The Grand Chamber of the Capital Castle was a sight to behold—ornate columns of white stone veined with gold, ceilings painted with the exploits of past kings, and velvet curtains draped like the flowing robes of aristocracy. The scent of burning sandalwood lingered faintly in the air, almost masking the sweat and tension that clung to the room like an invisible fog.
At the long, curved table of polished obsidian, a group of ministers sat uneasily. The air was electric, every man present clutching at words like weapons, their tongues sharper than blades.
"I told you to cut off his head!" one minister shouted, rising to his feet and pointing furiously at the man across the table. His jeweled rings sparkled as his finger trembled with anger.
"If you were so eager, why didn't you do it yourself?" the other snapped back, sneering. He was younger, leaner, and his noble crest bore fewer feathers than his rival's—a low noble, as some whispered.
The first minister scoffed. "Do I look like a butcher? My robes cost more than your estate. Besides, the brat's armor didn't vanish. You all saw it—it stayed. That means he wasn't dead yet."
Murmurs rippled across the chamber.
"Enough," a calm, measured voice cut through the bickering like a knife through silk.
All heads turned.
Seated at the far end of the table, half-shrouded in shadow despite the chandelier's brilliance, was the Kingdom's Finance Minister—Caius Thorne. He was a man of sharp cheekbones and sharper calculations, his presence subtle but commanding. His ledger quills were said to weigh more than most men's swords.
"There's no point playing the blame game," Caius said coldly. "Our failure is already echoing through the walls of this kingdom. We wanted him dead on the throne—a clean execution, symbolic, final. Instead, we lost the body. And worse… we lost the proof."
A younger minister nervously interjected, "Sir Thorne, with all due respect—there's no confirmation that he survived. The Royal Court is panicking, yes, but—shouldn't we wait before making any assumptions?"
Caius's eyes narrowed.
"Assumptions are luxuries for men with clean hands. We dumped the prince—the last legitimate heir—in the Crimson Dragon's territory. Tell me, what mortal has walked from there alive?"
"None," came a voice from the side. "But that's not the point." Caius leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "The point is the locket. The royal sigil—the ancestral artifact the boy always wore. It was not recovered."
That silenced the room.
"So," another minister said, slamming his palm against the table, frustration breaking through his calm façade. "What do we do now?"
Caius's reply was smooth and deliberate. "The Royal Court is assembling a squad to search for the prince. Our options are simple: form our own squad to 'aid' the effort—or better yet, infiltrate theirs. Ideally, both."
A hum of agreement passed among the gathered men. Whispers turned to plans. Names were thrown, alliances silently cemented in nods and subtle gestures.
One portly minister leaned in. "We agree. We'll form another squad. But you, Caius… you control the kingdom's purse. The expedition budget routes through your desk. Placing one of our men into the official search party should be child's play."
Caius tilted his head. "Of course. I'll handle it."
"Then it's decided!" the ministers echoed in low, venomous voices. "This time, we will kill him for sure."
But as the meeting disbanded, one man lingered.
Caius Thorne remained seated, gazing into the hearth that crackled quietly at the far end of the chamber. His expression unreadable, his fingers tapping against the armrest in a rhythm only he understood.
They didn't know. None of them knew.
Caius had his own plans.
And unlike theirs—his didn't end with the prince's death.
-----
The first rays of morning crept over the sleepy town of Lontara, draping the cobbled streets and mossy rooftops in a veil of gold. Birds fluttered between trees of the public garden, chirping melodies to greet the new dawn. A gentle breeze swept through the trees, stirring fallen leaves and brushing softly against the worn stone bench where Ascalon lay.
He stirred.
"Morning," Ascalon murmured groggily, sitting up and stretching his limbs with a drawn-out yawn. His joints cracked audibly as he rolled his shoulders and flexed his arms, the stiffness of a night spent under the open sky clinging stubbornly to his bones.
"Congratulations, Ascalon," rumbled a voice from within—deep, ancient, and crackling with draconic pride.
Ascalon blinked. "On what occasion is the great Crimson Dragon offering me congratulations?"
A second, brighter voice chimed in—full of youth and delight. "Ascalon!! We're Level Two now!"
"Huh? Wait—when did that happen?" Ascalon looked between them, clearly baffled.
"In your sleep," the dragon answered, a trace of amusement flickering behind his gravel-toned voice. "Your long trek to this town, the honest toil of chopping wood, and your skirmish with those thugs last night… all of it added up. You crossed the threshold while your body was resting. Your vessel adapts quickly now."
"That's… fast," Ascalon muttered, frowning. "Too fast, maybe?"
The dragon chuckled—a low, thunderous hum echoing within the mindscape. "I suspected this might happen. The moment you shattered your body… when you ignited yourself to the brink of death… something inside you reset. Your foundation rebuilt itself stronger, more adaptable. The synergy between the three of us is… unusual."
"Still," the dragon's voice sharpened, growing proud and fierce, "don't get comfortable. Reaching Level Ten—true synchronization—isn't a game. That's when my true powers can awaken. And that will take more than just running errands and scaring off street trash."
Ascalon smirked. "So you're saying I'll have to earn it the hard way."
"As it should be," the prince whispered, his tone thoughtful. "Power without struggle is hollow."
There was a pause—brief, contemplative. Then Ascalon, glancing around to ensure no townsfolk were within earshot, lowered his voice and asked, "Dragon… Do you even have a name?"
A silence fell between them.
"I never had a need for one," the dragon replied at last. "Among my kind, names are power—our essence, condensed. But… humans gave me one, long ago. A name that carried through myth and song… whispered by those who feared and worshipped me in equal measure."
Ascalon leaned in mentally, intrigued.
"They called me Volkrayn," the dragon said at last, each syllable spoken like a slow-burning ember. "The Flame That Devours the Sky."
Ascalon's eyes widened slightly, the weight of the name settling around him like a heavy cloak. "Volkrayn, huh? Damn… that's metal."
"Watch your tongue, mortal," the dragon growled, though there was a hint of amusement buried deep in his tone.
"Well, Volkrayn," Ascalon stood, brushing the leaves from his tunic, "let's get stronger. Together."
He turned toward the town, where the streets were just beginning to stir. Merchants opened their stalls, the scent of warm bread drifted from a bakery nearby, and townsfolk began another day, unaware of the storm quietly brewing in their midst.
The boy who wasn't quite a boy anymore—the vessel of a lost prince, a mighty dragon, and a sword without a sheath—stepped into the light.
And the fire within him stirred.