The ten-year-old prince of Lothara woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to his brow like dew on morning grass. His breath came in ragged bursts as he sat upright in bed, eyes wide and heart pounding, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to the edges of his mind. He had dreamed of something dark, something ancient and terrible—a creature made of living shadow, with eyes like blood and teeth like the twin moons, sharp and blinding white.

  Joran’s small hands trembled as he pressed them to his chest, trying to calm his hammering heart. The silk sheets tangled around his legs felt suddenly constricting. He turned his gaze to the glass doors leading out to the balcony. Beyond the clear pane, the royal gardens shimmered in silver moonlight. Both moons—Velaria the gentle and Tuarin the pale—hung high and serene, casting their glow upon the quiet world below. It was the middle of the night, and Lothara slept.

  But he could not.

  Slipping out of bed, he padded across the polished marble floor, his steps soft, instinctively quiet. His heart still thudded in his ears, and though he was the Prince of Lothara, tonight he felt no braver than a scared child. He needed her—his mother. When the nightmares came, it was her presence that brought calm. Often, he would slip into the royal chambers, crawling into the vast bed between her and his father. She would stroke his hair and hum lullabies in a language older than the wind.

  He needed that tonight.

  Joran opened the heavy door to the king’s bedchamber, the carved wood cool beneath his fingers. A low, rumbling snore greeted him—a sound like distant thunder echoing through the mountains. His father, the Dragon King, lay sprawled across the bed, the weight of sleep pressing heavy upon him. His armor and crown rested on a nearby stand, the gold catching faint starlight. But the space beside him was empty.

  His mother wasn’t there.

  He closed the door gently, careful not to wake the king, and turned back into the corridor. The castle was quiet, lit only by enchanted lanterns that flickered with soft, golden flame along the walls. As he wandered through the moonlit halls, he passed a pair of knights clad in silver and crimson armor, their helms tucked beneath their arms.

  One of them, Sir Rennek, a tall man with a grizzled beard and a scar tracing his jawline, gave him a cool glance.

  "Out of bed, Your Highness?" he asked, his voice low, unreadable. "Bit late for midnight strolls, don’t you think?"

  "I’m looking for my mother," Joran replied, trying to stand a little straighter.

  The second knight, Sir Halmar, younger and softer in demeanor, offered a faint smile. "She wasn’t with the King?"

  Joran shook his head. “She’s probably in her study again. I had a nightmare.”

  Halmar gave a slow nod. "She’s always up late with those books of hers. Hasn't stopped digging through them since… well, for years now. Maps, scrolls, things no one's allowed to touch. You want me to escort you?"

  "I’ll be fine," Joran said quietly, though his voice betrayed a sliver of doubt.

  “Watch your step, then,” Rennek said, already turning away.

  A little farther down the hall, two maids were arranging a vase of moon lilies on a pedestal. Their expressions softened when they saw the prince.

  “Prince Joran,” said the older of the two, a gentle woman with wisps of silver in her hair. “Is everything all right?”

  “I just… I need my mother,” Joran murmured.

  “You poor thing,” said the younger maid, moving closer to smooth a hand over his hair. “You’re pale as snow. Another bad dream?”

  He nodded.

  “She’ll be in the west wing, dear. Her study’s where she always is at this hour. You go on now. If you need anything, just call for us.”

  “Thank you,” Joran said, his voice barely more than a whisper as he turned and continued on.

  He walked alone through the towering corridors, the silence of the castle beginning to press in around him. Even the walls seemed to breathe—ancient stone watching his every step. He passed beneath stained-glass windows that shimmered with moonlight, depicting the great battle between his parents and the foundation of Lothara. As always, the eyes in the glass seemed to follow him.

  And then—he heard it.

  A scream.

  A high, anguished cry, torn from a throat not meant to make such a sound.

  Joran froze.

  The sound had come from the direction of the Queen’s study.

  His blood turned to ice. His feet moved before his thoughts caught up. His bare soles slapped against the polished stone as he sprinted, heart pounding against his ribs.

  Mother is the Queen of the Western Dragons, he thought desperately. No one can hurt her… right?

  Another scream. Sharper. Closer.

  Then silence.

  He skidded to a stop before the great oak door carved with arcane sigils, breath ragged, sweat slick across his brow once more. His trembling fingers reached for the handle.

  "Mother?" he called out softly. “M-mom… are you okay?”

  He pushed the door open.

  And what he saw inside—

  Would change his life forever.

  _______________________________________________________________________

  The young prince awoke with a sharp inhale, heart racing, his skin slick with sweat. He sat upright in bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, his breaths shallow and uneven as if he’d been running in his sleep.

  A nightmare.

  Another one.

  He couldn’t remember the details—he never could—but the weight of it clung to him like a second skin. There had been darkness, that much he knew. A presence. Always watching. Always waiting.

  A knock at the door pulled him from the fog of sleep.

  “Your Highness?” came a familiar voice from beyond the heavy wood. “Are you awake? It’s nearly midday. You’re going to be late for your meeting with the King.”

  Joran blinked slowly, eyes heavy with lingering fatigue. He gave a faint nod before realizing, a second too late, that the attendant couldn’t see him.

  “R-right… I must’ve overslept,” he replied, voice still soft and hoarse. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  Silence followed, then the sound of retreating footsteps.

  Joran sighed and pushed himself out of bed, his bare feet meeting the cold marble floor. He padded over to the tall mirror standing in the corner of the room. Pale light streamed through the windows, casting his reflection in sharp detail.

  He stood at five-foot-nine, his frame slender but wiry, shaped by years of rigorous—though secretive—training. His dark brown hair, slightly wavy, fell to his ears in an unkempt but deliberate fashion. His brown eyes, usually warm in his younger days, had dulled to something quieter. Something more cautious.

  He slowly pulled off his sleep shirt and stared at himself in the mirror.

  Scars. Dozens of them.

  Some were faint, silvery slashes across his sides and ribs. Others were deep and angry, still healing, the worst of them stretched directly over his heart—a long, jagged line that throbbed faintly even now. It was said to be from an assassination attempt when he was very young. He had survived by some miracle, but he had no memory of it. Just the scar.

  And the others?

  He didn’t talk about them.

  They came from the knights. Not all of them. But a few. The ones who claimed to be his "special instructors." The ones who said they were shaping him into something stronger. A prince fit for his father’s legacy. The bruises and cuts were the price of “discipline.” The cracked ribs and bloodied backs were “lessons.”

  He’d learned quickly not to speak of it.

  Not to wince. Not to complain. Not to cry.

  Because the knights had made it clear—if he told anyone, if he even hinted at their cruelty, they wouldn’t just punish him. They’d punish the maids who brought him food, the tutors who praised his spellwork, the elderly attendants who treated him with kindness. So, the bruises stayed hidden. Just like the memories he couldn't explain. Just like the fear that wrapped around his chest each time he passed a knight in the hall.

  He ran a hand over the amulet at his neck, the metal cool to the touch. It never came off. Not ever.

  He’d been told that it was the only thing keeping him alive.

  That his mother—the Queen of the Western Dragons—had died from an ancient illness that only affected dragons and their kin. And that without the amulet, the same fate would claim him. The story had never made sense. But no one dared question it. Not the servants. Not the scholars. Not even him.

  He hated it.

  But he wore it.

  With a quiet breath, Joran turned away from the mirror and stepped onto the terrace.

  The royal gardens stretched below him like a living painting. Elves and fae moved like dancers through flowerbeds that shimmered with magic. Nymphs watered vines that bloomed with fire, frost, and moonlight. There were trees from all over the realm. The air smelled of spice, soil, and summer rain.

  For a moment, he just stood there, letting the breeze brush through his hair. The illusion of peace. Of freedom.

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  He had never stepped beyond the palace walls. Not once.

  And yet, he had trained his whole life. Swordplay. Magic. Strategy. His tutors praised him endlessly. But for what?

  He had no war to fight. No mission to fulfill.

  Only dreams of the outside world and a cage of velvet and gold.

  With another sigh, he turned and walked back inside. He chose an outfit he favored—simple, yet noble, just enough formality to satisfy his father, but comfortable enough to breathe in.

  A dark forest-green tunic, stitched with understated silver thread at the collar and cuffs, was layered over a black undershirt. He buckled a fitted leather vest over it—casual armor, enchanted to deflect minor spells and blades, though it didn’t look it. His trousers were black, snug but flexible, with reinforced lining sewn by the dwarves below the palace. Over his shoulders, he draped a deep gray cloak, clasped with a brooch shaped like a curling dragon wing. The cloak pooled softly at his heels as he moved, elegant and shadowed, the kind of garment worn by someone who preferred corners to thrones.

  He checked himself once in the mirror, tugging the tunic straight to ensure none of his bruises or scars showed through. Not that they ever did—he’d long since mastered the art of hiding them.

  And then, with one last glance at the terrace, at the garden that symbolized everything he was forbidden to touch, Prince Joran opened his door and stepped into the hall.

  Today, he had a meeting with the King.

  And somewhere, beneath the polished stone and scented flowers and perfect smiles, the nightmare waited.

  Just out of reach.

  Just under his skin.

  The echo of polished boots on marble rang out in rhythm through the high corridors of the royal palace as Prince Joran walked alongside Captain Varik, commander of the Royal Guard. The man was older, broad-shouldered, and built like the marble pillars that lined the halls—unshakable, seasoned, and sharp-eyed beneath his gray-streaked hair. His armor bore the black-and-gold insignia of Lothara, polished to a mirror sheen.

  Joran’s cloak swayed behind him with each step, his hands tucked neatly behind his back in the practiced poise of a prince, though his posture relaxed slightly when Varik spoke.

  "So," the captain said, his tone low and casual, "you’re really going through with it, aren’t you?"

  Joran glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Through with what?”

  Varik scoffed. “Don’t play dumb. I’ve seen that look in your eye for weeks now. I might be old, but I know trouble when it’s preparing its speech.”

  Joran gave a faint smile, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s not trouble. It’s… necessary.”

  "Necessary," Varik repeated, shaking his head. "That's what your father said right before marching headlong into a nest of flamewings. Damn near got himself eaten."

  “I heard he gutted three of them before breakfast.”

  "Four, but who’s counting." Varik smirked, then elbowed Joran lightly. “All this training—your spells, swordplay, silent steps through shadow—tell me, have you found someone to share all that royal perfection with yet?”

  Joran rolled his eyes. “Not this again…”

  “I’m just saying, Your Highness,” Varik said, adopting an exaggerated tone of formality, “you are the only known child of dragon and slayer. The only one of your kind. That means you have… options.”

  “Options?”

  “Options!” Varik chuckled. “You could marry a princess. Or a mermaid. Or a whole council of dryads if you’re feeling adventurous. No royal rules for someone like you. You could bed a hundred women and no one would question it—hell, they’d thank you for continuing the bloodline.”

  Joran flushed lightly, turning his face away. “That’s not… I’m not thinking about that.”

  “You should be. You’re twenty-five. Strong jaw. Hair that actually behaves itself. Muscles earned from years of me beating you with a training spear.” He gave Joran another nudge. “You might be all magic and manners in court, but out there? You’d turn heads, boy.”

  Joran laughed softly but didn’t reply.

  Their steps slowed as they approached the towering doors of the throne room, massive constructs of dark-stained oak bound in gold-veined obsidian. The doors opened with a low groan as if the very air had been holding its breath.

  They entered the Hall of Sovereigns—and Joran’s breath, as always, caught in his throat.

  Though he had seen the room countless times, it never failed to overwhelm. A grand red carpet, thick and plush beneath his boots, stretched from the entryway to the base of the throne dais. Its golden embroidery formed the shape of a serpentine dragon in flight, its wings unfurling toward the steps that led to the throne itself.

  On either side of the hall stood columns of soldiers, their armor a blend of polished steel and enchanted obsidian, etched with the emblems of Lothara. Humans stood shoulder to shoulder with mythics—beastkin, elven knights, even a few ogres in formal attire—all aligned in perfect symmetry, living testimony to the kingdom’s unity.

  Joran’s gaze lifted toward the stained crystal windows, soaring from floor to vaulted ceiling. Each one told a piece of Lothara’s history, captured in radiant, colorful glass: the rise of the dragons, the suffering of the realm, the arrival of the Dragon Slayers, and the legendary battle between the Dragon King and the Queen of the Western Dragons. His mother’s likeness shimmered in blue and crimson, her eyes fierce even in mosaic.

  The final panel showed the day of his birth, followed by a depiction of the royal family—his mother’s hand resting proudly on his small shoulder, her sunset-red hair cascading like fire down her back, her skin shimmering with blue-tinted scales on her neck, cheekbones, and the backs of her hands. Her bright azure eyes seemed to watch him as he passed.

  It was the last window ever added. He had grown so much since then, but the Dragon King never allowed it to be changed.

  It was the last time all three of them had stood together.

  Joran paused, eyes lingering on the image as something deep in his chest gave a slow, painful twist. He didn’t realize he had stopped until Captain Varik nudged him gently.

  "Keep walking, Your Highness. Don’t want your father thinking you’re hesitating."

  “I’m not,” Joran replied, voice quiet. “Just… remembering.”

  Varik didn’t press him. The silence between them was filled only with the soft fall of Joran’s boots on the carpet as they approached the dais.

  At its peak sat the Dragon King.

  His father’s presence was commanding even in stillness. The throne, seemingly carved directly from the palace floor, rose from the marble like a pillar of authority—regal, immovable. Cushioned with black and crimson velvet, it gleamed beneath the stained-glass light as if the very throne recognized the king who sat upon it.

  To the left, the smaller throne once meant for the Queen of the West remained untouched. Designed to resemble molten stone, its heat-enhancing enchantments had once kept her comfortable during long hours of court. Now it sat empty—a memorial more than a seat.

  To the king’s right sat Joran’s own throne, far more modest in size, built of rich oak wood with soft leather padding lining its back, arms, and seat. Its design was elegant, but the difference in stature between his and his parents’ was impossible to ignore.

  Joran came to a stop at the foot of the dais, bowing his head as he had been taught since boyhood.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, keeping his voice level, his expression composed.

  The Dragon King stirred on his throne, his eyes—piercing, golden, and as timeless as ever—fixing upon his son.

  The Dragon King of Lothara sat tall and silent upon his throne, a living monument to power, his posture straight, his hands resting calmly on the arms of his seat. He did not speak, did not blink, did not breathe without purpose. He was a force forged in fire and war, carved not from flesh but from stone, steel, and ancient memory.

  Standing at seven feet tall, he was a colossus of a man. His form, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, bore countless scars that mapped the long road from slayer to sovereign. Each mark on his bronzed skin told a story—of dragons felled, armies scattered, and battles survived that should have claimed his life.

  His face was sharp and commanding: high cheekbones, a proud brow, and a jaw square and strong, partially shadowed by a beard touched with silver. His long black hair, streaked with gray, was tied into a warrior's tail that fell past his shoulders, still wild despite its order, much like the man himself.

  But it was his eyes that made men bow and enemies falter. Gold as molten metal, they burned with the steady heat of a forge. They were the eyes of a predator, eternally watching, eternally calculating. They did not see a son before him now. They saw a prince. A potential heir. A threat to stability if allowed to act too soon.

  Joran stood before him, tense but resolute, his breath calm though his pulse roared like thunder beneath his skin.

  "You're late," the King said at last, his voice low and resonant, as if the throne itself were speaking.

  Joran bowed his head. "I apologize, Father."

  The Dragon King didn’t respond immediately. Silence settled like a blade's edge.

  "You must always be on time, my son," he said finally. "Especially when addressing a king—whether he is your father or not."

  Joran lifted his eyes, spine straightening. He had practiced this speech a thousand times. Now was the moment.

  "Father, I requested this official meeting for one reason: we need to do more for the mythics of Orano."

  The King gave no response, but the flicker in his eyes told Joran to continue.

  "Lothara is strong—unshakable—but our strength means little if we watch others suffer beyond our walls. Mythics are hunted. Enslaved. Broken. And yet we sit behind our borders as if our sanctuary is enough. It’s not."

  Joran stepped forward, his voice steady. "We have the power to lead, to protect. Our resources, our might, our legacy—these are things other clans, kingdoms, and factions would respect. If we offered them alliances, if we helped them protect their own, gave them reason to hope, they’d stand with us. In return, they’d help protect mythics beyond their race. We could build trade routes by land, sea, and sky. Mutual protection. Shared strength."

  The King’s golden eyes flickered with something—thought, perhaps even agreement.

  "You propose forming a coalition."

  Joran nodded. "Yes. And if we do it right—if we form trade deals, mutual defense pacts, build something real—we’ll do what no blade has done: put the Slavers and the Hunter’s Guild out of business. Or at the very least, drive them into the shadows."

  The King leaned back slightly, fingers drumming once against the armrest. "There is merit in what you say. We could begin by sending emissaries—diplomats trained in courtly language, ones who know how to maneuver—"

  "No."

  That single word halted the King's thoughts.

  Joran stepped forward, resolve lighting his eyes. "With respect, Father, if we send diplomats, we will look cautious. Reserved. Afraid. But if I go—if the prince of Lothara stands before them—it will speak of courage. Of unity. They will not be receiving a messenger. They will be receiving Lothara itself."

  The King's brow furrowed. "Joran…"

  "Please, Father. I've spent my entire life training—swordplay, magic, diplomacy. You raised me to lead. Let me lead."

  Silence fell. Then the King slowly stood, his towering form casting a vast shadow across the hall.

  "You are dragonborn. The world beyond these walls does not see you as a diplomat. They see you as a threat. A prize. Your bloodline, your heritage, your power—it makes you a target."

  "Then I’ll face that danger, like you did," Joran said firmly. "Let me take an escort—let me go prepared."

  The King’s eyes darkened. "And what of the amulet? What if it is taken? Removed? You know what will happen."

  Joran’s hand went to the pendant at his neck. The sickness. The mysterious death that took his mother.

  "Then I’ll guard it with my life. But I can’t spend that life hidden away."

  The King’s jaw tightened. "My answer is no."

  "Father—"

  "No!"

  His voice thundered through the chamber, and the arms of his marble throne cracked beneath his hands with a deafening snap. The entire room trembled.

  Joran stepped back, startled, heart hammering in his chest. The King exhaled slowly, his fury retreating behind a wall of control. He sat back down, but the damage—to throne and to pride—remained.

  "You are not ready for the outside world, Joran."

  Joran’s hands clenched into fists. "You keep saying that."

  "Because it’s true," his father said, calmer now, but no less commanding. "You have a kind heart, my son. And that will be your undoing."

  "So I’m to remain in this castle forever? A caged heir?"

  The Dragon King’s expression was unreadable. "You do not yet have a killer’s instinct. And you will need it, out there."

  Joran swallowed the rising tide of frustration and pain. Finally, he bowed his head, stiff and formal. "As you wish… my King."

  Without another word, he turned and stormed from the hall, cloak trailing behind him like the last vestige of hope.

  Captain Varik stepped out of the shadows once the doors closed, his face drawn with concern.

  "Forgive me, sire," he said quietly. "But… perhaps the boy is ready. If not alone, then with an escort."

  The King’s eyes did not leave the stained-glass window of his late wife. The light painted fractured colors across his scarred face.

  "We cannot risk it."

  "Sire, he’s growing restless. He—"

  "I know what he’s growing into," the King said, his voice low. "And I know what the world would do to him if given the chance."

  Varik hesitated. "It might help him—heal him—to see the world."

  The King’s eyes, molten and ancient, turned away from the glass.

  "After what happened the night she died, I cannot—will not—lose him too. The amulet is all that holds back what waits inside him. If it’s removed, if he’s taken, if he’s turned…"

  He trailed off, a rare flicker of fear brushing his face.

  "Let him hate me," the Dragon King said at last. "But let him live."

  The silence that followed was heavy. Varik bowed and stepped back, leaving the King alone in his towering seat of stone and shadow, the weight of memory pressing down like a crown of iron.