The Fiery Crown Cycle: A Dragon's Rebirth

Chapter 124

In the vast, empty hall, a throne of pure white stood in silent vigil.

Upon it, a tall figure slouched, his gaunt hand propping up his head. The voluminous black robes covering him did little to hide the skeletal frame beneath; the line of his ribs was faintly visible. He was appallingly thin.

His shoulder-length hair was starkly divided: pure white at the roots, fading to a brilliant, shimmering gold at the tips. A simple, pure-white crown rested on the white part of his hair, catching the candlelight.

The figure's eyes remained closed as he suddenly extended his left hand, palm up. A transparent, shimmering ring materialized in the air above it. A notebook dropped from the ring, landing softly in his grasp.

The familiar weight stirred him, and his eyes opened. They were golden, and their depths were utterly placid, as if devoid of all emotion.

His gaze fell to the notebook. The cover was labeled:

[Isolde.Rhoyce. Cassian]

[House Rhoyce, 42nd Era, Day 301. Adopted.]

[House Rhoyce, 42nd Era, Day 3961. Academy induction.]

...

He flipped through the pages. The reports were familiar.

[Advantage: Attended by wise]

[Potential: √]

[Capabilities: √]

[Growth Progress: √]

[Personality: √]

[Majesty: Inconsistent]

[Disposition: ×]

[Judgment: ×]

[Swordsmanship: √√]

[Mana: √√]

[Connections: √]

...

[Bloodline: √√√]

[Power: √√√]

[Summary: Highest potential of all candidates. Bloodline purity optimal. Contracted partner is likely a Divine Red Dragon. Disposition: Dangerously soft.]

He closed the book. It was identical to the hundreds of others scattered carelessly on the stone floor around the throne, all gleaming in the candlelight.

He leaned back, his gaunt frame sinking into the throne.

Divine bloodline. Optimal purity. Attended by wisdom. But a disposition that is dangerously soft.

He processed the key variables. Perhaps this nation needs a strong monarch.

He thought of himself. The wise... they are all just fools in the end. What good is the pursuit of wisdom when the only end is decay?

He opened his eyes and stared at his own left hand. The skin was a pallid, translucent white, stretched taut over bone. Decay.

He forced himself to sit upright, pushing aside his fatigue. His gaze settled on the pure white scepter hovering in the air to his right. It was beautiful, the haft carved from what looked like polished jade. At its apex, it held a red, crystalline core the size of a fist.

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His golden eyes stared at the artifact, one of the highest symbols of the Empire. The nobles all coveted it. They had no idea what it truly was.

He reached out and grasped the scepter's core, bringing the staff down. It struck the stone floor with a sharp tap.

At the base of the dais, a transparent ring shimmered into existence. A figure in black rose from it, already fixed in a kneeling pose.

The King's placid, golden eyes regarded the figure. "Grant her the True Name."

The black figure raised its head—a smooth, featureless mask—and lifted its cupped hands high.

The King raised the scepter and lightly tapped it against his own crown. Ting. A crisp sound echoed. A mote of brilliant white light detached from the crown, floated down, and solidified in the figure's waiting hands, taking the shape of a new, smaller coronet.

"Go."

The faceless head bowed. The shimmering ring reappeared at its knees, and the figure began to sink. The King watched it descend, then released his grip on the scepter. It drifted back to its place, hovering silently.

He slumped back onto the throne, eyes closing.

The plan must be altered. It seems the orcs have no intention of honoring the treaty anyway.

The populace adores a Hero-Monarch. Very well. We shall give them one. A hero to save the nation. They will love this story.

***

After placating Leona with a massive feast—which successfully increased her debt from 4,585 to a clean 4,600 gold—Isolde was exhausted.

She'd followed Thea home, taken a hasty bath, and flopped face-down on Thea's bed. She had no intention of ever moving again.

Maybe I'll just sleep here. The lazy thought took root and bloomed. Her body felt like lead.

Click. The bedroom door opened. Linda, in her immaculate black head butler uniform, entered. Linda's gaze went straight to the bed. She took in the mass of golden hair. Not her lady.

Her eyes flicked to the frosted glass door of the en-suite bathroom. Three shadows moved within. The central one stood still while the other two bustled around it. They're dressing. Her lady will be out soon.

From the bed, Isolde reluctantly turned her head. "You're back, Linda." Her voice was muffled and lazy.

"Miss Isolde," Linda said, her voice crisp. "Please, rest. Don't mind me."

Isolde mumbled an okay and immediately buried her face back in the pillows.

Another exhausting day. Thea made her meditate constantly—in the carriage, between classes, even on the walk home. Sword practice is so much better. You just hit things. Mana is such a hassle.

Click.

The bathroom door opened, and Thea emerged, dressed in a simple white silk nightgown. Her dark eyes swept over the lump on the bed before settling on Linda. "Is it ready?""Yes, my lady. The gold you requested is waiting in the main hall."

"Good." Thea walked to the bed and sat down next to the golden-haired lump. She reached out and lightly pinched Isolde's nose.

"Ngh... Thea, wha' are you...?" The complaint was muffled and held zero threat.

A small smile touched Thea's lips. "Get up. It's time to send payment to your dear Lord Aiden."

Isolde's eyes snapped open, suddenly alert. She sat bolt upright, her legs tucked to the side. "Where? Where is it?" Her head whipped around, seeing no gold. She stared at Thea, confused. "Where's the gold?"

"You only think of him. Shouldn't you ask if he's even available to receive a transfer?"

"Oh! Right." Isolde raised her hand, pouring orange mana into the sigil on her palm.

A minute passed. Then two. Nothing.

"That's... strange. I'll try the mental link."

As she prepared to send more mana, Thea's hand gently closed over hers. "Isolde."

Thea’s voice was calm. "He's a dragon. He's probably sleeping. It can wait. Next time will be fine."

"But..."

"No 'buts.' We'll try another time." Faced with Thea's sharp, unwavering gaze, Isolde deflated. "Okay, fine."

Clack. Clack.

The sudden, sharp sound of boots on the hardwood floor echoed in the room.

Shing! In a blur of motion, Linda had two daggers in her hands, her body interposed between Thea and the intruder. "Who are you!"

The two maids, Nora and Cora, had also drawn daggers, flanking the black-clad figure who had appeared from nowhere.

The figure ignored them. It held a white coronet. In a movement too fast to track, it crossed the room and slammed the circlet down on Isolde's head.

"Aaaargh!" Isolde screamed, a sharp, piercing sound, as agonizing pain lanced through her skull.

Its task done, the black figure knelt. The shimmering white ring appeared at its knees.

Linda's and the maids' daggers struck true—at the neck, the heart, the spine. They hit something solid, but no blood flowed. The figure continued to sink, and they were forced to pull their weapons back lest they be dragged down with it. It vanished.

"AAAAAAAAH!" Isolde shrieked again, clutching her head. A wave of red-hot flame exploded from her body, instantly igniting the bedsheets, the canopy, and the curtains.

Isolde was rolling on the mattress, wreathed in fire, screaming.

Thea stood watching, and a small, satisfied smile touched her lips. So. She's been chosen as an Heir, just like me.

Thea turned her back on the inferno. "We should go."

"Lady?" Linda was staring, horrified. "Isolde is..."

"She'll be fine," Thea said, her voice cool. "The fire, however, is real. Move the valuables from this wing. We have time before it spreads."

"Yes, my lady."