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Micah shakes his head. “No, Your Majesty.” His voice is calm. “It’s you who’s been deceiving them.”

The murmuring grows louder.

A small, knowing smile curves Micah’s lips as he meets the king’s gaze, his chin tilted slightly upward. There’s a quiet confidence in his expression—the look of a man who knows he’s about to strike his opponent with a deadly blow.

“And,” he says calmly. “I have proof.”

Chapter Nineteen: Micah

I reach into my coat and pull out the scroll.

The murmuring crowd falls quiet as I slowly unroll it. The parchment crackles beneath my fingers as I spread it wide and hold it high, ensuring everyone can see the detailed blueprints.

“This,” I say, pointing to the scroll. “Is what King Castor has been planning. A luxury ski resort built on top of Mount Embercrest.”

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd.

The king’s face has gone pale.

“The mountain belongs to the dragons,” I continue. “That isn’t a matter of opinion. It’s protected by an ancient treaty.”

He points a finger at me, trembling with anger. “I forbid you from speaking another word, Doctor.”

I wave the scroll in the air. “You can’t silence me! And you can’t deny this evidence. It was found in your own office.”

The king’s mouth falls open. “Are you admitting to trespassing and theft?” He shakes his head. “Guards, arrest him this instant!”

None of them move. Their metal boots remain firmly planted against the cobblestones as they exchange nervous glances.

A small smile curves my lips. “It’s time to give up the act, Your Highness. The truth has been exposed.”

I glance at Maple. She’s still sitting beside the little girl, her tail curled around her tiny body.

“You see her wings?”

The little dragon shifts, revealing the small prosthetic frame attached to her malformed wing.

“There are countless other dragons on Mount Embercrest right now just like her.” My voice catches, but I force myself to continue. “Dragons born with malformed or incomplete wings. Dragons struggling to hunt because they can’t fly. Dragons who can’t migrate with their families or escape predators.” I look around the square. “They’re slowly starving to death.”

A hush settles over the crowd.

“He poisoned them. That’s what caused the genetic mutations.” I point toward the blueprints. “He wanted the dragons gone so he could build his resort.” My gaze returns to the king. “And he did it all under our noses.”

“Lies!” The king scoffs. “I didn’t plant those mushrooms!”

A few startled gasps erupt from the crowd.

I stare at him. For a moment, I say nothing. Then a small smirk curves across my lips.

“I never said anything about mushrooms, Your Highness.”

The square goes completely silent.

The king’s expression changes. His eyes widen, his mouth falling open.

Around us, the townspeople stare at him, realization slowly dawning across their faces.

“But now that you’ve admitted it,” I say, grabbing the vial from my pocket and holding it in the air. “We also found this in your office. Icecap mushroom spores—which are known to be poisonous to dragons.”