Chapter 25
Lucas
A week after the surprise party, the castle didn’t feel as festive. The council chamber of Crystafalls, with its marble pillars and vaulted ceiling usually filled Lucas with pride. Currently, it felt like a cage made of glass.
He sat with his hands braced on the arms of his throne. The carvings that curled along the wood seemed almost alive in silent warning. He kept his expression composed but felt anything but royal.
Inside, he was already bracing for impact. The visiting noble refused to kneel for the crown.
Self-proclaimed Lord Voilear of some northern province, tall, broad-shouldered, and wrapped in muted copper and tan, stood in the center of the chamber like he owned it.
His signet ring bore the coiled dragon of his created kingdom, which flashed as he spread his hands in a mockery of diplomacy.
The elders appeared agitated and uneasy.
“Your Majesty,” Voilear began smoothly with his voice echoing against the walls. “I come not as an enemy, but as a man concerned for the stability of this realm.”
Lucas did not blink. “Crystafalls has been stable for some time.”
“For now.” Voilear’s smile thinned. “But without a strong son of dragon blood to inherit it, what is stability but an illusion?”
A murmur rippled through the Trust Council. Lucas felt it like a blade sliding between his ribs.
He did not look toward the council benches. He did not look toward the high window that faced Sia’s art sanctuary. He kept his gaze locked on Voilear.
“My wife,” he said evenly, “is not a topic for your speculation.”
“Not speculation. Strategy.” Voilear clasped his hands behind his back. “The royal bloodlines are thinning, and the dragon fire grows weaker with each generation. Crystafalls was founded on power. True dragon power. And yet… there is no heir.”
The murmurs grew louder.
Lucas rose and his fury was barely contained
“You speak boldly in another king’s hall,” Lucas said, his voice no longer cool but edged with steel. “Especially for someone who comes from unsanctioned lands that you choose to pass off as royal. Be careful your boldness does not cost you.”
Voilear did not retreat. If anything, his eyes gleamed brighter.
“I intend to strengthen this kingdom,” he said. “If you cannot provide a son of pure dragon blood, then I will, and I will rule. My beginnings will no longer matter..”
The chamber froze.
Lucas stepped down from his throne slowly. Each step echoed like a drumbeat.
“And how,” he asked softly, “do you intend to do that?”
Voilear met him halfway across the floor. Close enough now that Lucas could see the faint scar along his jaw and smell the smoke on his tunic.
“By claiming the throne,” Voilear said. “And taking a bride capable of bearing such a son.”
It took every ounce of discipline Lucas possessed not to strike him where he stood.
“You presume much,” Lucas replied.
“I speak plainly,” Voilear shot back. “The council knows the truth. Without a son, Crystafalls will fracture. I offer unity. Strength. Continuity.”
Lucas glanced toward the council but they avoided his eyes.
Cowards.
Elder Aldrek cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, while Lord Voilear’s… delivery… lacks tact, the concern is not unfounded. The bloodline must continue through a male successor. The people grow restless.”
Because Sia had not yet given birth to a son. Because their girls, bright and fierce with dragon blood flowing in their veins, were not enough. Lucas’s jaw tightened. One of the elders had betrayed him.
“My daughters carry dragon blood,” he said sharply.
“Not the throne’s right,” Voilear muttered. The words detonated in the chamber.
Lucas felt the heat rising in his veins, real heat. His dragon stirred beneath his skin, anxious to answer the insult. The chandeliers trembled faintly.
Voilear noticed and his smile widened.
“There,” Voilear murmured. “That is the power I speak of. It must not die with you.”
“It won’t,” Lucas said.
“Then prove it,” Voilear challenged. “And soon, or I will gather the support of those who value strength over sentiment.”
The threat hung heavy and undeniable. Lucas stepped forward until they were nearly chest to chest.
“You will gather nothing,” he said quietly. “You will return to whatever barn you crawled out of. You will reconsider your arrogance and if you so much as whisper treason beyond these walls, I will consider it an act of war.”
Voilear held his gaze and for a long moment, neither man moved. Then Voilear inclined his head and made a mock bow.
“As you wish… for now.”
He turned and strode from the chamber without permission. The doors slammed shut behind him. Lucas turned to face the council fully.
“Is this how you honor your king?” he demanded. “By entertaining foreign imposters, who would steal your crown?”
The eldest councilor stood. His hands trembled. “We honor the kingdom. But the kingdom needs certainty. We tried to warn you.”
“And now you decide that betraying me is a better option,” Lucas snapped.
“I’ve told you, Lucas. Your daughters are wonderful, but they are not successors.”
“Because you say they’re not. Not because I agree. You wanted me to marry, I did. You even selected my bride for me. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”
“You have a beautiful family,” Aldrek corrected gently. “But with a queen who has yet to produce a son.”
The words struck harder than Voilear’s threat. Lucas forced his breathing to steady. The blame always drifted, inevitably, toward Sia, never toward him. He had finally made love to her, and things had just snowballed out of control ever since. The goat. The storm. Now this.
Lucas closed his eyes briefly. He would not let them turn her into a political pawn.
“I will not repudiate my queen,” he said, each word carved from stone. “I will not cast aside my daughters. And I will not yield my throne to a foreign opportunist.”
“Then what will you do?” Aldrek asked quietly.
Lucas opened his eyes. “I will remind the realm that Crystafalls does not stand alone.”
The council shifted. “I will call a convocation of kings,” Lucas continued. “Stagholt. Onyxheim. Just to name two. We will renew our alliances publicly and formally.”
“That will be seen as escalation,” one councilor warned.
“It is a defense,” Lucas replied. “If Voilear seeks to test our borders, he will find them guarded.”
“And the matter of an heir?” Aldrek pressed.
Lucas held the elder’s gaze. “That,” he said evenly, “is between me and my queen.” He pointed at each elder.
“And let me remind you of something. I am king, by birthright, not chosen. Me. Not you. You are advisors by choice, my family’s choice for generations, and it is within my power to abolish the entire council.
If you ever bring another intruder into my chambers, that’s exactly what will happen. ”
“You have no right,” rang out.
“Do not tell me what my rights are,” Lucas roared. “And like I just said, I’m not alone in this. I’m sure there are others who have had enough of your crap too.”
The meeting dissolved shortly after, the council dispersing in uneasy clusters.
Lucas remained alone in the chamber. War.
The word coiled in his mind.
If Voilear truly intended to move against them, he would not do so openly. He would seek allies. He would whisper in ears already predisposed to doubt. He would promise strength and sons and dragon fire reborn.
Lucas walked to the window that overlooked the city. Crystafalls shimmered below. His people. His home. He had inherited this kingdom at nineteen. Fought to keep it at twenty-one. He would never give it up willingly.
A knock sounded behind him. He didn’t turn. “Enter.”
Captain Bryce stepped inside, his most trusted guard. “My king.”
Lucas exhaled slowly. “How many of Voilear’s men traveled with him?”
“Roughly two hundred, sire. Camped beyond the southern ridge.”
Lucas’s fingers curled against the windowsill. Two hundred was not a diplomatic escort. It was a message.
“Double the watch,” Lucas ordered. “Discreetly. Send riders to Onyxheim tonight. I need to meet with King Jakob’s answer within the fortnight. Do the same with King Sven of Stagholt.”
Bryce hesitated. “Do you believe Voilear means to march?”
“I believe,” Lucas said, voice low, “that he believes I am vulnerable.”
He finally turned.
“And I intend to prove him wrong.”
“As you wish.”
“And Bryce. Be sure to tell everyone to stay alert. There is nothing noble about that man, so who knows what he’ll try.”
Bryce bowed sharply and left. Lucas remained where he was and stared at the horizon where the southern ridge cut against the sky.
Somewhere beyond it, Voilear was likely already drafting letters. Already weaving his narrative. Already promising a future forged in fire and male succession.
Let him. Lucas would gather kings and strengthen the borders. And if war came, he would meet it with dragon fire of his own.
But beneath the determination, beneath the rising strategy and cold resolve, one thought pressed heavier than the rest. If the council forced his hand and alliances required concessions, and if producing a son became a demand, what would it cost Sia?
What would it cost them?
Lucas clenched his jaw. They had come so far, but he didn’t want to push her. And he would never sacrifice her. Not to Voilear. Not to the council. Not even to save the throne.
Outside, the wind shifted.
And far to the south, beyond the ridge, a thin curl of smoke began to rise. It grew too strong to be a campfire and too deliberate to be coincidence. It was a signal.
Lucas saw it and understood. This was not a challenge in his chamber anymore.
It was the first move of a war.