Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Naia’s orange Swordtail crested the ridge like a streak of flame, her wings trembling from strain as she dipped toward the Ascension Grounds. Her landing was rough, slightly off-center, claws scraping the stone, but she stayed upright, and for a breath, none of us moved.
Then—
“Naia!” Jax shouted, and we all ran.
Tae got there first, but he stopped a respectful few feet back, giving her space as she unfastened the saddle straps with trembling fingers. She slid down her dragon’s side and hit the ground hard, knees buckling slightly, but Cordelle was there instantly, steadying her with both hands.
We swarmed her after that.
Arms wrapped around her from all sides—Jax, Cordelle, Riven, Tae, and me last, the relief hitting so hard my knees almost gave. Her cheeks were pale, eyes rimmed red, and her braids were soaked and clinging to her skin.
“What happened?” Jax asked, voice quiet now.
Naia took a long, shaky breath. “It didn’t go well.”
She glanced around at us, her expression tight with frustration. “I lost control near the far bend. The current was too strong and I went over the waterfall.”
Gasps rippled through us.
“But the major grabbed me,” she said, voice soft. “Swooped in with that oversized dragon of his and pulled me out before I cracked my head open.”
I touched her arm. “Gods, Naia…”
“It wasn’t the trial,” she muttered, anger curling beneath her words. “It was me. Temil said…” She looked down, rubbing a hand over her arm. “He said dragons bond in their own time. And that my magic has to be more mature before it’ll happen.”
Teren stepped in beside her, his voice low and reassuring. “He’s right. It’s not about passing or failing. Dragons don’t care about timelines. They choose when they’re ready.”
Naia gave him a half-smile, grateful but still visibly shaken. “I just… I thought I was ready. But I guess I’m not.”
Her words echoed in my head like thunder.
My magic has to be more mature.
That was exactly what Kaelith feared. That my magic wasn’t just immature, it was uncontrolled. That it might one day bend not with her… but against her.
But I didn’t have time to dwell on the knot forming in my stomach.
Because the castle doors swung open with a metallic groan, and the crowd on the Ascension Grounds went still.
The king emerged, cloaked in crimson and gold, flanked by Theron and several guards in polished armor and a few members of his council. His crown caught the sun like fire.
They strode in silence toward the podium where Major Ledor already waited.
Zander broke from Crownwatch without hesitation, moving through the ranks like a shadow drawn to fire. His cloak whipped behind him, boots silent on the stone as he crossed the field to fall in step beside his father.
The king didn’t acknowledge him.
His gaze was wild, unfocused, his golden crown askew on his brow, the crimson cloak billowing dramatically behind him as if he walked into battle rather than across the Ascension Grounds.
Theron matched his stride on the opposite side, his expression unreadable, hands clasped tightly behind his back like he was afraid they might betray his tension.
But before the king even reached the podium, he stopped.
His voice shattered the quiet like a thunderclap.
“You think I don’t see you all watching me?!” he bellowed, arms flung wide as if daring someone to meet his madness. “Scheming behind silk curtains and council meetings, sipping wine while the blood of dragons drips beneath your boots!”
Everyone stilled.
Even the dragons lowered their heads in eerie silence.
The king pointed toward his council members, shaking with fury. “You! Khevaran—you’ve been speaking against me in the lower courts. Don’t bother denying it. I’ll have your tongue mounted to your family crest before dawn!”
A stunned gasp echoed through the guild lines, but no one dared speak.
“And you!” he snarled, swinging to another noble in the back.
“Plotting with healers. Thinking I don’t notice when my guards vanish.
Do you wish to replace me?” He threw his arms out.
“Well then, take your shot, cowards! Let’s see what power dares to challenge me here, on the sacred ground of the guild! ”
A terrified councilwoman dropped her scrolls.
The king rounded on his own guard, eyes bloodshot. “Fetch the executioner. I want the tower cleared. No more whispers. I will rule from fire and fang, and they will remember. They will all remember.”
Zander was the first to move.
He stepped close, one hand reaching calmly toward the king’s arm, his voice low and composed. “Father, the council serves at your will. Let them witness your strength, not your wrath.”
But the king shook him off. “You think I don’t see your betrayal too, Zander? You and your quiet little missions. Your alliances with lowborns. You would let dragons choose commoners!”
Theron stepped in next, voice smoother, colder. “Your Majesty,” he said carefully, “perhaps we should return to the castle. Let the council prepare the hall for your decree.”
The king looked between them, eyes darting, pupils too small.
For a moment, it looked like he might lash out at both sons.
But then he let out a ragged breath, torn and trembling, and turned his back on the crowd.
“No more secrets,” he muttered as he walked away. “No more lies.”
The guards followed closely.
Zander hesitated at the base of the podium, his jaw clenched, hands curled into fists at his sides.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Because we had all just witnessed it.
The King of Warriath…
Was unraveling.
Theron’s jaw was as tight as steel, his expression carved from patience stretched too thin. His usual polished demeanor cracked at the edges, a single muscle ticking beneath his eye as he reached for the king’s arm.
“This way, Father,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice still smooth enough to pass for calm, if you didn’t know him.
The king staggered slightly, muttering under his breath about betrayal and dragon blood, his crown slipping further askew. But Theron steadied him with a firm hand and began guiding him back toward the castle with quiet insistence.
“I will handle the disciplinary issues,” Theron called over his shoulder, loud enough for the guild to hear. “All infractions will be reviewed under royal oversight.”
Zander stood motionless at the base of the podium, his dark eyes following his brother and father without moving. Not a word passed between them.
The king continued to rant in fragments as he disappeared through the arched gate.
“Whispers in my court… fire in the eggs… traitors with silver tongues… I see them all…”
The guards followed in stiff silence, eyes carefully averted from the madness unraveling right before them.
As the castle doors groaned shut behind the procession, the silence on the Ascension Grounds held heavy and brittle—
Like a kingdom balanced on a blade’s edge.
And we all knew…
It wouldn’t take much to tip it.
Zander moved quietly to Major Ledor’s side, his head lowering as he whispered something too soft to catch. The major gave the smallest of nods, his jaw hardening as his eyes swept the crowd, already moving to reassert control over the shaken squads.
Then Zander turned and made his way to us, his steps heavy with more than exhaustion.
“That was…” I began cautiously, still stunned by what we’d all just witnessed. “Something.”
Zander’s face was drawn tight, the shadows under his eyes deeper than usual.
“My father is no longer stable,” he said flatly.
“Theron is trying to keep him together until Dorian returns. My brother will have to take control of the throne, at least temporarily, until we figure out what’s causing the paranoia. ”
Cordelle, ever the quiet scholar, reached beneath his chestplate and pulled out a small, weathered book.
“I was reading up on some dark spells,” he murmured, flipping it open with practiced ease.
“There are a few that amplify fear. Others that cause illusions or manipulate memory. There are poisons too, subtle ones that mimic madness. But a healer would know more about those.”
Teren rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes dark with unease. “Things are worse here than I thought. If someone’s trying to destabilize the throne…”
He didn’t need to finish.
The implication was clear.
Zander shook his head, his voice low. “Dorian is well-liked. Trusted. He could take the throne easily if my father… fell.”
Teren nodded, but slowly, his gaze sharp. “If he died, sure. But if he’s still alive and mad, that’s different. That’ll have every highborn in Warriath scrambling for regency. He can name anyone as an interim ruler. It doesn’t have to be a blood relative.”
I swallowed hard, the reality of that sinking in like a stone.
“Could that really happen?” I asked.
Zander nodded once, grim. “Yes. And if it does…” He looked out across the grounds toward the sealed castle gates.
“Then Warriath becomes a battlefield of ambition in the midst of a war.”