Legend said the blood of dragons ran through the Vaelstrine line. Seraphina had always dismissed those tales as romantic exaggeration—until now. In her first life, she had never stood this close to him. Never truly felt the magnitude of what ruled the kingdom. This time, she would not forget.
"Your Majesty," Seraphina began, steadying herself, her eyes locked on the ground, though every muscle in her body tensed at the weight of his gaze. "I received The Council's summons and—".
"You received it and yet your arrival is belated." the King interrupted, voice slicing through the chamber. "Do you know what it means, girl? To stand at this table while the realm teeters on the edge of chaos? Or do you imagine—"
He paused, lips tightening, eyes narrowing. "—that your concern is of consequence here?"
Seraphina's breath stilled. She had heard the stories—every child had. The eyes of the dragons—gemstone shards of lapis and obsidian—glimmered faintly whenever the firelight struck, and as the King's temper rose, a ripple moved through the painted wings, shadows shifting as though some ancient memory had been stirred. Seraphina felt the legacy of Vaelstrine blood in the room:
The first Vaelstrine had tamed a dragon by staring it down until the creature bowed.
The second had rode into battle on wings of fire.
The third had burned an army and a country out of existence with a single command.
Most believed the dragons were extinct. Only the royal bloodline claimed otherwise. Some whispered the beasts still existed, hidden deep within the volcanic highlands, bound by oath or magic—or fear—to the command of the throne. Others claimed the dragons had gone feral centuries ago and only the faintest traces of their power clung to the monarchs who inherited their legacy.
Standing before him now… Seraphina felt that legacy stir. The King descended the dais one step at a time. His boots struck the marble with a soft, deliberate rhythm that echoed like the heartbeat of a creature far larger than any man. The heavy velvet of his cloak rippled behind him like the movement of a great wing.
A ripple of unease passed through the Council chamber—so subtle Seraphina might have missed it had she not been watching for the tiniest fractures in composure. It began with the flicker of torchlight along the far wall, dancing across the ancient frescoes carved into polished stone.
There, etched in sweeping strokes of gold and umber, a colossal dragon curled around the borders of the ceiling: wings unfurled, fangs bared. The beast's eyes—gemstone shards of lapis and obsidian—glittered faintly whenever the firelight struck them. A tapestry depicting the first Dragon King curled at the edges, heated as if touched by flame.
Now, as tension tightened between the councilors, the torches sputtered in perfect unison. And the dragon's eyes seemed—just for a heartbeat—to gleam brighter. Whispers suggested the creatures still existed, bound by oath, magic, or fear, and even in myth, their power clung to the throne. She wasn't the only one who noticed.
Lady Mirabel's delicate fan stilled. Tobias's hand froze halfway to turn a page. Rothwell's eyes narrowed—carefully, intentionally—as though this were not the first time he'd seen the fresco respond to something unseen.
Above, the dragon fresco's wings seemed to ripple—shadows shifting across the stone as if some old memory stirred, recognizing the King's rising irritation.
"There is a reason," King Alistair continued, voice darkening, "that the military fears my crown. A reason they whisper of flame and obedience." Seraphina swallowed hard, legs trembling from the weight of her own curtsy.
The military's stance had been clear for years: dragon lore belonged to history books, not policy for they had not been seen in two centuries. A monarchy claiming dominion over extinct creatures? Convenient. Politically potent. Strategically suspect. She had heard those whispers too—soldiers speaking of old rituals, of royal decrees delivered with fire rather than ink. A commander once claimed that when King Alistair was furious, the temperature in the war room rose enough to make metal sweat.
Seraphina had seen him from afar, had heard tales of cruelty wrapped in silk and iron, but up close the weight of his being settled over her like smoke. Lady Mirabel's fan slowed, her voice hushed as she murmured, "His temper rises. The flames answer."
The King's jaw tightened. "The Marquess fights like a man who has nothing to lose. Like one unafraid of dragons."
A murmur swept the table. Baron Faraday's lips parted in disbelief and Duke Rothwell let out a sharp breath. Seraphina's stomach twisted. James would never show fear—not to the King, not to anyone but to stand unafraid before a Vaelstrine monarch was practically a provocation. A challenge. The torches guttered again.
King Alistair turned away, cloak sweeping behind him like a tail of smoke.
"Now," he said, returning to his throne with a slow, predatory grace, "let us resume." As he sat—light flared in the torches, as though fed by unseen breath. In that instant, the hall shrank, the murmurs hushed, and every man and woman present recognized the undeniable truth: Alistair Vaelstrine was not merely king—he was a force, an apex of power sculpted into flesh and flame.
For the first time, Seraphina understood the truth beneath the legends:
The dragons might be gone but their fire had never left the throne.
❀
Around the polished oaken table, the Councilors had already taken their seats. Baron Faraday of the North sat at the head, fingers drumming against the wood. "I trust everyone has their reports on the ambush ready," he murmured.
Lady Mirabel, chair of the West, tilted her head slightly, cataloging every twitch as Baron Faraday sent her a withering stare. Duke Rothwell, chair of the East, caught Seraphina's entrance with a flicker of interest, the faint crease in his brow suggesting concern—careful, measured concern.
King Alistair's gaze swept over the Council , the air humming with something not entirely human. The torches along the walls flickered violently, as if reacting to the shift in him. A few councilors shifted anxiously. Only Rothwell held steady, smoothing a hand to fix the crease in his breast-pocket.
King Alistair raised his hand as if to beckon Seraphina to stand, her legs having long grown numb from holding a curtsy position. With a carefully concealed grimace, Seraphina allowed herself to rise, skirts whispering over marble like the soft hiss of a drawn blade. Her gaze flicked to the empty seat at the south end of the table—a space reserved for House Celosia. Its absence was more than symbolic; it was a silent accusation and a reminder of the stakes.
She imagined Marquess Celosia there, shoulders squared, calm as any storm—unflinching, a soldier's restraint coupled with the audacity of a mad dog. She shivered slightly at the thought, both from anticipation and the residual echo of foreknowledge that had clawed at her mind ever since the ambush.
Taking a measured step, she approached the empty chair and inclined her head, settling herself in a posture that suggested deference, yet radiated the silent, impenetrable defiance of someone who knew far more than she let on. Her eyes swept the councilors, noting each flicker of attention and each carefully masked reaction.
Baron Faraday's hands twitched over the polished oaken table. Lady Mirabel's fan clicked softly again, a whisper of silk over stone. Duke Rothwell nodded his head slightly, the faintest acknowledgment that her judgement was not wrong.
The Council itself was a patchwork of rank and influence, not a mere assembly of dukes. Dukes were expected to lend strength to the kingdom, but the kings of Vaelstrine had learned long ago that wisdom and loyalty were not measured solely by land or bloodline. Marquises, barons, and viscounts were included to temper ambition with perspective, to create a network of checks and balances where ambition could not run unchecked.
Around this table even minor houses could influence the fates of the powerful if they played their cards right. Each member carried a distinct weight: a voice shaped by inheritance, experience, and cunning; a presence that could tilt allegiance and alter policy.
Seraphina's mind cataloged these nuances as if she were on the battlefield. The empty seat at the south end was a focal point: it was not just Celosia's absence but a strategic void that could be exploited—or defended. She adjusted her skirts minutely, the subtle motion a signal of readiness.
She would occupy that space, at least in presence if not in name, and it was clear to everyone that she may speak in place of him—silently, through posture and poise, and later through words sharpened like blades.
House Araminta, her own family, stood at a crucial crossroads. Their influence within the Council was enough to sway minor votes and mediate conflicts, yet they were vulnerable to political exploitation. Seraphina herself had become both a tool and a shield—a lightning rod in the storm of ambition, a figure through which the Council tested loyalty, fear, and compliance in her past life.
"Your Majesty," Councilor Mirelle said tightly, "with Marquess Celosia missing, we cannot afford omens. The army is already restless. His captains have split into factions—some demanding retaliation, others urging caution. All are questioning how an attack of such precision reached him at all."
Viscount Varrow, always the first to flinch at anything resembling magic, lurched to his feet. "This is a sign," he hissed. "We cannot proceed with standard protocol. Not with the Commander missing, not with the border unrest—"
"Unrest?" Councilor Mirelle snapped. "You mean a coordinated assault on a Marquess and the southern regiment? Call it what it is." Her voice ricocheted off the stone, sharp enough to slice tension into thinner, more dangerous strands.
Tobias, timid but meticulous, clutched his ledger as if afraid it might combust. "The Commander's absence already destabilizes the chain of command. If the manifestations are increasing, this will only feed the rumors."
"Rumors?" scoffed General Hale, tall and wolf-lean, a veteran general turned statesman whose loyalty was as famous as his temper. "The people don't need rumors—they already think the Marquess's blood can summon destruction."
Seraphina felt a cold ripple of possibility. If the fresco responded to King Alistair's internal state—if his bloodline truly resonated with ancient magic—then this agitation was more than theatrics. He was worried about his governance without the military's backing, she realized.
Marquess James Celosia, the man whose loyalty had shaped half the kingdom's stability whose soldiers would raze the borders if they believed the throne was complicit in his disappearance. James, their loyal Mad Dog whose absence had already planted roots of fear in every faction present.
"Perhaps someone allowed it," General Hale muttered. He didn't look at Seraphina when he said it. A mistake. She tilted her head, just enough to let him know she'd noticed.
"And now," he continued, " what do people think? That ancient powers are returning? That we can not keep one of our own? "
"They will think what they are told," the King said evenly, though his eyes—still faintly glowing—betrayed a flicker of irritation. "As they always have."
General Hale rose slowly, his bearing rigid, voice low. "With respect Your Majesty… your reassurance would carry farther if Commander Celosia were here to endorse it."
The King lifted his crownless head, tilting it with a deliberate ease as he rested a hand against his temple. "The Marquess," King Alistair said softly, voice carrying over the polished stone, "courts death as though it were a lover. And now the consequences of his unorthodox heroics land at my feet enough for you all to question me? Over a dog?"
The councilors shifted as an incredulous laugh ripped from his lungs. In the military, Marquess Celosia was seen as fiercely loyal—but dangerously independent on the battlefield. Soldiers whispered that he was one of the few commanders who did not fear the King's bloodline. Some even said he had stared down the monarch once, unflinching, a soldier's respect meeting a monarch's cold scrutiny.
King Alistair gaze sharpened—pinning Seraphina to her post as her hands trembled in holding her dress skirts, an eternal curtsy a common act of intimidation in court.
"You stand before dragons, girl," he said, his voice booming. "Whether you bow or burn depends on the strength of your spine." A tremor slipped down her back—not fear, not exactly, but recognition. A warning.
Councilor Mirelle cleared her throat. "Majesty—this is hardly the time for—"
"For what?" the King asked, his tone still courteous. "For reminders of the blood that built this kingdom?" His gaze drifted over the chamber. "Or for the reminder that some legacies are not yet buried in the grave?"
❀