The procession through Draken's Imperial City was slow, deliberate, and suffocating.

The streets were still wet from the dawn rain, the cobblestones shining like black glass beneath the carriage wheels.

Every turn drew the eyes of hundreds — merchants, beggars, and soldiers alike watching in uneasy silence as the King of Byzeth, the reborn shadow of Valeria, was paraded through their heartland like a prize or a threat.

Aric Valerian sat within the open carriage, hands bound in polished silver cuffs that glimmered faintly with a restraining enchantment.

Serina sat beside him, her wrists the same. Yet there was no shame in her gaze — only irritation.

"Silver cuffs," she muttered, glancing down. "They must think we're about to summon dragons of our own."

Aric smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded as he studied the horizon. "They overcompensate when they're afraid."

Two columns of Imperial Draken Knights flanked them — armor burnished to a dark bronze sheen, the sigil of the Dragon King etched across every chestplate.

The banners above them bore the silver serpent of Draken on a field of red, snapping in the wind.

The closer they drew to the palace, the heavier the air became. The Draken Palace was not built to welcome men — it was built to humble them.

A titanic fortress carved from volcanic stone, its outer walls jagged and black as if forged from the remains of a mountain slain by dragons.

Towers spiraled upward like horns, their spires ending in dragon skulls gilded in gold. From their open maws, flames burned day and night, a warning to all who entered.

The gates opened with a slow groan, chains rattling, gears turning. Aric stepped down first when the carriage stopped.

The guards moved to seize him, but he walked ahead before they could. Every step echoed — precise, unhurried, controlled.

Serina followed at his side. The faintest smile flickered on her lips. "You enjoy this far too much."

Aric's eyes swept the towering obsidian pillars and the long crimson carpet stretched toward the throne.

"They needed a spectacle," he murmured. "I merely gave them one."

---

The Draken Imperial Court was assembled in full.

Rows of nobles lined the gallery — high generals in crimson cloaks, ministers draped in silks embroidered with dragons, and priests of the Flame murmuring prayers beneath their breath.

The scent of incense clung heavy in the air.

At the head of it all sat Emperor Adrast Draken, the Dragon King himself.

His armor was ceremonial, crimson with golden scales, but his presence was unmistakably real — an aura of heat, of restrained violence, like standing near a sleeping volcano.

Flanking him were his two advisers — Grand Chancellor Veras and High Marshal Calden, both men whose eyes had seen war and treachery long enough to recognize it before it spoke.

When Aric and Serina were led to the center of the marble floor, the sound of boots and the scraping of spear butts echoed through the chamber.

The Emperor's gaze was sharp, unyielding.

"Aric Valerian," he said, his deep voice carrying across the court, "and Serina Marceli. You stand accused of several grave offenses: interception of an Imperial envoy, theft of Draken property, unlawful trespass upon sacred dragon ground, and assault and possible kidnapping of the now missing Flame Crusaders Denari, Selim, and Ozborn — envoys of our crown."

The words echoed like hammer strikes.

Serina rolled her eyes faintly. "Assault, theft and trespassing...perhaps. But Kidnapping...you think we would stoop so low?"

A murmur rippled through the court.

Aric silenced it with a glance. "We did what was necessary," he said quietly.

The Chancellor rose from his seat, voice sharp and heavy with controlled disdain.

"Necessary? You violate our borders, kill our men, and desecrate the Blackrock Plains — the cradle of dragonkind — and call it necessary?"

Aric's expression did not change. "If I hadn't, you would all be dead before the next solstice."

That drew open laughter from some of the younger lords and audible scoffs from the older.

"Arrogance!" one shouted.

"Blasphemy!" another hissed.

Emperor Adrast's gaze silenced them with a look. "Explain," he said simply.

Aric nodded slightly. "You believe I came for war. I did not. I came to stop one."

The High Marshal leaned forward. "Stop one? Do you take us for fools, Valerian? You think to waltz into our empire, spill noble blood, and pretend it was for our salvation?"

Aric's eyes gleamed faintly in the firelight.

"Pretend? No. Understand this: you were already doomed before I arrived."

The court fell still.

He stepped forward, the echo of his boots sharp against the marble.

"Picture it — the skies over Draken split open, not by sunlight but by shadow. The Northrenders soaring atop dragons not their own, their breath turning your cities to cinder, your towers to ash, your armies to memory. They would come from the north under banners of war and their dragons reduces your palace to nothing but fire and blood."

The imagery painted itself across the silence of the room.

Someone spat on the ground. Another crossed himself, muttering, "Gods forbid it."

"An abomination," whispered one of the priests.

"Impossible," hissed another. "None but Draken posses dragons. It is heresy."

Aric's gaze turned toward them. "And yet, it was your own Flame Crusaders who intended to make it otherwise."

Gasps rippled through the court.

Aric reached into the air beside him — and the space shimmered, faintly, unnaturally.

From that darkness he withdrew a sealed parchment, the wax imprinted with a distinct insignia — the flame-shaped sigil of the Crusaders of the Holy Flame.

"Your Crusaders," he said, holding the letter between two fingers, "sold their loyalty for gold and promises of power. Northrend offered them command of them the things you never gave—power and respect. They accepted."

The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "You expect us to believe that without proof?"

Aric's voice was calm. "You don't have to believe me."

He nodded once. A guard approached cautiously, as if approaching a snake that might strike. Aric handed the parchment over.

The man hesitated only a moment before taking it and bringing it to the Chancellor.

The wax seal bore the unmistakable ring-mark of Selim, one of the three missing Crusaders.

The Chancellor cracked it open, eyes scanning the lines in growing silence.

Every word he read seemed to drain the color from his face.

The court waited — impatient, murmuring, the tension a drawn bowstring.

Finally, his lips moved. A whisper. Then louder, trembling,

"Dear gods…"

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