“What would you know about that? You weren’t even born when we descended into this city,” Bemmar scoffs at the uniformed man.
“My point exactly,” the dragon replies. “So many of us have never seen the sky. The world above. We weren’t made for the caves, for the darkness. We were made to soar into the heavens, unafraid and all-powerful.”
Bemmar's voice drops. “But you’re not all-powerful.”
A cold smile plays across Anees's lips. “The weak will fall. The strong will claim what's rightfully ours.”
“I forbid this,” Bemmar says. “Whatever you're planning ends now. And you will leave your brothers out of it.”
“Too late. Byzu stands with me. Arrynth will follow.”
“And what of Daynthazar? Your future king? What have you done with him?”
That’s the billion dollar question. One glance at Esme, and I can tell she’s holding her breath.
Anees waves dismissively. “Temporarily... indisposed. Don't worry, I haven't harmed your precious heir. But he is no future king. He’d lead us deeper into ruin and self-abandonment, just like you.”
“Anees, stop this at once. Don’t make me stop it,” Bemmar warns.
The uniformed dragons stiffen, their eyes darting between father and son. Even Brutus shifts uncomfortably, but Anees is still.
“You can't stop what's already in motion,” he says. “We’ve been working toward it for far too long. Daynthazar's return only served to fast-track everything. We have what we need. Support. Dragons willing to fight. Resources aplenty. We’ll get the rest of the kingdom on board too, soon enough… I just need to make a few adjustments.”
I hear it before I see it. A tiny projectile slicing through the king’s throat. Blood erupts and spatters across the stone floor.Bemmar crumples to the ground, dead before he hits the floor. It isn’t an ordinary bullet but a marble of pure flame, held together by potent dragon magic. It clatters on the stone and vanishes in a puff of black smoke. Bemmar’s eyes stare wide, the light snuffed out.
Brutus Meraxis clamps a hand over his mouth, aghast. “My lord, you shouldn’t have?—”
“I had no choice,” Anees interrupts, shaking out his hand, fingertips still glowing gold from the spell. He moved with such quiet precision. So deadly, so schooled in ancient dragon lore. “I did what was necessary to save our kingdom.”
The guards exchange uneasy glances rather than relief. Their hesitation betrays inner turmoil where I’d expected nothing but obedience.
“What now, my lord?” one of them murmurs.
“Leave him here. Stage the scene, we rehearsed this,” Anees says. “You know what must be done.”
Brutus falters. “My lord, this will provoke the other houses?—”
“They don’t need to know,” Anees snaps, his fury more terrifying than Bemmar’s bulk and rank. I can't tear my eyes away from him, with that politician's smile that never reaches his eyes. The kind of guy who'd pat your shoulder with one hand while the other slides a blade between your ribs. And he just did exactly that to his own father. “Go. Summon your family to the palace. I want an audience before nightfall.”
Brutus’s jowls tremble; his head bows. “And you?”
“I have a decision to make about my wayward brother,” Anees exhales, surveying the terrace. “We’re done here.”
Esme, Chad, and I melt back into the darkness, instinctively distancing ourselves as the traitors scatter. The guards march deeper into the run-down district; Brutus slips away in the other direction. A few blocks on, a stairwell leads into another quarter of the city.
Anees takes the steps he came up on.
A few seconds pass in heavy, sobering silence, as Esme removes the shadow cloak and takes a deep breath. I feel her tenseness before she rushes to Bemmar’s side.
Esme kneels next to the fallen king, her fingers hovering inchesfrom the wound. “Clean shot. Perfect aim.” Her voice catches. “He never stood a chance.”
Chad crouches next to her. “What kind of weapon does that?”
“Dragon fire magic,” Esme whispers. “Rogon described it once, condensed flame that burns from the inside out. Only the most powerful can wield it.”
She touches Bemmar's cooling hand. “He wasn't…bad.”
“Few are,” Chad murmurs. “They're just scared, like us.”
