The square boiled with whispers, tension crackling like dry leaves before a storm.
King Albrecht rose shakily from his throne above, eyes sunken, lips pale. He slammed his scepter against the armrest.
"This is heresy!" he roared, his voice cracking."He controls that beast with forbidden magic! He seeks to dethrone divine authority with demonic fire!"
The crowd didn't flinch.
The dragon—majestic and terrible—stood beside Theo, wings half-unfurled, its body a writhing shimmer of heat and embers. Every few seconds, its chest glowed like a furnace, pulsing with quiet menace.
The High Flame Priest stepped forward next, red robes flaring.
"This man is no Duke—he's a sorcerer! A warlock who dares play god!"He pointed a trembling finger at Theo."He must be executed for bringing forth a beast of ruin! The kingdom stands on the brink—this is no savior, this is the end!"
But no one moved.
Not a soldier. Not a squire. Not even the guards who once answered to the King.
Because the only thing the people saw… was him.
Theo.Standing tall in regal blue and black, firelight licking his outline like anointing flame.And beside him… the dragon. Alive. Real. Impossible.
A creature of legend.
The murmurs were no longer whispers.
"He didn't burn…""The dragon knelt to him…""A god? A devil?""No… a Duke. The Dragon Duke."
The soldiers—what was left of them, barely 500 strong—gripped their spears, unsure.
And yet… none advanced.
Not a single footstep toward the scaffold. Toward Theo.
"Do you feel that?" Theo asked aloud, voice calm, echoing across the square.He raised a hand slightly—just enough for silence to return."That… is the sound of fear leaving the hearts of the people."
He turned slowly toward the king and the priest.
"You cry sorcery… yet you drank from golden goblets while the children of this kingdom licked dirt. You cry divine right… yet your kingdom rots beneath your greed."
He raised his voice.
"You say I control the dragon with dark arts? Then tell me, Your Holiness—"His voice sharpened, full of steel."—how do I control the will of the people?"
The crowd erupted.They began chanting, rising from every corner of the square:
"Theo! Theo! Celene! Celene!"
The king screamed, unheard.
Theo took a deep breath and looked at the guards—his lips curling with a smirk.
"You served them… but they betrayed this land.""So I ask you—not as a Duke. Not as a noble. But as your countryman—what should we do with true traitors?"
And the people cried:
"Burn them!""Hang them!""Kill them all!"
Theo nodded once.
"Soldiers, tie them to the judgment poles."
The priests screamed. The nobles flailed. But there was no mercy left.
One by one, they were dragged to the wooden posts hammered into the ground—symbolic relics of an older age when justice was swift and public.
As the last was bound, Theo turned to his dragon, placing a hand on its gleaming hide.
Lira stepped up beside him, staring at the creature warily.
"Wait—does it have a name now?"
Theo smiled, a glint of mischief and reverence in his eyes.
"Yes."He stepped forward and raised his voice once more.
"From this day forward, let it be known—this is Vaelstrom, Flame of Judgment."
The dragon let out a low rumble.
Then, at Theo's nod… Vaelstrom roared—a deafening, sky-splitting sound that shook windows, made hearts race, and unleashed a tide of fire onto the poles.
The flames danced high. Screams rose and then were silenced.
Not a soul turned away.
They watched.
And in that moment, a tyrant's reign was reduced to ash.
The ashes were still warm.
Smoke hung low over Valebourne's central square, curling around statues of long-dead kings like a whisper of revolution. The bodies were gone, but the memory of fire still clung to the stones, as though the city itself had witnessed divine retribution.
And the people… they had chosen.
Not with ballots. Not with bloodlines.But with cheers. With chants. With silence when the tyrants screamed.
Within hours, the tides turned. The very nobles and clergy who once bowed to King Albrecht now whispered Theo's name with reverence—and Celene's with loyalty.
The High Seats, the Merchant Guilds, even the frightened remnants of the old military—all came crawling from their estates and sanctuaries. Fear dressed up as loyalty. Politics disguised as duty.
And Theo—grinning, watching from the shadows—let them do exactly what he wanted.
They called for a coronation.
Not in a month. Not in a season.
In seven days.
A rush of silks and messengers flooded the capital. Tailors worked through the night. The royal seamstress wept when she stitched a phoenix into the back of Celene's coronation cloak, murmuring prayers to old gods long forgotten.
And on the seventh day, beneath a newly scrubbed sky, as the bells of the Cathedral of Flame rang for something other than war—
Princess Celene knelt before the crown.
Theo stood beside her, dragon coiled at his feet like a monument of fire and muscle. Lira, Elric, Cassian, and the rest of the inner circle stood proudly behind.
As the High Steward placed the circlet upon her head, the crowd erupted—cheers shaking the very marble steps of the royal citadel.
"Long live Queen Celene!""Long live the Dragon Duke!"
Celene rose, firelight in her eyes. Her hand briefly clasped Theo's.
And Theo?
He just smiled—cool, collected, unreadable.
Because this wasn't the end.
This was only checkmate.
And the game had just begun.