The dim glow of lanterns illuminated the grand chamber as Lord Kord stormed through the vaulted doors, his footsteps echoing down the marble corridors. Outside, the council debate raged on, their voices a cacophony of ambition and fear, but Kord had heard enough. His heart pounded, not from exertion but from the frustration of their shortsightedness. To provoke the dragons—to challenge the ocean kingdom and their mighty monarch—was madness. Worse, it was suicidal.
Behind him, a small group of advisors and guards trailed, their expressions reflecting the gravity of Kord's words. One of them, a younger man named Eryon, quickened his pace to catch up.
"My lord," Eryon began hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper, "is there truly no way to dissuade them? The council grows more reckless by the day."
Kord stopped abruptly, turning to face Eryon with an intensity that made the young advisor shrink back. "They've already decided. Reason has no place in their plans. Greed and desperation blind them. Mark my words, if they persist, the dragons won't just retaliate—they'll erase us from history."
Eryon swallowed hard, his gaze darting toward the council chamber, where the muffled arguments continued. "Then what are we to do, my lord? Abandon the kingdom to its folly?"
Kord's jaw tightened as he glanced toward a nearby window. Beyond the ornate panes of glass, the city sprawled out in peaceful ignorance, its people unaware of the storm brewing in their rulers' hearts. "We'll do what we can to mitigate the damage. But make no mistake, Eryon—if the dragons come for us, we'll have no allies left, no strategies to fall back on. Only ashes."
Meanwhile, deep beneath the castle's foundations, a different kind of council was convening. In the clandestine halls of the Shadow Chamber, representatives of the kingdom's covert operations had gathered. Here, in the flickering candlelight, the true architects of the plan to steal the dragon prince were laying their groundwork.
At the head of the chamber, cloaked in an air of authority, sat High Inquisitor Maltren. His piercing gaze swept over the room, taking in the assembly of spies, assassins, and mercenaries. Where the king's council debated openly, Maltren's circle acted decisively, free from the shackles of morality and diplomacy.
"The council above dithers as expected," Maltren began, his voice cold and steady. "But their arguments are irrelevant. The plan proceeds regardless of their hesitations. We have allies among the Eastern Territories and factions willing to move when the time is right. The orcs of Ironfang will play their part, creating the necessary diversions along the dragon kingdom's borders. And our operatives will slip through the cracks, undetected."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, though a few faces remained skeptical. One such skeptic, a veteran agent named Seris, leaned forward, her sharp eyes narrowing.
"And what of the Asset ?" Seris asked. "If the dragons can truly sense their kin's presence, as the legends claim, how do we intend to conceal him? Even if we succeed in taking him, we'll have a war on our hands the moment they realize what we've done."
Maltren's lips curled into a thin smile. "The Weave shrouders we've acquired from our off-world allies will mask his presence. As for the war… it's inevitable. But the prince is more than a bargaining chip. He's a weapon. Raised in our care, molded by our hands, he could turn the tide of any conflict. Imagine a dragon prince leading our armies instead of theirs."
Seris's frown deepened, but she said nothing more. The room fell into silence as Maltren's words settled over them. It was an audacious plan, one fraught with danger, but ambition often demanded risk. For those in the Shadow Chamber, there was no room for doubt.
Above ground, the city remained oblivious to the schemes unraveling below. Merchants called out their wares in crowded marketplaces, children played in the shadow of the grand cathedral, and the distant hum of life painted a facade of tranquility. Yet, beneath the surface, every shadow seemed to hold its breath.
Kord's footsteps resumed, carrying him down the corridor to his private quarters. Once inside, he dismissed his guards and advisors with a curt wave. Alone at last, he approached a heavily guarded chest tucked away in the corner of the room. Unlocking it with a series of precise gestures and incantations, he retrieved a small, ornate box.
Inside was a single scale, glittering with an otherworldly iridescence—a relic from a time long past. Kord held it in his hands, feeling its faint hum of power. It was a reminder of the dragons' majesty and wrath, a testament to the ancient pact forged between their kind and humanity.
If the council's plans came to fruition, that pact would be broken, and the cost would be unimaginable. Kord's fingers tightened around the scale. He would not stand idly by while the kingdom hurtled toward its doom.
In the Shadow Chamber, the meeting dispersed, its members melting back into the labyrinth of tunnels and passageways that sprawled beneath the castle. Maltren lingered, his thoughts turning to the weeks ahead. Success was not guaranteed, but the rewards—power beyond imagining—were worth the peril.
"Let the dragons roar," he murmured to himself, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight. "We shall rise above their fire."