When Kings Whisper
The night did not carry celebration.
It carried fear.
Deep beneath the palace, far from torchlight and listening ears, four shadows gathered in a sealed chamber carved with sigils older than the kingdom itself. No banners flew here. No servants attended.
Only the remnants of power.
The Tiger Clan Head stood at the center, fists clenched behind his back, his breathing heavy and uneven. Around him sat the heads of the Wolf, Serpent, and Leopard clans—each wearing expressions carefully stripped of arrogance.
The Eagle Clan's seat was empty.
Its absence screamed.
"He killed him," the Wolf Clan Head finally muttered, voice hoarse. "In front of the court. With his bare hand."
"No," the Serpent corrected quietly. "With his power."
Silence swallowed the room.
They had all believed it.
That the Dragon King was weakened.
That he was a figurehead crowned by convenience.
That the stories of dragon descendants were exaggerated legends meant to frighten children.
All lies.
"The Eagle Clan is gone," the Leopard Clan Head said, fingers trembling slightly as they traced the rim of his cup. "Their men slaughtered. Their women and children enslaved or driven out. If that is the price of defiance—"
"We should withdraw," the Wolf interrupted sharply. "Now. Before we are next."
The Tiger Clan Head spun on him so fast the air cracked.
"Withdraw?" he snarled. "And leave him standing alone at the peak?"
"You saw him," the Wolf shot back. "He crossed the hall in seconds. Seconds. That was not speed. That was dominion."
"And you think crawling away will save you?" the Tiger barked. "If you show weakness now, it will not spare you—it will mark you."
His eyes burned as he looked at each of them.
"If any of you dare opt out," he continued coldly, "I will personally ensure Raven finishes what the Eagle Clan started—with you."
The threat settled.
Unwelcome.
Unavoidable.
The Serpent Clan Head exhaled slowly. "Then we lay low."
"Yes," the Tiger said, regaining his composure, lips curling into something sharp and cruel. "We let him believe he has the upper hand. Let him parade the Ross brat. Let him marry her."
The Leopard frowned. "You would allow that union?"
"For now," the Tiger replied. "A dragon grows careless when he believes he has won."
He turned toward the door.
"We retreat. We regroup. And when we strike again, it will not be with half-measures."
No one stopped him as he left.
Elsewhere — A Message of Fire
The Tiger Clan Head did not return to his chambers.
Instead, he sealed himself in his private study and summoned a messenger—one trained to run until their lungs bled.
A letter was written in a furious, brutal hand.
Your throne trembles because of your weakness.
Your negligence has cost us the Eagle Clan.
The Ross brat is alive.
The quill snapped.
Alive.
Crowned.
And betrothed.
He pressed the seal hard, cracking wax beneath his thumb.
Lay low.
Do nothing foolish.
I will come to Ross next week.
When the messenger vanished into the night, the Tiger Clan Head finally allowed the mask to slip.
Rage was too small a word.
He had been deceived.
Outplayed.
Cornered by a king he had believed tame.
His jaw tightened.
"Dragon," he whispered darkly. "Enjoy this illusion while it lasts."
Because when the hunt resumed—
The world would burn.