Volume 2 Chapter 7 Drakenspire’s Dark Council


    Drakenspire Keep loomed like a jagged wound against the storm-laden sky, its blackstone walls untouched by time, its towers piercing the heavens like the talons of some slumbering beast. Within its halls, where firelight barely reached the vaulted ceilings, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment, burning incense, and the subtle undercurrent of steel oiled for war.


    Vaelinor Draconis strode through the great hall, his crimson cloak trailing behind him, boots echoing on the obsidian floor. The summons had been abrupt, though not entirely unexpected. The last time his uncle had called for him with such urgency, the northern frontier had erupted into rebellion. Whatever this was, it would be no trifling matter.


    The council chamber was already filled when he arrived. Lords of lesser standing, commanders of the fleet, and spymasters cloaked in shadow occupied their respective seats. But it was Duke Dragan Velmuth Draconis who commanded the room.


    Seated upon his high-backed chair of black iron, the Duke of House Draconis was a figure of unshaken authority. His presence alone suffocated the room, though he had not yet spoken. Age had carved lines of stone into his face, but his cybernetic eyes, their red sclera glowing dimly, burned with the same relentless fire they always had. His arms, sleek and forged from dark steel, rested on the table before him—not idle, not uncertain, merely waiting. The cybernetics extended from his shoulders down to his fingers, each joint humming with silent precision, their polished surface betraying no weakness.


    “You took your time,” Dragan said, his voice a slow, measured drawl that betrayed nothing but expectation.


    “I came as soon as I was summoned, my lord uncle,” Drakon replied, inclining his head but offering no apology.


    Dragan studied him for a moment longer before gesturing to the seat beside him. “Sit. Listen.”


    Drakon obeyed, his gaze flicking across the assembled figures. Some of them nodded in silent acknowledgment, others offered nothing but veiled scrutiny. These were not men and women called to discuss trivial matters. This was a war council in all but name.


    “The Fenralis situation is escalating,” Dragan began, voice steady, unhurried. “Their fleet is growing at an unnatural pace. Their mechs—more advanced than they should be. The old balance is shifting, and I do not believe it is by their hand alone.”


    A murmur rippled through the chamber, but no one interrupted. Dragan continued.


    “We have no proof,” he admitted, and those words alone were enough to send a wave of unease through the gathered lords. “No concrete evidence. But our agents report an increasing number of visits between Prince Lucien Horus Solarius and that backwater world, Verdant Vale.”


    Drakon’s fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. "That much was inevitable. The non-aggression pact granted Lucien access to study the ancient relic, Galatine, but these visits—" his voice lowered slightly, calculating, "they are far too frequent for mere observation."


    Dragan exhaled slowly, a sound like steel grinding against stone. “Perhaps. Or something more insidious. The Prince does not waste his time on trivialities, and yet, in the span of four months, he has made the journey personally more times than I care to count. And it is not merely one-sided. Lord Governor Garett Fenralis has been seen on Solara Prime in equal measure.”


    Drakon’s expression remained neutral, but his fingers drummed idly against the armrest. "Lucien already has access to Galatine. The non-aggression pact ensured that much. But these visits..." He exhaled, considering the implications. "It isn’t just study. If it were, their scientists would be conducting the analysis, not a prince of Solara himself."


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Dragan’s gaze sharpened. “That is the question, isn’t it?”


    The chamber fell into silence, the weight of the implications pressing down upon them. House Fenralis was powerful, but not so powerful as to warrant the personal attention of a prince of Solara. Not unless…


    Drakon sat straighter. "You suspect they found the Starforge that Lyrius was looking for in the Vale."


    "I suspect," Dragan corrected. "I do not yet know."


    A scoff came from the far end of the table. One of the lesser lords, a grizzled commander with more ambition than wisdom, sneered. "Lyrius. What a disappointment. Defeated by a magicless wretch. Died on a backwater planet. A disgrace to the name Draconis."


    The words were met with an uneasy silence, but Drakon felt the heat of rage coil tight in his chest. His jaw clenched, his fingers curling against the armrest of his chair. He could have killed the man for that alone.


    Instead, he smiled.


    A slow, measured thing, devoid of warmth. "A disappointment, you say? Then tell me, my lord—how many Fenralis dogs have you bested in single combat? How many warriors have sung your name in battle hymns? Or is your reputation forged solely from your ability to run your mouth in the safety of these halls?"


    The man paled, his bravado faltering under the weight of the insult. Dragan said nothing, but the glint in his red cybernetic eyes suggested he approved.


    Drakon let the silence stretch before turning back to his uncle. "You were saying?"


    "Speaking of Lyrius," Dragan said, his tone as measured as ever.


    The heavy doors of the council chamber groaned open. The rhythmic clunk of sabatons against marble filled the silence, each step deliberate, mechanical. The gathered lords turned, their murmurs dying on their lips.


    A man stood in the entryway, his iridescent silver hair catching the dim firelight. His face was familiar, yet distant—lines etched like circuitry marked his skin, running like veins of metal along his cheeks and forehead. His eyes, once the deep gold of House Draconis, were now cybernetic orbs, cold and distant.


    Drakon''s breath stilled. A stranger he knew all too well.


    Lyrius.


    Or at least, something that bore his face.


    A low chuckle sounded from the chamber’s far end, followed by a voice dripping with amusement and something darker. "I did my best to reanimate your brother," the man standing beside Lyrius said. He was tall, clad in a long coat of dark crimson, his hands gloved in silver-threaded mesh. "I gave him the finest cybernetics available in the galaxy. But reanimation..." He sighed, almost wistfully. "Ah, reanimation is a fickle thing."


    Drakon moved before he even realized it, fury igniting his veins. His mace materialized in his grasp, wrenched from the ether by the will of his gauntlet, and he charged. "Who gave you permission to defile my brother? By whose orders?"


    A voice, calm and absolute, cut through the chamber from the back of the room.


    "By mine."


    Lord Drakon skidded to a halt, his breath ragged, his grip tightening around the haft of his mace. His mind, sharp as it was, reeled against the sheer weight of what he was seeing. Lyrius—no, whatever remained of him—stood still, expression empty, awaiting command like a well-trained hound.


    Drakon turned slowly, his fury simmering beneath his skin. "Why?" The question came low, almost a growl, as his eyes locked onto Dragan. "You dishonor his memory, his last wishes. He swore he would never become—this."


    Dragan’s expression did not waver. "And what, dear nephew, has Lyrius'' memory done for House Draconis? Has it won battles? Strengthened our holdings? Conquered new systems? No. It has done nothing. Because dead men accomplish nothing."


    Drakon’s teeth clenched. "He would have rather rotted in his grave than be turned into some—"


    "Tool?" Dragan interrupted smoothly, leaning forward. "Then perhaps he should have won. Perhaps he should have been stronger. But he was not. And yet, despite that, I have given him the chance to be useful again. If only he had been this obedient in life."


    Drakon’s grip on his mace trembled. "You think him a puppet to string along, some corpse to dress in armor and parade before the council? That is not Lyrius. That is a grotesque mockery!"


    Dragan exhaled, shaking his head, as if Drakon were some petulant child failing a lesson for the hundredth time. "Do not let sentiment blind you to reality. You speak of honor, of memory, as if these are things that matter in the grand course of history. They do not. What matters is power. What matters is legacy. And what is House Draconis, if not the legacy of men willing to do what is necessary while lesser creatures grovel in their ideals?"


    Drakon could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He had always known his uncle to be ruthless, pragmatic beyond conscience—but this was different. This was something worse.


    Dragan’s cybernetic fingers drummed lightly against the table. "Tell me, Drakon, what would you have me do? Bury your brother with his honor intact while our enemies sharpen their knives? Would you rather we fall to sentimentality and let the Fenralis whelp build his empire unchallenged? Or will you open your eyes and see the truth: that war is coming, and only the strong will write history."


    Drakon forced himself to steady his breathing, to keep his voice from shaking. "And you believe yourself strong? You believe your will alone can shape history?"


    Dragan smirked. "It always has."