Inside the grand chamber, silence reigned.
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, an eternal reminder of the power they revered.
At the throne, The King sat straight-backed, draped in gold and Velvet. At his side, his Queen, calm and composed, lifted a hand as a bird descended from above. Landed gently on her shoulder and chirped once, clear and bright.
Their children stood nearby.
One prince, sharp-eyed and restless, watched the entrance with a predator's patience—already picking out his future rivals.
Another prince stood apart, quiet and withdrawn, his gaze distant, untouched by the noise around him.
The Princess looked around, wide-eyed, lost in the colors and movement of the gathering.
The Seven Councillors stood at attention—among them, two Dragonborn. One, retired and weathered by age, his presence still commanding. The other, the King's right hand and the head of the council, sharp-eyed and unflinching. Both silent. Both watching.
The Twelve Dragonborn of the Kingdom stood near the front, their presence alone commanding the room.
All around them, the great houses waited. Lords, ladies, and knights stood in their finest armor, banners raised high. Each house had sent a candidate— 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, setting each plate aglow with a gleaming brilliance.
First to step forward the candidates from the House Asulfangs.
Tall. Composed. Proud.
Whispers stirred through the grand hall like restless winds.
"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, voice firm and clear:
"Lord Killian, heir to House Asulfangs, and his brother, Lord Hunter."
Second, from House Goldenwings.
Slight in build, his lazy posture during the parade shifted to composed stillness in the presence of the King and his brother.
"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 a few quiet chuckles.
Arté spoke again, a touch of personal pride in his tone:
"From House Goldenwings—Lord Eligant!"
Third, from House Crimsonscales.
Energetic. Reckless. Grinning wide. He was built like a mountain—tall, broad, unshakable.
"That boy once ran headfirst into a boulder." "The boulder cracked."
He waved at the crowd like a festival guest.
"Lord Hank of House Crimsonscales!"
Fourth, from the lesser house House Silverspine.
As the three boys entered, a ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd.
"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 their unease. Their smiles were forced, 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!"
The boy said nothing.
He rose, shoulders shaking, head down—and kept walking.
"Lord James, heir of House Silverspine—and his brothers, Lord Jack and Lord Kai!"
More followed. Some confident, others barely holding together. But each wore their house's colors, each carrying the weight of legacy—or desperation.
One by one, they took their place. Nineteen stood.
Only three remained.
The chamber quieted. Everyone turned to the entrance.
The final candidates were not just nobles.
They were royal blood.
First to arrive was what the kingdom once called its first omen.
Arté raised his voice, regal and resonant, letting each word echo through the chamber:
"Presenting Her Highness, Princess Eira of House Sestet—firstborn of King Solkris, daughter of the first queen.
Her appearance drew murmurs from the nobles and the council alike. Some could barely hide their disdain. Others, their regret.
"A shame she was born royal," someone whispered.
"She was not 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 not a single princess in recorded history had ever survived the Dragon Rite. All had become Twisted.
That's why no one dared to hope for her. Not for her strength, her beauty, her 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 did not falter beneath their stares. Her steps were light, steady.
As Eira stepped into position, the air in the chamber seemed to shift.
This was the moment the people had truly waited for. The kingdom's miracle.
"Presenting His Highness, Prince Johnquis of House Sestet—firstborn of King Solkris and Queen Serenova! The first of elven and human blood to undertake the Dragon Rite!"
The crowd erupted.
Cheers thundered through the hall. Eyes lit with hope.
He stepped into the light, and it danced around him.
His blonde hair shimmered like spun gold beneath the sun, his pale skin radiant, almost ethereal. Eyes of molten gold burned with purpose—the same fire the kingdom once believed lost.
"The promised prince," someone whispered.
"His presence alone gives peace."
"He'll vanquish all the Twisted."
"He's our savior."
Johnquis had walked every province. Dined in high halls and sat in mud huts. He helped where others passed by. The people loved him—not because of his blood, but because he cared.
He took his place before the throne. His father beamed—shoulders high, eyes proud. The queen's smile was soft, bright, and warm.
Then came a voice—the sharp, confident call of the secondborn prince.
"Johnquis! Once this is over, let's fight again—"
His words were abruptly cut short by a sudden jolt of electricity, his body twitching as the charge surged through him.
A crackle of thunder echoed through the room as the thirdborn prince, scowled. His fingers still crackled with the residual energy, eyes flashing in irritation.
"Ugh. Vanhart, you are so arrogant," He grumbled, his voice heavy with annoyance.
The chamber gasped in unison, tension hanging in the air.
But then, the youngest of the siblings, stepped forward, her voice soft but firm.
Her hands glowed with warm orange light as she gently placed them over Vanhart's singed skin, healing the burn in an instant.
"Hey, brother Novakris," she said with a teasing grin, her voice light as a breeze, "don't electrocute him—execute him, instead! Let me heal you."
Laughter rippled through the room, shattering the tension as the siblings' banter filled the space.
"Ooh, thanks, Ellaris," Vanhart chuckled, ruffling his hair as he brushed off the sting. "You always know how to make things better."
"The royal family..." someone whispered in awe, their voice full of reverence.
"They shine brighter than ever. The elves have brought us a future…"
Hope pulsed through the hall like a heartbeat, spreading warmth through the gathered crowd, reminding them of the promise that lay in the hearts of their royal family.
And just as the announcer prepared to end the procession—
the great doors creaked open one final time.
A hush fell.
Everyone turned.
There was one more.
No one knew his name. No one knew his face.
He stepped through the doors in silence, clad in the same armor—same cut and crest as Prince Johnquis. The Dragon Deity shimmered across his chest, its Six heads stretching like fire etched into the metal.
An armor worn only by those of royal blood.
But no armor could hide the truth beneath it.
Bruises marked his skin—faint, but visible. Along his neck. His wrists. The kind that linger long after the pain fades. His elegance couldn't conceal the scars life had carved into him.
And as he walked, the chamber gasped.
He walked slowly, without flinching, as if the weight of a hundred eyes meant nothing. Whispers swirled like smoke.
"Who is that?"
"Is he… royal?"
"Another prince?"
"Impossible."
"No… it can't be—"
He reached the center of the hall and stood tall before the throne.
"I am Gravier," he said, his voice clear, cutting through the murmur of disbelief and curiosity. "My blood carries the royal line of Alsin—the King's brother, and of the former Queen Madelaine."
The chamber erupted.
Gasps. Shouts. A wave of fury.
"A son born of scandal—"
"He dares speak their name—"
"He mocks the sacred Rite—throw him out!"
The fury of nobles cracked, voices rising in judgment, their pride wounded by his presence.
And then—the king stood.
His presence alone halted the chaos. The room fell quiet.
"Nobles," the king spoke, voice firm yet weary. "This boy stands here because I summoned him."
A sharp silence followed.
"He is the son of my brother, Prince Alsin. Conceived in betrayal, yes… but still born of royal blood. And we—above all—know what the dragons demand."
The silence was deep. Heavy. A truth few wished to admit.
"The Dragonrite is sacred," the king continued. "And the Rite recognizes only one thing—blood. The right blood. The royal blood. Whether born in honor… or in shame."
He looked out over the nobles, over the gathered councilors and dragonborns.
"So long as dragons breathe, their fire does not care how a child is born—only what flows within them. He will participate."
There were no cheers. Only silence. Uneasy nods. Faces twisted in distaste. But heads bowed. Slowly. Grudgingly. Hope, as it always did in times of darkness, outweighed pride.
The voice of Head Councillor Arté cut through the tension.
"Then the ceremony will continue."
Gravier stepped quietly into formation, aligning with the others. Their eyes didn't welcome him. Their silence burned more than any insult. But he stood tall.
The king raised his hand high.
"Now," he declared, "with all twenty-two candidates present—each bearing the symbols and colors of their noble houses—this day shall be written into history. Let the Dragonrite begin! May the dragons watch… and choose."