The young prince awoke with a start from a nightmare that…. Well, he couldn''t remember anything about the nightmare except its existence…. He sat there covered in sweat as he attempted to remember the dream when he heard a knock on the door. "Your highness? Are you awake? It’s nearly midday. You’re going to be late for your meeting with the king." Joran eyed the door tiredly and gave a nod as he didn''t realize at first that the person couldn''t see him. "R-right…. I must''ve overslept. I''ll be out in a few minutes…." he said with a soft voice before he climbed out of bed to look at himself in the mirror. It''s been 15 years since the death of his mother, and he has grown quite well. He stood at 5’9, had short,wavy brown hair that went to his ears, dark brown eyes, smooth white skin that would’ve been flawless if not for the deep scar right over his heart as well as many others all over his upper torso and back from his “secret training” with some of the knights. He flexed his skinny yet muscular form a bit before he sighed softly. He''s been training all his life but what''s the point of training when he has nothing to train for since he has been forbidden to leave the palace grounds. He looked down at the amulet that hung from his neck to let out a sigh of contempt for the item. He was forbidden from ever removing it for it was said to be the only thing to hold back the illness that killed his mother. An ancient and deadly illness that supposedly only affects dragons.
He walked over to the terrace that overlooked the royal gardens where elves, fae, nymphs, and other forest themed mythics tended to the vegetation that came from all the different lands and realms. He took a deep breath at the outside air as he felt one step closer to leaving the palace and fulfilling his dream. He moved back inside and grabbed dress clothing for his meeting with the king. The suit itself looked as if it were made of the finest silk yet despite its appearance it is as tough as steel thanks to the dwarves who worked beneath the palace. He checked himself in the mirror to make sure everything was neat and correct. The suit was a masterpiece of regal craftsmanship, woven with the essence of both royalty and battle. The deep crimson coat, rich as freshly spilled wine, fit snugly across his broad shoulders before flaring into an elegant, floor-length tailcoat lined with intricate gold embroidery. Golden filigree traced arcane patterns along the sleeves and lapels, shimmering like captured sunlight as he moved. The high collar stood stiff and proud, edged with delicate sapphire inlays, mirroring the rich navy-blue waistcoat beneath, which bore gold-threaded sigils of dragons and ancient runes.
The tailored midnight blue trousers, sleek yet flexible, were reinforced with gold-stitched panels at the knees and thighs, designed to provide both comfort and subtle protection. A golden belt buckle, shaped like a dragon’s eye, secured the waistcoat in place, the gemstone at its center shifting hues between amber and deep cerulean, depending on how the light hit it. His gloves, crafted from enchanted leather, bore the faintest crackle of magic, enhancing dexterity and grip, while his polished black boots, accented with golden filigree, whispered against the floor with every measured step.
A regal sapphire-blue cape, clasped at the shoulder with an intricately forged golden dragon, draped elegantly down his back, its lining embroidered with celestial symbols that flickered like dying embers when he moved.
After traveling through the castle with the captain of the royal guard, the 25-year-old entered the throne room and walked down the thick red carpet that held an intricate design of a golden dragon and allowed his eyes to wander over the throne room. He has seen this room many times, but it still took his breath as it was one of his favorite places in his castle because of its majesty as well as the fact that one day it would be his and he would represent the greatness of lothara. Human soldiers with the occasional mythic dressed in armor lined the marble walls on each side of the room. He looked higher to see the crystal windows whose paintings held the story of Lothara from when the dragon wars began, to when his father led an army of dragon slayers and mythics against the scaled fire breathers, to when the dragon king fought and inevitably married his mother. The windows even went as far as to depict the day he was born then ending the line of windows with a crystalized picture of the royal family from when he was five years old. His mother stood a bit shorter than his father at 5 ''5 with bright blue eyes, sunset red hair, and scales visible on her forehead, cheeks, neck, and the back of the hand that rested on his five-year-old self''s shoulder. They could’ve updated the picture so he was older, but the king didn’t want to change it for it was the last picture they had together before the queen died. Joran sighed softly as he stared at the picture until he was lightly nudged by the captain as they got closer to the throne.
The dragon king of lothara was seated on a marble throne that looked as if it had formed from the floor. The arms, seat, and back were lined with a cushion covering so the seat itself was more comfortable considering it was made of…. Well…. Marble. To the left of the throne was a smaller throne that somehow was designed to look like it was made of molten rock and probably just as warm considering joran''s mother was cold blooded, so she enjoyed a warm throne to seat on during long meetings. To the right of the king''s throne was the young prince''s which was made of solid oak with leather padding on the back, seat, and arms of it but also the back appeared to be smaller than the king and queen''s thrones.
Joran approached his father and stopped just a couple feet from the steps that led up to where his father was seated. He placed his hand over his chest and bowed before he spoke, “I apologize for almost being late, father.” the king stared at Joran with a straight back and his hands resting on the arms of his throne. The Dragon King was a monument of power, a man who stood as if carved from obsidian and fire, his very presence exuding an aura of undeniable dominance. Standing at nearly seven feet tall, his broad shoulders and heavily muscled frame bore the unmistakable marks of a warrior—not just a king, but a man who had carved his rule through blood and battle. His chest and arms, thick with corded muscle, carried scars like battle inscriptions, each one a silent testament to wars fought and won, some so deep they looked as if they should have killed him.
His skin was bronzed, not from leisure, but from years spent beneath the open sky, where sun, blood, and fire had baptized him into legend. The lines of his face were sharp, sculpted from both time and hardship, his features chiseled with the kind of strength that does not fade. A strong jaw, shadowed with a hint of a beard, gave him a perpetual look of feral regality, like a lion in its prime, while his high cheekbones and straight nose carried the proud structure of a man born to command.
His eyes, however, were his most striking feature—molten gold, burning with the light of forged steel and dragon’s fire, as if something ancient and eternal still stirred behind them. They were the eyes of a predator, sharp enough to see through lies and weakness, yet carrying the depth of a ruler who had outlived his own legend. When he looked upon a man, he saw his worth before a single word was spoken.
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His hair, once jet black, had begun to streak with silver, though it did nothing to diminish the sheer vitality in his form. Long enough to be tied back into a warrior’s tail, it still carried the wildness of a beast untamed, a reminder that even as a king, he had never forgotten the battlefield. His hands were massive, calloused from years of gripping steel, fingers thick with brutal strength, yet disturbingly precise when wielding a blade. His presence alone was a challenge, a man who had long since ascended past human limitations, his very movements carrying the undeniable grace of a born warrior-king.when given he apology, The Dragon King didn’t respond immediately. He sat with his hands resting on the arms of the throne, his expression as still and unmoving as carved stone. Finally, his voice rumbled through the hall, low and powerful.
“You must always be on time, my son. Especially when addressing a king—whether he is your father or not.”
Joran straightened, his pulse quickening. He had practiced this speech a thousand times in his mind, yet standing here now, beneath the King’s fiery gaze, his resolve felt fragile. No. This was too important.
“Father, I requested this official meeting for one reason: we need to do more for the mythics of Orano.”
The Dragon King arched an eyebrow but said nothing, giving Joran permission to continue.
“Lothara is a beacon of hope,” Joran pressed on, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest. “We have built a kingdom where humans and mythics live in harmony, where they don’t have to fear slavery or death. Our resources are vast because of them—the dwarves who forge our weapons, the arachne who weave silk stronger than steel, the druids and nymphs who bless our land with magic.”
He took a breath, willing his words to reach his father. “But it’s not enough anymore. We cannot keep hiding behind our borders while mythics suffer beyond them.”
The King’s golden eyes flickered with something unreadable. “And what do you suggest?”
Joran steeled himself. This was the moment.
“Alliances.”
A beat of silence. The air itself felt heavier.
“Alliances?” the Dragon King repeated, his voice dangerously neutral.
Joran nodded. “Yes. We have power, Father, and more importantly, we have the means to offer protection. We should extend our reach—form alliances with mythic clans, kingdoms, and even sympathetic human lords. In return, we exchange resources, aid in times of war, and ensure safe havens for any mythic seeking asylum.”
He hesitated only for a breath before adding, “The only thing they must promise is that they will deny service to slavers and hunters. That they will drive them from their lands. If enough of us unite, the slavers and the Hunter’s Guild will be forced into hiding.”
The King leaned forward now, his fingers tapping once against the throne’s armrest—a gesture that made Joran’s stomach tighten.
“A noble thought,” his father admitted. “But you are thinking like a prince. Not a king.”
Joran’s jaw tightened. “And what does that mean?”
The King stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the chamber. The room, already massive, suddenly felt too small.
“The reason the human kingdoms do not challenge Lothara is because we keep to ourselves. If we begin forming alliances, disrupting their trade—especially their supply of slaves and mythic goods—what do you think will happen?”
“Then we’ll deal with that when it comes,” Joran said firmly. “They would have to consider whoever we align with. They would not just be attacking us, but every ally we stand with.”
The Dragon King exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting toward the great stained-glass window that depicted his late wife. Joran saw the flicker of pain there, though his father would never admit it aloud.
“I suppose I could send a few diplomats to discuss—”
“No.” Joran stepped forward; voice stronger than before. “I should be the one to go.”
Silence.
A dangerous silence.
The King’s entire body tensed, his golden eyes now burning with barely restrained anger—or was it fear?
“Joran.”
Joran stood his ground. “I am twenty-five years old, Father. I have trained my whole life. I know politics. I know combat. If you send a diplomat from an isolated kingdom, they will be seen as a mere messenger. But if I go…” He straightened his back. “If I go, they will see Lothara itself standing before them.”
The Dragon King closed his eyes for a brief moment, then exhaled sharply.
“No.”
Joran’s chest tightened. “Father—”
“The answer is NO!”
The throne room trembled, the sheer force of the King’s voice cracking the marble beneath his feet.
Joran stepped back, startled, but he didn’t back down. His father had always been a force of nature, but this—this was more than just a refusal.
The Dragon King slowly sat back down, the glow in his eyes dimming, but the weight of his words remained.
“You are not ready for the outside world, Joran.”
Joran’s fists clenched. “You keep saying that—”
“Because it’s true.” His father’s voice was calmer now, but no less firm. “You have a kind heart, my son. And that will be your undoing.”
Joran’s chest ached. “So what? You expect me to sit here forever?”
His father watched him carefully. “You do not have a fighter’s spirit.”
Joran felt those words like a slap across the face.
“I’ve trained all my life—”
“Training is not the same as war. And this world is war.” The King’s eyes narrowed, voice turning cold. “You do not understand what it means to take a life. To kill before you are killed. You hesitate. And hesitation gets men like you slaughtered.”
Joran’s breath hitched, but he refused to let himself waver.
His father sighed, rubbing his temples before adding in a lower voice, “And then there’s your amulet.”
Joran instinctively touched the pendant around his neck, his mind flashing to the stories he had been told since childhood.
The illness. The one that had killed his mother.
His father’s voice softened just slightly. “If you lose that amulet… the same sickness that took your mother will take you too.”
Joran’s stomach churned, a bitter mix of frustration and helplessness building in his throat. “Then let me go with an armed escort. Let me prove myself.”
The King’s eyes hardened once more. “My decision is final.”
Joran’s hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He stared at his father, feeling the weight of the walls around him, the invisible chains that had bound him his whole life.
Finally, he bowed. “As you wish… my King.”
Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the throne room.