Inside the Grand Chamber.
Above the throne, embedded in the wall, was a statue of a six-headed dragon—their deity, Tiamat. Its stone eyes seemed to watch over them all.
At the throne, the King sat straight-backed, draped in gold and blue. At his side sat the Queen, her eyes cold, ready to judge every candidate.
The Seven Councillors stood at attention—among them, two Dragonborn. One, retired and weathered by age, still held a commanding presence. The other, the King's right hand and head of the council, watched with sharp eyes. Both silent. Both observing.
The eighteen Dragonborn stood near the front. Each wore the same black armor as the one Johnquis had seen in his village. In their hands, they held different weapons—each one unique, each seeming almost alive.
All around them, the great houses waited. Lords, ladies, and knights in their finest armor stood with banners raised high. Each house had sent a candidate—or more—twenty-two in total.
All waiting. All watching. Each seeking the blood of dragons. Each prepared to rise as heroes… or fall as monsters.
The chamber's high doors creaked open slowly, allowing morning light to spill inside. It touched the candidates' armor, making each plate glow with brilliant gleam.
First to step forward were the candidates from House Asulfangs—two young teens, tall, strong, and handsome.
Whispers spread through the chamber:
"They say those two were trained by Councilor Thorne himself…"
"Yes, they're his great-grandsons. Dragonborn blood runs in their veins…"
Head Councillor Arté announced,
"Lord Killian, heir to House Asulfangs, and his brother, Lord Hunter."
Second came a candidate from House Goldenwings. Slight in build, with a lazy posture, he looked like he was forcing his feet to move forward.
"That's Arté's younger brother."
"A genius, they say. Tactics, war history—all memorized."
"But he's always… napping?"
He yawned as he walked, drawing quiet chuckles.
Arté spoke again, with pride:
"From House Goldenwings—Lord Eligant!"
Third was a boy from House Crimsonscales—the opposite of Eligant. Energetic, reckless, and smiling wide. He was built like a mountain: tall and muscular.
"That boy once ran headfirst into a boulder."
"The boulder cracked."
He waved at the crowd like it was a festival.
"Lord Hank of House Crimsonscales!"
Fourth came three boys from the lesser House Silverspine. Murmurs followed.
"They're desperate this time, sending three."
"They're on the brink—if they fail to produce a Dragonborn again, they'll lose their title."
The first two boys smiled and waved, but their eyes betrayed unease. Their smiles were hollow.
But the third…
He trembled as he stepped forward, his armor clinking with each uneven step. Halfway through the hall, he stumbled—crashing to one knee.
Laughter erupted.
"He's just a boy. How old is he?"
"They should rename them House Shiverspine!"
"Haha!"
The boy said nothing. He rose, shoulders shaking, head down—and kept walking.
"Lord Jack, heir of House Silverspine—and his brothers, Lord James and Lord Kai!"
More candidates followed—some confident, others barely holding it together. But each wore their house's colors. Each carried their own fate.
One by one, they took their places. Nineteen stood. Only three remained.
The chamber quieted. All eyes turned to the entrance. The final candidates were not just nobles—they were of royal blood.
First to arrive was what the kingdom once called its first omen.
Arté raised his voice, letting it echo through the chamber:
"Presenting Her Highness, Princess Eira of House Sestet—firstborn of King Kris and Queen Madelaine!"
Her appearance drew murmurs from nobles and councillors alike. Some couldn't hide their disdain. Others, regret.
"A shame she was born royal," someone whispered.
"She wasn't destined for the dragon's blood."
"No girl survives the Rite," another said.
"She'll twist like the rest. All that promise… wasted."
But Eira only smiled.
History had already judged her. The firstborn. A girl. And no princess in recorded history had survived the Dragon Rite. All had become Twisted. That's why no one dared to hope for her. Not for her strength, beauty, skills—or even the heirs she could have given.
Yet still, she walked with poise.
The male candidates couldn't hide their awe. But she didn't falter under their stares.
As Eira took her position, the air in the chamber seemed to shift.
This was the moment the people had truly waited for—the kingdom's miracle.
"Presenting the Crown Prince, His Highness Savier of House Sestet—firstborn son of King Kris and Queen Madelaine!"
Cheers filled the chamber. Eyes lit with hope.
He stepped into the light, and it danced around him. His blonde hair shimmered like gold beneath the sun, his pale skin radiant, almost unreal. Eyes of molten emerald burned with purpose—the same fire the kingdom thought lost.
"The promised prince," someone whispered.
"His presence alone brings peace."
"He'll defeat the Twisted."
"He's our savior."
He took his place before the throne. His father sat tall, chin lifted, pride in his eyes. The queen's smile met his gaze.
"Take the dragon power."
Savier answered with his eyes, full of resolve.
"Of course I will, Mother."
He stepped into the candidate line.
The great doors creaked open one final time.
A hush fell. Heads turned. Breaths caught.
The last candidate entered.
No one expected him. No one wanted him.
Everyone knew his name. Everyone knew his face—and the sin he carried.
He stepped through the doors in silence, clad in the same armor as Prince Savier. Same cut, same crest. The Dragon Deity Tiamat shimmered on his chest, its six heads stretching.
Armor worn only by those of royal blood.
But no armor could hide the truth beneath it.
He entered confidently, every step burning under the weight of hundreds of stares. His eyes were fixed on the King—his father.
Whispers swirled.
"No… it can't be—"
"Disgusting."
"A son born of scandal."
"He mocks the sacred rite. Throw him out!"
The nobles cracked. Their fury broke loose—voices rising in judgment, pride wounded by his presence.
As Johnquis reached the front of the King, the Queen's eyes met his. Her face was filled with anger.