"HE LIVES!"
A soldier scread from the city walls, his voice cracking across the wind.
"THE SEVENTH BATCH HAS PRODUCED A DRAGONBORN!"
The kingdom of Drakaria—so recently numb to the scent of ash and the silence of failure—erupted into a frenzy of hope. Just six days ago the people had grown used to mourning, their grief dulled by repetition. But now the impossible had happened.
A White Half Blooded Offspring had survived.
King Drakovitch rode through the capital in a grand procession, Spike following behind him. The streets were packed shoulder to shoulder with citizens shouting, weeping, and falling to their knees.
They were surrounded by the Dragon Knights, each mounted atop the kingdom’s national beast—the towering wyrm known as Wyrmfoot. The creatures stomped through the stone roads with thunderous steps, their scales glinting like armor beneath the blazing sun.
At the front rode the King’s Dragonguard, Percieval. The old warrior sat tall in the saddle, but tears stread freely down his weathered face. He looked toward Spike again and again, as though seeing his own grandson returned from the dead.
Behind him ca the King. Drakovitch was draped in the kingdom’s sacred white, a mantle adorned with the symbol of Tiamat—the eleven dragon heads, each one carved in a different color to represent the Primordial’s many forms. His posture was regal, his expression that of a proud father presenting a miracle to the world.
And behind the King stood Spike. He stood upon a massive raised platform so that the entire city could see him.
His midnight blue scales shimred beneath the sunlight. The enormous claws of his wings folded behind his back like the mantle of a young god. His white hair whipped in the wind as his glowing eyes looked out over the endless sea of people.
"LONG LIVE THE DRAGONBORN!"
"LONG LIVE KING DRAKOVITCH!"
But as the flower petals fell and the trumpets roared, Spike felt nothing but a hollow chill. Every cheer from the crowd sounded like the crackling fire that had consud Knots. Every banner waving in the wind reminded him of Big Arms’ hair turning to dust.
He was the "Quality," yet he felt as though he had been reborn only because others had given their lives for him... the lives of a thousand siblings.
The parade ended before the towering doors of the Grand Cathedral.
Inside, the celebration changed. The crowds of the streets had roared like a storm, but here the cheering was quieter—asured, restrained. The people gathered within these white marble halls were not common citizens.
They were the nobles. The higher bloods. Their applause ca in polite murmurs, refined and controlled, the kind of praise that carried more judgnt than joy.
Spike felt uneasy beneath their gazes. These were the sa people who had once looked at the white-blooded children with open disgust. Even though they were the King’s heirs, the nobles had always treated them like stains on the palace floors—half bloods born from common wombs.
To them, Spike and his siblings had never been princes. Only experints. So even now, as a Dragonborn, their presence made his chest tighten. But the mont Spike stepped onto the cathedral’s white marble floor, his talons clicking softly against the stone, the atmosphere shifted.
Those sa belittling eyes slowly transford... Disgust beca awe. Judgnt turned into reverence. Spike’s gaze softened slightly as he saw their expressions change.
A small noble boy pointed at him, eyes wide with wonder.
"Whoa, Mother... look at his wings! They have claws!"
His mother smiled faintly.
"Yes, my dear. That is Tiamat’s gift to him. He truly looks like a dragon, doesn’t he?"
"Yes!"
He walked proudly behind his father through the vast cathedral hall. From every side of the chamber, banners hung from the towering ceiling, each one representing a Seven Great Noble House.
Their symbols were distinct and proud: a blue dragon fang a crimson scale, a black heart and four others of ancient sigils swayed gently in the cathedral air, each banner whispering of bloodlines older than the kingdom itself.
The nobles stood in ordered lines beneath them. Jewelry chid softly as they bowed—rings striking against rings, chains brushing against jeweled collars. Their gestures were graceful, practiced, the bows of people who had spent their lives performing loyalty.
But while the elders maintained their perfect composure, the sa could not be said for those standing behind them.
Their young heirs could barely contain themselves.
Whispers burst like sparks among them, excited voices slipping past the careful silence their parents tried to maintain. Their eyes were not on the King, nor the court—they were fixed on the newly born Dragonborn.
There was a reason for their excitent. A tradition older than the kingdom itself followed every successful Dragonrite...
At the far end of the hall, near the massive statue of Tiamat, stood the Seven Council mbers. Their clothes bore the symbols of the great houses, showing that each of them represented their respective houses in the affairs of the kingdom.
Their presence carried the weight of the kingdom itself. For a mont, Spike believed the worst might be over. Perhaps nobility was beginning to accept him. But then his midnight-blue eyes stopped on one man.
Morgant.
The councilor stood perfectly still among the others. His long black hair was tied into a flawless low ponytail, not a strand out of place. His robes were dark and immaculate, and his face was carved with the sa cold stillness as the marble statues around him.
While the other council mbers wore smiles of ceremony and approval... Morgant’s eyes held nothing but disgust. The man leaned slightly toward one of the nobles beside him, his voice low but sharp enough to cut.
"So... the King has finally produced his first Dragonborn."
His lips curled faintly.
"Born from a contaminated womb of miserable, petty vulgars. Hmph! Pathetic."
Morgant’s gaze flicked toward Spike, as though examining a flawed jewel.
"The King may have drenched this boy in the blood of a god... But a half blood is still a half blood."
User Comments
0 comments from readers