A scream shattered the silence of the capital as the Queen went into labor. The King rushed to her chambers, his eyes burning with hope — and fear.
"Well?" he asked, his voice tight.
"It's... another princess, Your Majesty," the healer replied quietly.
The King's shoulders dropped. "Another…" He looked toward his weakened Queen, who turned away, coughing.
"I failed again… I failed you… and the dragons."
He didn't offer comfort this time. His eyes were fixed on the bundled infant in the healer's arms.
"Is she strong?" he asked.
The healer shook his head. "Born two months early. Frail. Her body may not survive the coming seasons."
The King took the child silently, his hands trembling as he cradled her fragile form. His eyes lingered on her for a long moment — soft, uncertain, and distant. He said nothing, but the weight in his gaze spoke louder than words. Around him, no one dared to speak.
The Queen closed her eyes, tears slipping down. The King placed the child in her arms — but his gaze was already distant.
Murmurs swept through Tiamat — another princess born to the royal family. For generations, only males had survived the Dragonrite. Females were seen as too weak, often transforming into mindless beasts — the Twisted.
The seven council members gathered.
"Our kingdom needed a prince!" barked the High Priest. "A son to inherit the dragon's power!"
"The people won't accept this," said another. "It's a bad omen."
"Twice now, the Queen has failed," another councilor hissed. "Never in history has a king had two daughters first."
"Have we learned nothing from the past?" added Thorne, a retired Dragonborn. "Every princess who sought the dragon's blood met a fate worse than death. Twisted into mindless horrors!"
Only the Queen's father remained silent — his eyes clouded with guilt and a quiet, restrained fury.
At last, Arteé, the youngest member and head of the council, rose from his seat.
His sharp gaze fell on the Queen's father before he addressed the room.
"Enough." His voice rang with clarity.
"If the king were here to hear you speak of his family this way… would any of you still have the courage to speak?"
Silence settled like a cold wind, though doubt lingered.
Tiamat, the most vulnerable of kingdoms, stood at the heart of the continent, bordered by the west and north. As the Twisted grew stronger by the day, they faced an increasingly dire situation.
In the courtyard, the King trained alone. Sweat poured down his back. Every strike of his blade was a cry he couldn't voice.
Elder Thorne approached quietly, his staff tapping softly against the stone. "You are unmatched, Your Majesty," he said, his voice steady yet filled with awe. "When you first ascended as a Dragonborn, you debuted at a single-digit rank. But now… you stand as the strongest Dragonborn in our kingdom, ranked number one."
The King's lips twisted into a hollow smile, a mere shadow of pride. "I know you're not here just to flatter me, Lord Thorne."
Thorne hesitated before speaking with quiet urgency. "Forgive my boldness, Your Majesty. But as you know, a hundred years ago, the three kingdoms launched a full assault on the north. The war… it was a disaster. Too many Dragonborn died."
His grip on his staff tightened, knuckles turning white.
"I saw it with my own eyes—it was a slaughter. We've lost too many, and replacements must come now." His voice lowered, cold and sharp. "The Twisted don't just grow in number—they evolve. And yet the Queen bears another daughter. No prince. Your Majesty… we may not survive another season at this pace. You must find another Queen!"
"I swore to love her."
"You swore to serve the kingdom."
The King fell silent. Thorne's words stung with truth. He looked down at his hands—the hands of a king, not a husband—and remembered: his duty was to the kingdom. To hope. To legacy.
Behind the stone archway, barely hidden, stood his firstborn daughter.
Tears welled in her wide eyes.
She had heard everything.
By dawn, the newborn princess was cold in the Queen's arms. The Queen sat motionless, eyes empty, lips parted but silent. Grief had hollowed her.
The King approached, hesitant—but before he could speak, a soldier burst in.
"Your Majesty! A village—it's been attacked. By a Twisted!"
"A Twisted? But… how?" the King stammered, horror tightening his face.
At once, duty overtook grief. The King left without a word and began gathering his army.
Upon reaching the village, the air reeked of ash and blood. Fires smoldered. And in the chaos, he saw her—a lone elven maiden battling the Twisted.
She commanded fire with grace, a great bird of flame circling her like a guardian. The Twisted shrieked as her magic tore through it—until it collapsed, dead.
No one, except the Dragonborn or someone wielding a special weapon and suit, had ever slain one before.
But as she dropped to one knee, breath ragged, another Twisted lunged from the shadows.
The King moved in an instant. One strike—clean, brutal—the Twisted vanished in a spray of black mist.
The maiden fell forward, too exhausted to speak. He caught her gently in his arms, the heat of her fading flame still warm against his skin.
What began as a brief expedition stretched into months of war. Left behind, the Queen withered in silence—until her father came. A cold, calculating man, one of the seven councilors, he entered her chambers.
"Do not forget what I sacrificed to put you on that throne," he said, his voice like steel. "You are Queen by blood, by design—not love. Hold your place. Secure your legacy. We do not lose what we bled to claim."
Their bloodline was now bound to the crown. And he would see it remain—no matter the cost.
The Queen, driven by desperation, vowed to do the same.
Within the castle walls lived the King's younger brother—not exiled, but outcast. Shunned by nobles for a grave mistake in his youth, he lingered in the shadows of courtly life, kept close only by the King's mercy and love.
She preyed on his loneliness, twisted his kindness—and conceived a child in secret…
Far away, the King and the elven maiden fought side by side, slaying hordes of Twisted. In the fire of battle, their bond grew. She commanded flame and flew with a great bird. In her, the King saw strength, grace… and something he hadn't felt in years—peace.
They fell in love.
Months later, the King returned—victorious. At his side rode the elven warrior who had fought beside him through fire and death. Her belly was round with child.
But at the palace gates, another waited.
The Queen. Also pregnant.
Stunned, the King called for her in private. His voice was low, cold, and disbelieving.
"We were apart when I left. You expect me to believe that child is mine?"
The Queen fell to her knees. "This is yours, my King! The gods gave me this child! Believe in me—I can feel it—it's a boy. A son. The prince you wanted. The kingdom wanted. Please!"
The King's face remained stoic, but his heart was heavy. There was something in her eyes—something wild, desperate. She was no longer the woman he had loved. This was a broken soul, consumed by grief and madness.
The council convened. Whispers turned to fury. Accusations flew like knives. After days of bitter debate, a ruling was made: One of the councilors declared, "Queen Madelaine will be quietly removed from court. Her title will be stripped. Her noble line will be severed, and her child's legitimacy will never be acknowledged."
His father's eyes burned with rage and disappointment as he watched the Queen—his once-beloved daughter—taken away.
She was crying, shouting, pleading with the King, with the councilors, begging to return to the palace. But there was no mercy.
With no home to return to, the former Queen was secretly hidden away in a small house by a river, nestled deep within the forest on the outskirts of a town near the capital. The only solace she had left was the quiet isolation of her exile.
Meanwhile, the elven warrior—honored in battle, bearing the King's "true" heir—was crowned queen. Her coronation was swift, held beneath banners of gold and fire.
Time moved forward. The elven queen gave birth to a strong, healthy son. His first cry was met with cheers across the kingdom. Flags were raised, bells rang for days. A prince—at last. A future. A legacy.
But far from the palace's joy, in a quiet house by the river, the former Queen gave birth as well.
Alone. Disgraced. Forgotten.
There, a second son was born.
His blood marked by scandal.
His name erased before it was ever spoken.
A child not of love, but of duty.
Not of triumph, but of tragedy.
And one day, that child would return.