library, the walls lined with shelves that had once housed countless scrolls and tomes of great knowledge.

Vensalia stepped inside, brushing her fingers lightly over the worn spines of books that had withstood the ravages of time. Some were torn, others were reduced to dust, but there were still a few intact volumes. She ran her hand along the nearest shelf, scanning the titles, hoping to find something useful.

One book in particular caught her attention—a heavy, leather-bound tome with faded gold letters on its spine. The cover was intricately etched with symbols she didn’t recognize, but it felt... important. Pulling it from the shelf, she opened it carefully.

The pages were filled with elegant, flowing script, the ink still surprisingly legible despite the age. As she skimmed through the pages, she realized this wasn’t just any book—it was a guide to dragon bonding, ancient rituals and rites passed down through her family for generations. Her heart skipped a beat as she absorbed the information, the words speaking to a part of her that had always been there, waiting to be unlocked.

She had been chosen. And this book was the key to understanding how to truly bond with her dragons, to unlock the full extent of her family’s power.

The sound of a low growl from outside snapped her out of her reverie. She knew it was the black dragon, likely growing restless waiting for her. Closing the book, she tucked it under her arm and made her way back toward the castle’s entrance.

As she stepped outside, the sunlight hit her face, and she squinted, adjusting to the brightness. The two dragons were resting nearby, their massive forms stretched out under the protective shade of a half-collapsed tower. The white dragon was curled around her eggs, her tail twitching in her sleep, while the black dragon lay nearby, his eyes half-closed as he kept watch over the territory.

Vensalia smiled softly at the sight. They were safe for now.

Turning away from them, she continued her exploration. There was still more to discover. The castle’s outer grounds were just as ravaged as the inside, but there were signs of life, too. Overgrown vines clung to the walls, and small plants had begun to push through the cracks in the stone, reclaiming the land.

She passed by what looked like an old garden, its hedges long since unraveled, but the faint remnants of flowers still lingered. This place had once been a home—full of life, full of warmth. Now, it was only a shadow of what it had been.

Yet there was something about it that resonated within her. This castle was hers, or at least part of her. The knowledge, the power of her family, had been passed down through generations, and she was its last living heir. She had dragons now—two of them—and her family’s ancient legacy was hers to wield.

Her footsteps led her to a crumbling courtyard, where the remains of statues stood tall, their features eroded by the years. One statue in particular caught her attention: a figure of a woman, holding a sword aloft, her face noble and fierce, yet somehow familiar.

Vensalia approached the statue, her heart beating faster as she traced the contours of the stone. She had seen this figure before, in the family portraits she had glimpsed earlier in the castle. This was her ancestor, the one who had founded the Vakriyoma family, the one who had been known for her incredible power and bond with dragons. Maerala Vakriyoma.

A shiver ran down Vensalia’s spine as she realized the truth. This castle, these ruins, they were more than just a symbol of the past—they were a testament to what she had inherited, what she was meant to become.

“I will restore this,” she whispered, her voice filled with determination. “I will restore this legacy, for my family, for my dragons.”

As she stood there, staring at the statue, she felt a presence behind her. The white dragon had risen, silently moving toward her, and the black dragon followed close behind. They were ready to begin their journey, to reclaim what had been lost. And Vensalia was ready, too.

But first, she needed to learn more, to prepare herself for the challenges that awaited them. And this castle, these ruins, held the answers.

The dragons would rest while she searched. There was much to uncover before the real journey could begin.

---

After hours spent sifting through the ancient texts, Vensalia’s mind was racing. The discovery of her family’s history—the Vakriyoma bloodline, its dragon bonding, powers, and the deep, ancient magic that ran through her veins—had been both exhilarating and overwhelming. Yet, something inside her still burned with the desire to uncover more. There were still pieces missing, still so much about her legacy to explore.

Leaving the main halls behind, Vensalia moved toward the unexplored wing of the castle. This part of the household was more secluded, untouched by time in some places but ravaged in others. The air was thick with the most of old stone and forgotten memories. Her footsteps echoed eerily against the cold walls as she wandered deeper, her mind set on finding answers that would tie her past to the present.

As she ventured further, the halls became narrower, the flickering light of her lantern casting long shadows on the stone floor. The walls were adorned with faded murals, depicting the once-glorious battles fought by her ancestors—dragons in flight, battling other beasts, their riders wielding weapons that looked almost too magnificent to be real. The dragonriders of old were depicted not as kings or lords, but as legends, their strength and bond with the dragons unparalleled.

At the end of the hallway, she arrived at an imposing wooden door, weathered and marked with strange symbols. She hesitated for a moment, her breath catching, before pushing it open. The hinges groaned in protest, but the door swung wide to reveal a large chamber.

The room was cavernous, its high ceilings lined with banners bearing the sigils of the Vakriyoma house. On the walls hung weapons—great swords, axes, and spears—each one mounted with care, as though to honor its former wielder. Vensalia’s eyes were drawn to the center of the room, where an ornate, blackened chain scythe rested atop a stone pedestal. Its jagged blade shimmered faintly in the low light, and the coiled chains seemed to pulse with a strange energy, as though they were alive. It was unlike any weapon she had ever seen.

As she stepped closer, she could feel the weight of history in the air. This wasn’t just a weapon; it was a symbol. Her fingers hovered just above the handle, feeling a faint pulse of power—almost as if the weapon was waiting for her touch.

“This was made for a dragonrider,” she muttered to herself. The scythe’s blade was curved and jagged, clearly built for combat with dragons in mind—its length and reach perfect for lashing out at foes from a distance, or ensnaring enemies mid-flight. She couldn’t help but wonder if her ancestors had wielded this weapon alongside their dragons, using its chains to strike at the great beasts or defend themselves in the air.

Her fingers brushed the handle, and as soon as she made contact, a flash of memory—her ancestors, their faces blurred—flashed across her mind. She saw them mounted on dragons, wielding weapons like this one. She could feel their connection to the creatures, the bond they shared. It was powerful. Intense.

But then, as quickly as the vision came, it was gone. The scythe felt just as heavy in her hand as it had before, but now it held a sense of purpose. She knew, instinctively, that this was not merely a relic. It was part of her legacy. The key to her family’s return to power.

Carefully, she withdrew the scythe from its pedestal, testing its weight in her hand. The chains rattled softly, alive with the power of the past. It felt right, as if it had been waiting for her. Her heart quickened. This weapon, this bond with the past, was a part of who she was meant to be.

Vensalia moved on, scanning the room for more artifacts, more clues. On a nearby shelf, she found an intricately carved helmet—large enough to fit a rider, but smaller than those worn by the mighty Targaryens. It was adorned with ancient symbols she recognized from the texts she had read earlier. And beside it, a dragon-shaped shield—its surface blackened and cracked, but unmistakably powerful.

Each item seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a connection to the dragons her family had once tamed and fought beside. This was her inheritance. This was the legacy that had been hidden from her. She could feel it now—coursing through her veins, waking up inside her.

She picked up the helmet and shield, contemplating what her next step should be. She knew she had to find more of these artifacts, perhaps spread across different parts of Valyria, or even further. Every weapon, every piece of armor, every relic was a piece of her family’s puzzle, a link to their forgotten power.

Her mind was already racing with possibilities. What if the dragons still remembered her bloodline? What if they, too, had been waiting for the Vakriyomas to return? She could feel it—something ancient was stirring, deep within the ruins of Valyria, and Vensalia would be the one to awaken it.

But as she turned to leave the room, something caught her eye. A small chest, hidden beneath a pile of old scrolls, sat in the far corner. Its lock was rusted, but the intricate carvings on its surface mirrored the symbols of her house. Slowly, she approached, her heart beating faster with each step.

She knelt before it and, using the tip of the sword, pried open the chest. Inside, there was a set of delicate silver rings, each engraved with a unique symbol—some she recognized, others were foreign to her. But it was the ring in the center that caught her attention. It was larger than the others, with an onyx gemstone set into it, pulsing faintly with a dark energy.

As her fingers wrapped around the ring, she felt the same surge of power she had felt with the sword—a strange, electric feeling coursing through her body. It was as if the very essence of her family’s past had been contained in this ring, and now it was being passed to her.

Without thinking, she slipped the ring onto her finger, and instantly, a flood of images rushed through her mind. Her ancestors—riders of dragons—fighting battles, winning wars, forging alliances with other powerful families. And then, a vision of a massive dragon, pure black, its green eyes glowing with an ancient fire.

Her breath caught in her throat as the vision cleared. This was the dragon of her bloodline—the one she would claim, the one she would bond with aside to those two dragons she also bonded.

Vensalia rose to her feet, her hand instinctively resting on the sword’s hilt. The path forward was now clear. The Vakriyoma family would rise again, and with their dragons at their side, nothing would stand in her way.