“True, Lord Leander, yet every dragon born here bears the same handicap: wings neither strong nor nimble enough to reclaim the heavens. Even then, the magical folk learned to defeat us, and now they harness our own power against us.”
Jeron chuckles low. “Isn’t that your handiwork, Lord Daynthazar?”
“Not by my design.”
“Ah, yes. Your grand mission above, to parley with those sneering worms. You ended up captured, enslaved for fifty years, only to be freed by some darkblood—no doubt clueless about the chaos she’d unleash. Then you bring her here, expose her to our lore and vaults, all so you can wed her!”
“Lord Jeron!” Anees snaps. “This is a council chamber. Reserve your barbs.”
Jeron slams his fist on the table and surges to his feet. “To hell with protocol! You act shocked that we want to reclaim what's rightfully ours? Draethys was never meant to be our prison, Daynthazar!”
I rise slowly to meet his challenge. “Nor was it meant to be our grave. The surface world has changed. There are better paths than bloodshed.”
“Save your platitudes,” Jeron sneers.
“Tell me, have you ever felt rain on your scales?” I ask, measuring each word. The council chamber falls silent. “Or seen stars?”
His jaw tightens. “I'll see them soon enough.”
“How far have you flown in a single journey?”
Jeron's eyes flick toward his uncle before answering. “Northern Passageway. Ninety minutes sustained flight.”
“The atmosphere thins above. Your wings would falter before you cleared their defensive perimeter,” I explain. “Your warriors might excel in these caverns, but surface magic would incinerate them before they could escape to the clouds.”
“Who said anything about escaping?”
I exchange a weary glance with Anees. “They champion war against an enemy they cannot comprehend,” I murmur.
“We have your darkblood,” Jeron counters, and Brutus nods eagerly. “Under proper persuasion?—”
“You will not touch her,” I cut in, my voice dropping dangerously low. “Esme Salem is a spy by training; she survivedDarkbirch's interrogation protocols. Your crude methods would yield nothing but my wrath.” A troubling realization settles over me as murmurs ripple through the chamber. “This isn't just Braynor's fantasy, is it? How many Houses dream of conquest?”
Anees touches my arm. “Brother, perhaps a more diplomatic?—”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice carrying across the chamber. “I want clarity. A formal accounting. After all these whispers and theoretical strategies, I'd like each House to declare their position openly.”
Brutus settles deeper into his chair, scales gleaming in the torchlight. “My record on peace speaks for itself.”
“So you oppose this folly?”
“Not entirely.” His ancient eyes narrow. “Our young cannot properly fly in these caverns. You've witnessed their stunted wings yourself. We deserve the open sky again, to reclaim what was stolen from us.”
“Through fire and slaughter?”
While Brutus hesitates, Jeron leans forward, nails scraping against obsidian.
“We need only one territory initially,” he says, mapping invisible boundaries with his fingertips. “A foothold. Our wings will strengthen in the open air. We'll learn their defenses while holding our position, then expand methodically.”
“Madness,” I hiss, heat building beneath my skin. “After centuries of bloodshed, you advocate more carnage? More lives?—”
“But not innocent lives.” Jeron's voice drops to a dangerous register. “They're vermin beneath our claws! Your judgment is compromised by the darkblood warming your bed. You've tainted our lineage!”
Anees rises. “Lord Braynor! You overstep!”
“I've only begun!” Jeron roars, flinging his arms wide.
Golden light erupts across his palms, heat shimmering through the chamber. Council members scramble backward as the temperature spikes. They needn't retreat.
