The Court of Vipers
The Imperial Throne Hall of Telos glittered with gold and blood. Columns carved with dragon scales rose into the heights, banners of crimson and black draped between them. The floor was a mosaic of victory, every tile depicting battles waged by Dreki's ancestors against elves, dwarves, and demons alike.
Emperor Kael Dreki sat upon the Throne of Ash, its iron back wrought from the melted scales of Godai himself. His face was carved from stone, lined by centuries, eyes pale as winter sky. Around him gathered the court: ministers, generals, and his brood of heirs.
The throne room was restless today. The seventh son, thought to be doomed, had lived.
Prince Rhalic, the firstborn, golden-haired and armored like a war-god, scowled. "It is an affront, Father. Holt should not have survived Karthis. That post was death, meant to cleanse the stain of his curse. Yet word comes that he not only endured, but commanded victory."
His younger brother, Teyrin, ever sly, smirked. "Perhaps you misjudge him, Rhalic. The boy has a knack for living through misfortune. That makes him dangerous… or useful."
"Useful?" Rhalic's voice thundered. "He is a disabled child in cursed steel! His very existence drags our line into shame."
Kael raised a hand, silencing the hall. His voice was calm, yet heavy as stone. "Enough. Holt lives because Telos demands it. The demons stir once more. Better my seventh son bleeds in Karthis than plots in my court."
The nobles murmured agreement, though unease lingered. Holt's survival upsets long-plotted balances.
Princess Selara, the only sister, leaned forward from her cushioned seat. "Father, brothers mock him if you must, but the people whisper. They say the elements themselves choose Holt. Fire and ice in one hand. If such a tale spreads unchecked…" She let the words hang, her sharp smile completing the thought.
Kael's gaze narrowed. "Then let Holt bleed until the people forget their whispers. He is not chosen. He is a tool. A weapon to be spent."
The decree echoed like a verdict. But in the shadows behind the throne, a cloaked adviser stirred.
High Seer Maelor, keeper of prophecies, had watched silently until now. His voice was dry as parchment: "Majesty, forgive my intrusion, but the curse upon your line was not idle legend. If Holt truly bears the full weight of Godai's malediction, he may rise higher than any Dreki before him, or he may tear this empire to ash."
The hall fell silent.
Rhalic sneered. "Then let me ride to Karthis and end him now."
But Kael only waved his hand. "No. Let the curse devour him at its own pace. The pain will break him long before any blade does."
Maelor's hood dipped, concealing a faint smile. "As you decree, Majesty."
Unseen to all, the seer's eyes glimmered with interest.
Holt's Burden
Back in Fortress Karthis, Holt stood upon the ramparts again, gazing across blackened fields where snow had begun to fall. His breath steamed, though the cold was nothing to him; ice and fire burned within, forever warring.
The Black Dogs were changing. Where once they had spat at his command, now they trained with purpose. Holt's victory speech had taken root in desperate hearts. Men who had nothing left found pride in their quiet defiance.
But Holt himself carried more weight than ever. His armor thrummed with absorbed pain, his every step reminding him of the curse. His spear, Twilight, hung heavy across his back, whispering in the silence.
One-eyed veteran Garrick approached, cloak tattered, face weathered. "You don't sleep," he said bluntly.
Holt didn't turn. "When I sleep, the dragon speaks."
Garrick scratched at his scarred jaw. "Then don't sleep. A man can live without dreams, but not without command. These men follow you now, whether you want them to or not."
Holt finally looked at him. "They follow me because they have no choice. Misfits chained to a cursed prince. What kind of future is that?"
Garrick's good eye hardened. "Better than dying forgotten in a ditch. You gave them more than a grave. Don't spit on that."
The words struck deep. Holt said nothing more, but his grip on the battlements tightened.
Fire and Frost
Days later, demons came again. Scouts spotted their warped forms crawling through the snow: horned beasts with burning eyes, wielding weapons of bone and shadow.
The Black Dogs braced for slaughter. Holt descended among them, spear in hand, armor flaring with runes. The men straightened as he passed, not with fear this time, but grim anticipation.
The demons roared and surged. Holt's spear spun in his hands, fire and ice erupting in perfect harmony. Flames seared the air while frost froze shattered corpses in place. His power was brutal, beautiful, yet every strike carved agony through his body.
Still, he fought.
Still, he endured.
When the last demon fell, frozen and burning at once, Holt stood gasping, armor steaming. Around him, the Black Dogs howled in victory, their faith growing sharper with every battle.
But Holt saw only the spreading cracks along his gauntlets, glowing faintly like veins of molten fire. The curse was awakening further.
The Elven Princess
That night, Holt stood alone in the courtyard, cleaning blood from Twilight.
"You fight like one who wants to die."
The voice was smooth, lilting, touched with both shadow and light. Holt spun, spear raised, but the figure who stepped from the darkness was no demon.
A woman, tall and elegant, with silver hair flowing beneath a hood. Her skin shimmered faintly, as though caught between night and dawn. Eyes of violet flame studied him with knowing calm.
"Who are you?" Holt demanded.
She smiled faintly. "Princess Metahtha Beda Freya Fortis. Heir of Elvenheim. Your betrothed, though you may not know it yet."
The words struck like a blade. Holt lowered his spear fractionally, confusion and suspicion warring in his gaze.
"Why are you here?"
"To see the cursed son who defies both demons and his own bloodline," she replied. "To judge whether the whispers are true that you are not merely cursed, but destined."
Her gaze drifted to his cracked armor. "And I see the truth in you already. Pain given form. Power barely caged. You are not what they believe, Holt Von Dreki. You are far more."
Holt clenched his jaw. "Destiny is a chain. I want no part of it."
Metahtha's smile deepened, almost sad. "We all wear chains. The question is whether we drag them… or wield them."
Before Holt could reply, she turned, cloak shimmering with dark-light enchantments. "We will meet again, seventh son. When you are ready to decide what you truly are."
And then she was gone, leaving Holt alone with the weight of her words.
The Capital Again
Far away, in the capital, Seer Maelor stood in his chamber of bones, gazing into a bowl of shimmering water. Holt's battle replayed on its surface, fire and frost consuming the battlefield.
The seer's lips curled. "The dragon stirs. The prophecy wakes."
Behind him, Rhalic entered without ceremony. "You watch him, don't you?"
Maelor's eyes glimmered in the reflection. "I watch the fate of empires."
Rhalic growled. "When Father dies, I will be emperor. And when I am emperor, Holt will be ash. Mark that well."
The seer inclined his head, though his smile lingered unseen. "Of course, my prince. Of course."
But in his heart, he knew the empire's true heir was not Rhalic at all.