Draculeus, perched on the cliff, narrowed his slit blue eyes, watching every feint, parry, and thrust. Already, he could see which of these warriors might survive his scrutiny and which would crumble under the weight of a true Dragonborn’s expectations.
The ground shook as Percieval’s Wyrmwing finally slamd onto the landing pad. The shockwave was so sudden that the Citrineclaw noble and the Asulfang warrior stumbled back, their lethal dance interrupted. Percieval jumped from the saddle, his cape billowing as he marched toward the center of the arena.
The hundred candidates from the seven houses froze. The air in the Training Grounds, previously thick with the heat of battle, turned ice cold.
"LORD PERCIEVAL!"
To these noble house warriors, unlike Draculeus, who saw Percieval as an old fart and a prankable relic... Percieval was a living legend.
The boy with the triple bladed gauntlets from House Citrineclaw imdiately sheathed his weapon and straightened his posture, his eyes shining behind his glasses. He let out a loud, boastful laugh, looking toward his rival.
"Do you see, dog? The living legend himself! The Great Dragon Nail of our lineage! He has co to witness my elegance! It is only natural that the greatest dragonguard in history cos from the house of precision!"
The boast hung in the air, almost swallowed by the awe surrounding Percieval. The whispers of the young warriors punctuated the tension:
"Is it really him?"
"I heard he slew a demigod with just his bare hands... demigods are said to rival dragonborn in strength, yet he—he did it alone!"
"He served the previous two kings, and now King Drakovitch... and even still, he stands. He’s the asure of a Dragonguard... our standard, our pinnacle."
Eyes darted nervously across the field, seeking approval or recognition from Percieval. Even the proudest nobles felt the weight of history pressing down: here was the man who had molded legends, the one whose judgnt could elevate or destroy their hopes in an instant.
From his perch, Percieval’s gaze swept over the candidates, sharp and unflinching. Not a word was spoken, yet the silence itself spoke volus. Every movent, every stance, every heartbeat of the aspirants was now asured against the legend standing before them.
Draculeus, hidden atop the cliffs, watched carefully. Even with his newfound wings and godlike form, he felt the pull of Percieval’s presence. The reminder that true mastery was not granted by blood or ritual alone, but by the years of skill, sacrifice, and unwavering resolve.
The Citrineclaw noble stepped forward, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched his oversized gauntlets.
"Lord Percieval! It is the highest honor! To see you still standing at... what is it? Over a hundred years old? I pray to Tiamat that when my hair turns white and my skin sags like yours, I can still be half the man you are! To live so long... to be so ancient yet still breathe... it is a miracle!"
Percieval’s eye twitched. The "ancient yet still breathe" comnt hit him like a warhamr to the gut. He clutched his chest.
"Ancient? Sags? I am... I am in my twilight pri!"
He was about to lose his composure for a mont, but in ti he cleared his throat, refusing to let a careless comnt ruin his public image. His usual yapping old-man voice gave way to the commanding tone of a seasoned knight, matching the admiration the young warriors held for him.
"Enough talk of my age. I have seen how you fight. Each of you embodies the strengths of your house—precision, ferocity, cunning, endurance. These skills have forged the reigns of countless Dragonborn alongside us, the Seven Great Houses of Drakaria."
His eyes sweeping over the gathered warriors.
"But hear this: you think your elegance, your wild instincts, or your clever maneuvers alone matter? You are here for one purpose—one reason: to see if you will be chosen by our Dragonborn."
Percieval turned his gaze toward the jagged cliffs, his eyes narrowing. He knew exactly where the boy was hiding.
"Line up! Every one of you! Shoulders back, eyes forward! Clear the center of the ring!"
The candidates scrambled. The noble from Citrineclaw and the warrior from Asulfang took their places at the front, their rivalry montarily forgotten in the face of Percieval’s aura.
"You’ve spent the morning strutting, talking, preening like peacocks! But the one you wish to serve... has been watching. Every feint, every careless flourish, every spark of arrogance—you think it went unnoticed? It did not. And frankly... he looks bored."
Whispers rippled through the hundred candidates, their previous confidence shaking.
"His Majesty... Draculeus... has been perched above you for ten minutes! And in that ti... he has made his decision."
Gasps and nervous chatter erupted. Eyes darted to the cliffs, to the clouds, to every shadowed ledge.
"Wha—he already chose?"
"Where is he?"
"Is he in the clouds?"
"Where? I don’t see him!"
"Oh... Dragon God, who did he choose?"
Percieval glanced up toward the jagged cliff where Draculeus had been perched.
"Alright, Your Highness! It is ti for you to et this year’s candidates for the Dragonguard!"
Then, under his breath, barely audible—
"And please... don’t land on your head. My heart can’t take any more stress."
From the highest peak, a shadow peeled itself away from the stone.
BOOM!
The Dragonborn knew how to make an entrance. He plumted from the sky, wings tucked tight against his body like a falling spear. At the last possible mont—
CRACK!
His massive wings burst open, catching the air and unleashing a violent shockwave. Dust and gravel exploded outward in a storm, forcing the noble candidates to shield their eyes.
He struck the ground in a low crouch, talons cracking the arena floor beneath him. Slowly, he rose. His midnight blue scales shimred under the light. His wings folded behind him with controlled power, framing him like a living mantle of divinity.
Silence fell. Then, every single one of the hundred warriors dropped to their knees.
"YOUR HIGHNESS!"
"PRINCE DRACULEUS!"
Their breaths hitched. Their eyes widened. So whispered,
"...He’s... too majestic..."
One girl’s eyes widened so much that she could clearly see Draculeus’ aura of magic and might.
"That magic... that might... oh, to be honored to be near him... I—I don’t think I can even stand beside him as his Dragonguard... I might fall in love before I’m even chosen..."
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