As the procession settled, the great hall returned to order. The council mbers ascended the steps to their towering stone chairs, each seat carved with the ancient crests of their houses.
Spike remained in the center of the cathedral, standing beneath the imnse shadow of Tiamat’s statue. The eleven headed dragon lood above him like a silent judge.
High above them all, Drakovitch took his place upon his own high chair. From there, he looked down at his son. His silver eyes carefully studied Spike’s new form.
"Look at him... Just last night he looked like a broken little boy... and now..."
He leaned forward slightly, fascinated.
"...now everything about him has changed."
This was the first ti Drakovitch had truly witnessed it with his own eyes. The ancient truth of the Dragonrite.
"When a white blooded child survived the rite and ascended, their body did not simply survive—it perfected itself. Their form advanced into the pri of their life. And that pri was never predictable."
Spike no longer looked like the frightened boy who had climbed the mountain. He looked like a young man already in his full strength—perhaps twenty years of age. His midnight blue scales shimred beneath the cathedral light, his wings folding behind him. Drakovitch felt sothing rare stir in his chest.
Pride.
The first true success of his bloodline had finally taken shape before him.
The High Priest stepped forward, his long ceremonial robes brushing across the marble floor. The hall fell into reverent silence as he raised a golden staff toward the vaulted ceiling, its dragon-headed crown catching the light of the sacred braziers.
His voice echoed across the cathedral.
"Hear this, all Houses of the Kingdom."
The nobles straightened instantly.
"After a thousand trials... after a thousand offerings to the sacred rite... the blood of the Eleven Dragons has chosen its vessel."
He turned slowly toward Spike.
"A mortal white blooded child has endured the Dragonrite."
The staff struck the stone floor once.
CLANG.
"Let the heavens witness it."
Another strike.
CLANG.
"Let the mountains rember it."
A third strike.
CLANG.
"On this day, beneath the gaze of the Primordial Dragon, a Dragonborn rises among us."
The High Priest lowered his staff, pointing it toward Spike.
"Son of King Drakovitch, survivor of the sacred blood... do you pledge that your life is devoted to the betternt of our kingdom?"
Spike hesitated for only a heartbeat. His new wings shifted behind him, the midnight-blue scales catching the light from the braziers. His mind reeled as he t his father’s unblinking gaze—those eyes, that presence... it made his blood surge wildly, as if sothing ancient within him had awakened and was clawing to answer.
In the silence of his thoughts, he whispered,
"So... all those thousand lives... the lives of my brother Knots and my sister Big Arms... they were all for the kingdom... for sothing greater..."
He looked back at the Priest.
"I was never ant to live a normal life. I was born with a purpose. A vessel... forged to raise this kingdom from the ruins of the demigod war."
His hand tightened at his side, trembling not with fear but with acceptance.
"I am my father’s blood... and to serve him is not a choice."
A breath.
"It is what I was made for."
Spike’s claws dug deep into the stone floor, leaving shallow gouges. His wings flexed nervously behind him. His chest rose and fell rapidly, weighed down not just by the Dragonrite’s physical transformation, but by the unbearable responsibility serving his father.
His glowing eyes flicked between the High Priest, the nobles, and finally, his father.
"Yes... I pledge it. I will devote my life to the betternt of this kingdom. I will honor the sacrifice of every soul who fell before . Their lives will not be forgotten. Through , their strength and courage endure."
His gaze locked onto his father.
"And to you, Father... I offer my life. Use as you see fit. Shape , spend , break if you must..."
A quiet, final vow:
"I exist to fulfill your will."
Drakovitch’s silver eyes softened, not with warmth, but with acknowledgnt. The High Priest nodded slowly, satisfied. He turned, raising both arms high as his voice swelled into a ceremonial proclamation.
"Then let it be known before the Seven Houses, before the Crown, and before the watching Primordial Dragon, Tiamat."
His staff struck the marble again.
CLANG!
"This child has endured the sacred trial."
Another strike.
CLANG!
"The mortal flesh has yielded to dragon blood."
The third strike rang louder than the rest.
CLANG!
"And from this mont onward, he is no longer rely a son of n."
The priest slowly stepped aside, turning toward the throne where Drakovitch stood. According to ancient law, the priest could announce the rebirth... but the na of a Dragonborn belonged to the King alone.
The High Priest bowed deeply, lowering his staff across his palms in reverence.
"Your Majesty, King Drakovitch, bearer of the Dragon Bone of Primordial Tiamat. The Dragonrite has been fulfilled."
He gestured respectfully toward Spike.
"The child stands reborn beneath the will of the dragons."
The priest knelt fully now, presenting the mont to the throne.
"By ancient covenant, the right of naming the Dragonborn belongs to the blood that created him. Your Majesty... the na of the Dragonborn now awaits your decree."
Drakovitch stood tall, his silver eyes shining with a terrifying, absolute clarity. He looked at Spike, not at the boy who liked his hair pulled, nor at the brother who wept for Knots but at the apex predator he had spent a thousand lives to forge. He reached out and placed a hand on Spike’s horizontal horns, the heat of the boy’s new skin searing his palm.
In his mind, Drakovitch wasn’t just naming a son. He was branding a weapon—a weapon he would need to hunt the other Primordial rulers.
"Citizens of Drakaria! Nobles of the Council! Look at him! You see a warrior in his pri. But rember—only seven days ago, he was a babe in a crib. Such is the curse and the glory of our blood. We grow like wildfire, and we burn just as fast. We are denied the luxury of a slow life. We are denied the warmth of a childhood. And because of that... we are denied nas."
A murmur went through the nobles. Lord Morgant narrowed his eyes, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the arm of his stone chair.
"I will tell you a secret..."
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