Chapter CLXXXVII: Succession

The council chamber was heavy with tension, the flickering light from the chandeliers casting long, wavering shadows on the faces of the dragon king’s children. The gravity of the discussion weighed on each of them, though none so much as on Zayr, who had taken the lead reluctantly.

Amara, only eight years old, sat at the end of the table, her small hands clasped in her lap, her eyes wide and solemn as she watched her elder siblings debate the future of the throne. It was a somber meeting, made even more so by the absence of Ikkar, their eldest brother and the rightful heir to the crown.

Zayr’s voice broke the heavy silence. “I wish we were all gathered here under different circumstances,” he began, his tone measured but sorrowful. “But we cannot ignore the reality of our situation. Our father is... dying.”

The words hung in the air, each syllable like a blade cutting through the fragile hope some of them still clung to. Kira immediately stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line, while Rya’s gaze shifted to the table, avoiding the looks exchanged around her.

Zayr continued, his voice steady despite the turmoil he felt. “Our father’s strength has been the glue holding this kingdom together. But as his health fails, we face an unavoidable truth: we have a succession problem.”

Kira leaned forward, her voice sharp. “There’s no problem. None of us are going to usurp Ikkar’s throne. Why are we even having this conversation?”

Rya spoke next, her voice calm but edged with frustration. “This isn’t about us wanting the throne, Kira. The problem is that Ikkar hasn’t set foot in court for years. He’s absent, and many of the lords may find greater legitimacy in one of us instead.”

Kira scoffed. “Fuck what they think! Ikkar is still the legitimate heir.”

Zayr leaned on the table, his expression tight. “Ikkar is in Acheron, living with a woman who is not his wife, with a child the Dragon King has never recognized. Meanwhile, Rya possesses the Dragon Eyes, is married to a Duke, and has produced a legitimate heir. The Allendorians would waste no time crowning Kai if they had the chance. And as for the Therians, their council has expressed interest in supporting me. None of us want to betray Ikkar, but the pressure will come, and we must be prepared. If we falter, we risk a civil war.”

Rya nodded, her voice softer but still resolute. “And we have to acknowledge the possibility that Ikkar... Won’t come back. We don’t even know if he still claims the crown.”

At that, Kira shot to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “There’s no crown to claim because our father isn’t dead yet!” she snapped, her voice shaking with anger. “This discussion is premature and disgusting.”

The tension in the room thickened. Rya turned her gaze to her younger sister, her brows furrowing. “Kira,” she said firmly, “this is not about betraying Ikkar. None of us want this, but we must face the possibility—”

“Ikkar is still the rightful heir,” Kira interrupted, her voice rising. “Father never disowned him. None of this matters.”

“This is a contingency,” Zayr said calmly, though the strain in his voice was evident. “We have to prepare for every possibility. If Ikkar won’t come back, or if he refuses—”

“He won’t,” Kira snapped. “You’re all giving up on him too easily. He’s still our brother, and he still has the right to the throne.”

Rya stood at the head of the council chamber, her face composed but her voice heavy with the weight of the moment. “Let’s get this done already,” she said, her tone clipped as if pushing through the emotion threatening to surface. Her dragon-like eyes scanned the room, landing on each of her siblings. “Please raise your hand if you’re in favor of supporting Zayr as the heir to the throne in the case of... Ikkar’s absence.”

A heavy silence filled the chamber, broken only by the rustling of clothing as one by one, the royal children raised their hands. First Zayr himself, his jaw clenched with reluctance. Then Mahir, who stared down at the table as if unable to meet anyone’s gaze. Rya’s own hand went up, her movements slow and deliberate. Even Amara raised her hand, mimicking her older siblings with quiet solemnity.

But one hand remained defiantly at rest.

Kira sat back in her chair, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw set in defiance. Her eyes burned with a fire that could have rivaled the dragons themselves. “No,” she said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. Kira glared at him, her voice low and venomous. “This isn’t over yet,” she hissed, then turned and stormed out of the chamber, her footsteps echoing loudly in the silence she left behind.

Kira strode purposefully into the dragon enclosure, her steps firm despite the storm of emotions raging inside her. The air was thick with the familiar, musky scent of dragons, and the faint glow of torches illuminated the massive forms resting within. Her own dragon, Missa, lifted her head at Kira’s approach, her molten gold eyes reflecting a deep bond of trust.

The young princess was only fourteen, barely more than a child, and had rarely ventured beyond the capital. The thought of the journey ahead—long, grueling, and fraught with uncertainty—made her heart race. But she didn’t falter. She knew what she had to do.

Before mounting, Kira knelt on the cold stone floor, her hands clasped tightly together. She whispered fervent prayers to every god she had ever learned of—those of the north, the south, and even the sea gods her mother spoke of in tales. She prayed for Missa’s strength, for her own endurance, and for the winds to favor their flight.

“Please,” she murmured, her voice cracking slightly. “Let us make it in time.”

When she stood, her resolve was hardened. She climbed onto Missa’s back, gripping the saddle tightly as the dragon shifted beneath her. Missa stretched her massive wings, their dark, leathery expanse catching the torchlight.

With a sharp command from Kira, the dragon launched into the night sky, the wind howling around them as they ascended. The capital disappeared beneath them, its twinkling lights swallowed by darkness. Ahead lay an uncertain journey—a race against time and fate—but Kira’s determination burned brighter than ever; she had to bring back her brother.

***

The dragon king lay in his grand bed, his body weakened by the relentless fever that burned through him. The mighty figure who had once towered over all, a man of indomitable strength and commanding presence, was now frail and fragile. His children, who had grown up believing he was unbreakable, could barely reconcile this sight with the father they knew.

The healers had made it clear—his time was running short. One by one, the king’s children gathered in his chambers, their faces solemn, their hearts heavy. Isabella sat by his side, tenderly wiping the sweat from his brow. She smiled at him, though her heart ached, as if her strength alone could keep him tethered to life.

For two days, he had murmured deliriously, his mind wandering to another time. “Ikkar... Ikkar... Where is he? Isabella took him, I have to find him…” he whispered again and again.

Isabella’s chest tightened as she heard him, the memories of decades past rushing back. Gently, she leaned closer, her voice soft and soothing. “I’m here, my love. I’m right here.”

But he looked through her, his fevered mind lost in the past. “I must meet them,” Alaric rasped. “The twins... they’re mine... I have to meet them...”

Rya and Zayr stepped forward, tears in their eyes. “We’re here, Father,” they said, their voices trembling as they tried to console him. The sight of their father—so invincible, now so fragile—shattered them. The room was filled with quiet sobs and the rustle of fabric as they wiped away tears.

Then, the heavy door to the royal chambers creaked open.

Isabella turned her head, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes widened. There, standing in the doorway, was Ikkar. He looked older, more weathered, but undeniably their Ikkar. Behind him stood Kira, her young face set in determination, and in Ikkar’s arms were two small children. He held a baby girl against his chest and a young boy clutched his free hand.

“Ikkar,” Isabella whispered, her voice breaking.

The murmurs of disbelief rippled through the room as Ikkar stepped forward. He knelt by his father’s bed, lowering the boy to stand beside him. “I’m here, Father,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I came back.”

Alaric’s fevered gaze seemed to clear, his eyes focusing on Ikkar as if the clouds in his mind had parted. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch the boy beside him. “Ikkar,” he murmured, his voice soft and filled with awe. “My boy...”

Ikkar stepped forward, his son beside him. He knelt by the bed and leaned close to his father. “I’m here, Father,” he said softly. He guided the young boy forward. “This is Alistair, my son. Your grandson.” Ikkar shifted to reveal the baby in his arms. “And this... is Hzel, your granddaughter.”

For a moment, Alaric’s fever seemed to lift. His eyes focused, and he reached out, his trembling hand brushing against the soft curls of his grandson’s hair. He looked at Ikkar with a clarity that hadn’t been there moments before. “My son...” he whispered. “You came back.”

Tears filled Ikkar’s eyes as he nodded. “I did.”

Alaric’s hand rested weakly on Ikkar’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice filled with regret. “I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

“It’s alright, Father,” Ikkar replied, his voice breaking. “I’m here now. That’s what matters.”

Alaric’s gaze turned to Isabella, then back to Ikkar. “I remember the day you were born,” he said. “The day I became a father. There is no greater glory... No greater honor.” His eyes swept across the room, seeing his children through the haze of his tears, imagining them as the small children they once were.

“Ikkar,” he said, his voice firm despite his frailty. “You have my blessing. Marry the woman you love. Be happy.”

Ikkar’s breath hitched, and his tears spilled over. “Father…”

Alaric’s gaze softened as he looked at his family—his wife, his children, his grandchildren. “Thank you,” he said to Isabella. “For giving me this... For making me a father. I love you with all that’s left of me.”

Isabella pressed a trembling kiss to his forehead. “And I love you, my king.”

With a final, peaceful exhale, the Dragon King’s chest fell still. Silence descended over the room. Isabella gently closed his eyes, her tears falling freely as she whispered a quiet goodbye.

“Father...” Ikkar murmured, his voice barely audible as he wept.

He turned and saw his siblings, one by one, kneeling before him. He stood, his daughter cradled in his arms, his son clinging to his leg. Zayr raised his head, his voice shaking as he choked out, “Long live the Dragon King.”

The words broke the dam of their grief. Tears streamed down their faces as they bowed their heads, mourning the man who had shaped their lives. Ikkar knelt among them, his siblings pressing close as they clung to each other in their shared sorrow.

The family mourned together, bound by the loss of the man who raised them. In that moment, they were not heirs or rulers—they were simply children who had lost their father.