The dragons created a system—an opportunity for weak humans to grasp power.
When royals and nobles reach puberty, they must undergo the Sacred Rite: to drink the blood of a dragon.
But there are only two outcomes:
The Worthy—those who ascend—become Dragonborn, beings of immense power and draconic might.
The Unworthy—those who descend—become Twisted, cursed creatures who haunt the realm with an insatiable hunger for flesh.
Now, the royal princes and princess, along with nobles of similar age, have come of age. These candidates must partake in the Dragonrite, where their fate and worth will be tested.
Who will ascend as Dragonborn? And who will descend into Twisted?
In the capital—Crownpeak.
Every house flew banners of blue and gold—the kingdom's colors—with the symbol of a six-headed dragon.
The entire city had gathered at the gate, lining the streets, waiting for someone. A hero, perhaps?
Amid the roaring crowd, three children pushed forward.
"Come on!" the girl shouted over the noise. "We're gonna miss it!"
She held a stick with a dragon made of paper flapping wildly in the wind as she ran.
A skinny boy huffed behind her, his wooden sword smacking against his leg with every step.
"I'm trying!" he gasped.
Behind them, a round boy jogged after them, clutching half a smoked chicken leg.
"Wait—I'm eating!"
They weaved through the shouting crowd, leapt over a knocked-over crate, and kept going.
"There—up the wall!" the girl yelled.
Using stacked barrels, they climbed like wildcats, fingers gripping the roof tiles. At last, they made it to the rooftop, the wind tugging at their clothes.
Below them: a sea of people.
Above: banners dancing in the sun.
And ahead—
The road where the candidates would parade, like gods returned to earth.
"They're coming!" the girl shouted, rising to her feet.
Immediately, heads turned.
The city held its breath.
Conversations stopped.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
Then—
The drums.
Booming.
Then the horns.
Blazing.
And finally, a cry from the main gate:
"The candidates are entering!"
Twenty-two in total, aged between fifteen and seventeen—each of noble or royal blood—mounted atop proud Wyrmfoots, the lizard-like beasts native to the Kingdom of Tiamat, their clawed feet clicking against the stone.
The candidates wore shimmering armor in different colors, each bearing the symbol of their house across the chestplate.
And the people watched—
Holding their breath for gods, for hope, for heroes.
"Look! The House of AsulFang is first!" a girl shouted from the crowd.
Gasps rose as a charismatic boy at the front waved confidently. His blue armor gleamed in the sunlight.
"Make way for your future Dragonborn!" he roared, flashing white teeth.
A girl nearby shrieked.
Beside him rode his brother—same armor, same symbol—but completely different. Quiet. Composed.
Then came a boy with loosely tied hair and a lazy posture, slouched in his saddle, yawning exaggeratedly.
"Ughhh… too many people. Too much noise for the morning…"
"You just need some sunlight to wake you up," muttered the energetic bald boy behind him, flexing his biceps for the crowd.
"Look at these arms! Built to hold a dragon's power!"
Men in the crowd clapped and cheered.
"Now that's what we need! Grit! Guts!"
The crowd roared with laughter.
Next came an odd trio—three boys in matching armor from a lesser-known house. Two of them were shouting, fists raised high.
"We'll take the dragon's power! Mark our words!"
"We'll bring glory to our house!"
But the third… lagged behind.
He trembled. His helmet shook slightly with every step. He kept his head down.
"Is he crying?" someone whispered.
"Poor lad… he's not ready."
More candidates followed, each one bearing different colors, different faces.
Some were proud.
Some nervous.
Then—the final candidates appeared.
And the energy shifted.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Then—a sudden eruption of cheers.
The royal Wyrmfoots emerged, draped in silk of blue and gold. The crowd bowed. Some dropped to their knees.
Two figures rode beneath the royal banners.
First came the princess—upright in golden-blue armor, the six-headed dragon crest gleaming on her chestplate. She rode with elegance, her smile calm.
"Princess Eira! So beautiful!" a woman cried out.
"May the gods protect her!" another shouted.
But others whispered:
"That beauty will twist."
"What a waste."
Eira heard it all—but she let none of it touch her.
Then the crowd exploded again—not for her.
Their eyes shifted—to the boy behind her.
Bathed in sunlight.
Prince Savier.
His armor shimmered in gold and blue. His hair caught the breeze, and his smile—
It broke the crowd open.
They surged forward, calling his name.
"Prince Savier!"
"The Promised Prince!"
"Our hope! Our savior!"
Men wept.
Mothers clutched their children.
Elders dropped to their knees.
One old man reached up with a trembling hand and just barely touched the prince's gauntlet.
"Please… save us. You are the promised prince."
Savier looked down and gently placed his hand over the man's.
"I'll do my best," he said softly.
But in his mind:
"How dare he touch royal blood? Filthy creature!"
As Savier moved past, the old man's smile faded.
A flicker of fear.
A shadow of doubt.
Another rider followed behind. Dressed in the same gold-and-blue armor.
It was Johnquis.
Whispers surged through the crowd.
"Why is he here?"
"How dare he wear the armor of royal blood?"
The fury rose.
"Strip off that armor!"
"You don't have the right to wear it!"
"I pray the gods twist you!"
"Let him pay for his mother's sins…"
The warmth in the air turned cold.
But Johnquis didn't react.
He didn't cower.
He didn't shield himself.
He just kept riding—silent.
He remembered the words of the man in black armor:
"Johnquis, you have been summoned by your father—the King. You are not just anyone… you are a candidate, chosen by fate to inherit the power of the dragon."
"A candidate… chosen by fate to inherit the power of the dragon…"
His fingers brushed the ring on his hand.
It made him feel okay.
In front of him, Prince Savier was staring at him—teeth clenched, eyes sharp, locked onto Johnquis.
Meanwhile, the three children raced across rooftops, leaping over balconies, keeping pace with the parade below.
"Who do you think will become our next Dragonborn, huh?" the girl asked.
"It's gotta be Prince Savier!" the chubby boy said proudly.
"Yeah! He'll save us all, right? Prince Savier, the Promised Prince!" the skinny boy shouted, swinging his wooden sword in the air.
The girl twirled, nearly stumbling in her excitement.
"Mine's Princess Eira! I know she'll be the first girl to ever become a Dragonborn. Look at her! She's gorgeous! Like me. blink blink"
The boys burst out laughing.
They rushed to the final rooftop, just above the massive gate that led to the Grand Chamber.
Below, the candidates rode—silent and proud.
And from high above, three voices rang out:
"Good luck, candidates! May the dragon Tiamat bless you with his blood!"