Chapter CXV: Wrath

The Dragon King stood alone in his office, the silence broken only by the sound of his ragged breathing. His eyes burned with fury, and his hands shook as they clenched into fists. The message had arrived only hours ago, and it had taken every ounce of self-control not to rip the messenger's throat out where he stood.

Isabella. His Isabella—no, that Isabella—had dared to raise her banner against him. Not only had she survived, but she had taken Rosehall, the seat of her father’s power, and slaughtered Lord Erkmen, his own puppet. She had drenched herself in blood and crowned herself queen with that pathetic excuse for a lord by her side. His chest tightened with a bitter, twisting pain that clawed at him from the inside out.
“How dare she,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous. “How dare she defy me?”

He had given her everything—a prince for a son, jewelry, all the comfort and luxury worthy of a queen. And she had thrown it all away. She had spat on his generosity, betrayed his trust, and now, she flaunted her victory as if she were untouchable. The vision of her standing over Erkmen’s lifeless body, crowned in his blood, haunted him. He could see it so clearly—her auburn hair wild, her eyes blazing with that defiance he had once admired. But now, all it did was fuel the fire of his hatred.

He slammed his fist onto the table, the sound echoing through the chamber. Maps and battle plans scattered to the floor, but he didn’t care. What were strategies and plans when the woman he loved—the woman he still loved—had driven a blade through his heart? She had stolen his son, denied him his throne, and now she dared to play queen?

“Isabella!” he roared, his voice filled with a mixture of rage and despair. “You will pay for this. I will see you crawl before me. I will make you beg for mercy.”

His mind raced with images of retribution. He would crush her armies, burn her cities to the ground, and when he finally had her, he would make her suffer for every moment she had defied him. But even as these thoughts consumed him, there was an emptiness—a hollow ache that no amount of bloodshed could fill.

She had meant everything to him, and now, she was gone. Worse, she had turned against him, choosing another man to stand by her side. The thought made his blood boil with jealousy and hatred.

“You think you can hide behind him? Behind your new king?” His voice was low, trembling with rage. “I will tear him apart. I will make you watch as everything you’ve built crumbles to ash.”

He could feel the walls closing in on him, the weight of his own failure pressing down like a vice. She had outmaneuvered him, made him look like a fool. And yet, even now, a part of him yearned for her. He hated himself for it—hated that even after everything, he still wanted her in his arms. But she had betrayed him, and for that, there would be no forgiveness.

He moved to the window, staring out at the darkening horizon. The mountains stood tall and unyielding, much like the kingdom he had built. But now, that kingdom was fractured, and the woman he had once loved was leading an army against him.

“Prepare your men, Isabella,” he growled to the shadows, his voice cold and commanding. “We march to Rosehall at dawn and I will burn them all!”

There would be no more mercy, no more hesitation. He would unleash the full fury of his dragons upon her and her pathetic allies. And when the dust settled, he would drag her before him, make her kneel at his feet, and remind her of who she truly belonged to.

She would know the wrath of the Dragon King. She would feel the pain she had inflicted on him a thousand times over. And in the end, when she was broken and defeated, he would take back what was his—his throne, his son, and the heart she had shattered.

But as he turned away from the window, a single tear slipped down his cheek, quickly wiped away by a hand that trembled with a rage that could no longer be contained.
“Isabella,” he whispered, the name a curse and a lament, “you will never escape me.”

***

Isabella sat upon her father’s throne, the crown she had reclaimed feeling heavier with every passing moment. The room, once filled with the echoing voices of soldiers and advisors, now held an oppressive silence, as if the very walls were holding their breath in anticipation of what was to come.

The double doors burst open with a resounding crash, shattering the fragile calm. A breathless messenger stumbled in, his face ashen, clothes torn from hard travel. Every eye in the room turned to him, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Your Majesty,” he gasped, falling to one knee before Isabella. “The Fire Army is marching toward Rosehall. The Dragon King himself leads them. He’s flying on dragonback.”

A chill ran down Isabella’s spine, but she forced her expression to remain impassive. She had expected this. Alaric would never let her betrayal go unanswered. But hearing it aloud, knowing that the fury she had unleashed was now bearing down on them, felt like a knife twisting in her gut.

Pallor, her consort, standing at her side, stiffened. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of impending doom. “If the Dragon King advances with his dragons,” he said, each word deliberate, “there will be no way out.”

The words struck Isabella like a physical blow, but she remained composed. Her mind raced, grasping for any strategy, any way to protect what little she had reclaimed. She knew Alaric’s wrath. She knew he razed entire cities, leaving nothing but ashes in his wake. But she also knew that he was the father of her children—of Ikkar, the one he knew. Alaric would never risk harming his own blood, his own son. That thought, as much as it comforted her, also filled her with unbearable sorrow. Their son was the only shield she had against the Dragon King’s fury.

“He won’t burn any place where he believes Ikkar might be,” Isabella murmured, her voice distant as if she were speaking more to herself than to Pallor.

Pallor’s gaze sharpened, his brow furrowing in thought. “And what do you propose, Your Majesty?”

Isabella turned to him, her eyes dark with resolve. “We must make sure the Dragon King never knows where Ikkar is. His ignorance will be our greatest weapon. At least for now.”

A heavy silence followed, the weight of her words sinking in. Isabella’s heart ached at the thought of using her son as a pawn in this deadly game. But what choice did she have? She had fought too hard, sacrificed too much, to let everything crumble now. Yet the guilt gnawed at her, threatening to consume her. She was a mother, after all, not just a queen. The idea of putting her child in harm’s way, even indirectly, was a pain unlike any other.

Pallor studied her carefully, his expression unreadable. “You’re willing to do whatever it takes,” he said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact.

Isabella closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering her strength. When she opened them, they were cold, resolute. “I have to be, I came too far now,” she whispered, though the words tasted like poison on her tongue. She had to be strong—for her people, for her kingdom, and for Ikkar. But the price of that strength was slowly breaking her heart.

Without another word, she rose from the throne and walked to the balcony, the wind tugging at her hair and gown as she stepped out into the open air. The night sky stretched endlessly above her, dark and foreboding. In the distance, she could feel the rumble of Alaric’s army, a dark storm brewing on the horizon. Her eyes, filled with unshed tears, scanned the shadows below, knowing that somewhere out there, Alaric was coming for her.

She clutched the cold stone of the balcony railing, the weight of her choices pressing down on her chest. She had chosen this path, but as the storm of vengeance drew nearer, she could not help but wonder if she would be able to survive the fury of the man she loved—or if her heart would shatter under the weight of her own sacrifices.

Pallor, having followed her quietly, approached the balcony. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder and asked, "Are you alright, my queen?"

Isabella turned to him, her eyes red-rimmed but resolute. "I have a plan," she said, her voice steady but tinged with uncertainty. "I’m not sure if it will work, but I’m working on it."

Pallor's curiosity was piqued. "What is the plan?"

Isabella offered a faint, enigmatic smile. "You will see," she said, turning her gaze back to the horizon.