Chapter 481: Fake It Till You Make It
(Planet Vorthas, Capital City, One Day Before the Autumn Festival)
Valterri walked the procession route for the third time that afternoon, his cloak dusted with ash from the spice carts and his boots scuffed from the uneven stone of Riverbend Lane.
Every corner he passed, every awning he glanced up at, every vendor he observed unpacking festival goods…. he took mental notes of all of it.
Veyr’s training was currently being held in a secure facility under the Twelfth Elder’s direct authority, which meant he wasn’t allowed anywhere near it. So instead, Valterri did the only thing he could: prepare for tomorrow.
He had no illusions about the danger.
The new Dragon wasn’t just a symbol. He was a target. A walking bounty mark with the bloodline of an ancient enemy, paraded openly through the capital’s most crowded district.
Valterri ground his teeth.
Who thought a public appearance during a festival was a good idea?
From the Northern Gate to Hawkspire Avenue, then Riverbend Lane, he traced every part of the path. Most zones were manageable—guard rotations could be tripled, rooftops could be blocked off, and mana sensors could be calibrated.
But then came the Sunsteps Market.
The moment he stepped into the three-tiered plaza, he knew.
This was the problem.
Vendors packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Banners draped across rooftops. Lanterns swaying in the breeze. Kids darting between stalls. Slopes and stairs and pockets of blind spots at every level.
Too many places to hide a weapon. Too many points of elevation. Too many civilians to monitor.
He stood there a while, arms crossed, as he watched the evening crowd swell.
That was when he made the call.
“I want extra security in the market,” he told the local police captain, his tone sharp and clipped. “Triple the usual patrols. I also want the crowd movement restricted.”
A brief pause.
“And no double rows. I don’t care if the locals complain, don’t let too many people line up behind each other. If we can’t see the hands of those in the backlines, we’re sitting blind.”
A guard on the other end tried to mumble something about tradition and public visibility, but Valterri cut him off.
“The Dragon’s safety is not a joke.”
He turned in place, scanning the surrounding buildings again, this time with narrowed eyes.
Slanted rooftops with clean throwing angles.
Stalls that could be toppled to cause confusion.
Loose grates near the fountain.
He hated this.
All of it.
They were inviting an attack. Not preventing one.
And the worst part was, even with every countermeasure in place, even with the Cult’s best men on duty, Valterri still didn’t feel safe. Not when the righteous faction and everyone allied with them wanted the new Dragon dead.
Especially with how just one assassin slipping through could potentially turn tomorrow’s celebration into a bloodbath.
———–
While Valterri stewed in paranoia over tomorrow’s threat, elsewhere, Veyr and Leo winded down for the night, as they quietly made their way back from the secret training facility, towards the bustle of civilization, aboard a hovercraft.
It was the night before the Autumn Festival and the Twelfth Elder had finally dismissed them both, permitting them to rest before reporting for their respective duties the next morning.
Leo sat relaxed, one leg propped over the other, arms crossed, his gaze distant yet calm, while Veyr sat opposite him, leaning forward with both elbows resting on his knees, his body language betraying a restless tension he couldn’t quite shake.
He kept stealing glances at Leo, as if debating whether or not to speak, his fingers twitching slightly with hesitation, until Leo finally raised an eyebrow and asked him directly, “What is it?”
That broke the dam.
“You know, cousin,” Veyr began, his voice lower than usual, his tone slower, more deliberate, “back at the Arena, when you said you don’t feel like you’re the right fit to be the Dragon… most days, I feel the same.”
He paused for a second, taking a breath.
“When they ask me to wave, to smile, to show up and be this shining figure in front of a crowd, I feel like a fraud. Like I’m playing a part someone else was supposed to fill.”
As he said that, his shoulders sank, and his gaze dropped to the floor, as though saying it out loud only made the weight heavier.
“I mean, I know what they expect of me tomorrow,” Veyr continued, his voice dropping lower. “They want speeches and smiles and hope, they want some inspiring symbol, but I’m not that guy. I never was.”
He paused for a second, then let out a slow breath.
“I’ve taken lives. Not in battle. Not with honor.
The Fourth Elder handed me targets, righteous faction spies, criminals, insurgents, some barely older than us. And I obeyed without question.
Their souls became fuel. Fast power. Easy strength.
That’s what built me. Not destiny. Not heroism.
And now they want to parade me like I’m some chosen savior, when all I’ve ever been is a weapon that got lucky.
I was never meant to be the Dragon.”
Leo didn’t blink. He just let the words settle in the air, letting them hang there long enough to be heard but not pitied.
Before finally shrugging them off.
“Fine,” he said casually, as if none of it surprised him. “I’ll teach you a secret mantra… but you can’t tell anyone.”
Veyr blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”
Leo leaned in slightly, voice hushed, eyes gleaming with mock seriousness as he added weight to the moment.
“It’s a powerful mantra. Ancient. Passed down only to the deadliest of lunatics.”
Veyr gave a half-laugh, unsure if Leo was being serious, but still curious. “And what happens if I master it?”
Leo grinned, tapping his temple.
“Then you can become anyone you want. See, I’ve got a crazy alternate personality too. He’s cold, calculated, kind of terrifying actually. But he’s not really me. He’s just… who I aspire to be all the time.”
He leaned closer, dramatic pause in place.
“The secret mantra is… ‘fake it till you make it’, cuz.”
Veyr blinked, then scoffed in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious,” Leo replied, smirking as he leaned back again. “Doesn’t matter if you don’t feel like the Dragon. As long as you keep faking it, keep walking like you are, keep carrying that weight like you belong under it, one day you’ll realize you’re not pretending anymore.”
Veyr was quiet for a while after that.
Then, slowly, he looked out the window at the distant lights of the capital beginning to flicker on in the dusk.
“…Fake it till you make it, huh.”
“Works better than you think,” Leo said. “And besides, who else will they have as their Dragon? Surely you’re a better choice than me!”
That finally made Veyr laugh.
Not forced. Not guarded.
Just genuine.
As he slowly felt his trust in Leo grow stronger.