His presence alone silenced the room. The chaos stopped cold.
"Nobles," the King said, "enough"
The King stared down at Johnquis.
You say you do not know why you're here," the King said calmly,
Johnquis nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty. I didn't ask for this. I don't belong here."
The King stepped down from his throne, walking slowly toward him.
"You say you have no house, no title," the King said. "Yet you bear no mark. Your blood is clean."
Johnquis stayed silent.
"You survived in a village full of sickness. You reached this hall without training, name, or coin. And yet you stand here, alive, unbroken."
The nobles watched, confused, tense.
The King stood in front of him now. Face to face.
"You say you do not belong here," the King said. "But the blood in your veins says otherwise."
The king saw the eye of Johnquis.
"You may not want this. You may not understand it. But this fate—you can't run from it."
Johnquis looked down, his fists tight.
"If you walk away now," the King continued, "it won't just be you who pays. Your village—those people you care about—they will suffer. To refuse the Rite is to defy the crown. That's treason."
The room stayed silent.
"You were hidden away your whole life. But not anymore. The Rite has begun, and your blood has called you forward. You will take part. That's final."
He turned and walked back to his seat.
"Let the Rite continue."
Johnquis stepped quietly into formation, aligning with the others. Their eyes didn't welcome him. Their silence said enough. It burned hotter than any insult. But still—he stood tall.
At his side, Prince Savier leaned toward him.
"Don't you ever let your skin touch mine, you filthy thing. If my father accepts your blood, I don't. And I swear—I'll make you regret ever stepping in here."
Johnquis said nothing.
Then came the sound of a horn.
The King stood and raised his hand.
"Thousands of years past," the King began, "our world was consumed by a war unlike any other. A war among the dragons themselves—born of pride, a need to prove who among them was strongest."
He paused.
"The aftermath was a disaster. Mountains of dragon corpses littered our land. Their blood soaked into our earth, poisoning our rivers, tainting the very water we drank. our land withered. And we—humans, who once lived in peace with dragons—suffered the most."
His voice grew heavier.
"Famine followed. Crops rotted. Livestock died. Rivers turned to venom. And one by one, families… perished."
His fist clenched at his side.
"Those who survived scavenged the dragon corpses. They drank the blood. They ate the flesh. Just to survive…"
He took a breath.
"It kept them alive—but at a cost."
His voice dropped low.
"Purple marks appeared. Then something terrible happened. Their bodies twisted. Their minds broke. They grew larger… monstrous… full of rage and hunger. No longer human."
"They became the TWISTED."
He let the words settle.
"The same Twisted that haunt us! They overwhelmed the weakened dragons. The world stood on the edge of ruin. But in our darkest hour, a miracle appeared."
His voice softened.
"Some who drank endured. Their bodies changed, but not into monsters. They became something new. They became… DRAGONBORN."
He stood straighter.
"They wielded the power of dragons. They fought back. They became our heroes."
Then his tone darkened again.
"But it wasn't enough. The Twisted spread faster than we could fight. There were too few Dragonborn."
He looked out a tall window.
"Years of war wore us down. The western and northern lands, where the Sea of Blood first poisoned the earth, fell. No survivors. The land was lost."
He looked back at the hall.
"We ran. We hid in the last corners of the world. Nearly wiped out. And still, everywhere, everyone carried the mark… waiting to twist."
A long pause.
"So, with the last of the dragons, we made a choice. A final gamble."
"We built the System. The DRAGONRITE. A rite of power. A rite of judgment. And yes… a rite of death."
No one spoke.
"This is our legacy. Our duty. To keep creating Dragonborn, to take back the land we once called home, and to end this suffering. The Dragonrite is our hope—and our curse."
He looked at the candidates.
"Today, twenty-two sons and daughter of royal and noble blood stand before us. They have come of age—chosen by fate, bound by legacy. Today, they face a Rite as old as the kingdom itself. A sacred trial, born of our dragon deity and the legacy of the first Dragonborn."
He raised his voice.
"They will drink the blood of Tiamat. If they are worthy… they shall rise as Dragonborn—protectors of our realm!"
The crowd erupted in applause. Some wiped away tears. Knights lifted their swords in salute. Dragonborn beat their fists to their chests in respect.
The candidates stood tall, their chins high. They knew the weight of this moment. The future of their people now rested on their shoulders.
"May the dragon Tiamat choose you!" the King declared.
And the crowd answered with a cry full of hope:
"All hail the Dragonborn!"
"All hail the candidates!"
"Hail! Hail! Hail!"
The cheers filled every stone, every hall, every heart.
Then the crowd began to sing the kingdom's anthem:
**"We drank the blood, we bore the pain,
In cursed lands, through ash and flame.
The Twisted rose, the sky went black,
But dragon fire pulled us back.
Hail the Unmarked! Hail the brave!
Dragonborn shall rise and save!
Purple-marked, but dragon-hearted,
We are the blood the gods once started!
Bound as one, we stake our claim—
We rise beneath Tiamat's name!"**
Everyone sang—loud, proud, certain. Johnquis stood still, quiet.
He didn't know this song. He didn't know any of this. The war. The dragons. The marks. His village was never told. They just suffered and stayed afraid.
He looked at the others—singing with fire in their eyes.
And in his head, he thought:
"So that's what it was. The marks. The sickness.
They knew. And we didn't."
His hands clenched.
"If becoming a Dragonborn means stopping this…
If it means saving the marked—my people…
Then I'll do it. I'll drink. I'll become one."
He stood there. Quiet.
But ready.