“I am a man who remembers being king four hundred years ago.” I keep my voice level. “That does not make me fit to command today.”
The sound of wings interrupts. A phoenix lands, blazing at Dorian’s shoulder.
“Wait,” he says. “You’re actually—?”
“You handle the prisoners,” I say to Caleb. Cut Dorian off before he can finish. “Extract what intelligence you can from the facility. You know the protocols better than I do.”
Caleb hesitates. “But—”
“You’ve been leading without me for years. You don’t need me now.”
“People will expect—”
“Let them expect.” I glance toward where Mara is disappearing into the tree line. “I’m going.”
“Wait.” Dorian moves into my path. Not blocking, exactly. Just… present. “If you just walk away while we’re securing a Syndicate facility, while there are prisoners who need interrogation…” He pauses. “People are going to talk. They’re going to say the Dragon King returned and then abandoned his people for—”
“For what?” I interrupt. Voice hard. “For a woman I’ve known eight days? For personal desire over the welfare of my people?”
“Yeah.” Dorian’s grin is sharp. “Exactly that.”
The words hang between us.
And I feel it—the familiar pressure of expectation.
This is how it starts.
One decision deferred to me. Then another. Then a dozen more. Until I’m buried in responsibility and everyone who matters is gone.
I remember standing in throne rooms making this exact calculation. Weighing personal need against strategic necessity. Choosing duty every single time because that’s what kings do.
Always duty. Always sacrifice. Always too late.
“It’s your choice,” Caleb says quietly.
I look at him. Then at the facility. The restrained prisoners. The fighters regrouping and looking toward me with questions in their eyes.
More dragons are landing now. Craven warriors who’d been holding the perimeter. Aurora Collective fighters responding to the call. All of them converging on this site.
All of them seeing me. Recognizing what I am.
Some kneel. That formal gesture—fist over heart.
“My King,” someone murmurs.
Then another. “The Dragon King returned.”
The whispers spread. Ripple through the gathered fighters like fire through dry grass.
The mantle of leadership sinks over me, whether I want it or not.
Because I gave orders. Made tactical decisions. Spoke with the voice of command.
Because they see what I was instead of what I am.
“Go, if you must,” Caleb says again. “We can handle this.”
But there are ten fighters now. A dozen. More arriving every minute.
