Res Gestae

"The Things Done."

The life and times of Ambrose King, Führer of the Dracónian Empire.

Amid a court rampant with treachery and deception, the Second Prince of Dracónia plots to steal his father's throne at the encouragement of his wife, and seals his fate.

THE DRACÓNIAN EMPIRE is the greatest in the northern hemisphere. Every dragon, human, faerie, and siren knows and acknowledges this universal fact. Dracónia is the only nation that dragons of all kinds, whether they be shifter or pure, can truly thrive without worry about being prosecuted because of their creator-endowed gifts.

Many inferior countries, such as Xerxes to the East or Alesia to the South, are intolerant and judgmental of dragons. They torture dragons when they find us in the name of their forsaken science. Dragon children are killed so that humans can dissect their innards, so that they might understand our inner anatomy to create better war weapons. Greater Dragons are imprisoned in cages too small for their wide wingspan, unable to return to the skies that is their right. Nobody knows what happens to the Dragonlings who have been caught.

Despite the harm humans have done to dragons, we must still be merciful as a People to them. Humans make entertaining pets and companions. They have many useful skills similar to ours that they can employ as we show the world our Greatness, such as cooking and cleaning. Most importantly, they can walk where we cannot go and tell us about how high the threat of other humans is to our society.

Dracónia walks a thin line with the humans. Existence without them is impossible until they have been exterminated completely from Earth, but they must never be underestimated, as they are known to be resourceful.

"What do you think about your lessons, Cornelius?"

Ambrose's elder brother shrugged at their father's question, lethargically twirling his spoon around and around in small semicircles in the soup bow, elbow resting on the table and chin in his palm. Their mother tutted at his bad manners, but she said nothing to rebuke the disrespect he showed their father.

Cornelius was the favored one, after all. He could do no wrong in their eyes.

"I'm doing well in them." His brother hesitated, though neither father nor mother noticed it. It was so quick that he could have just paused for a heartbeat, but Ambrose knew better. Ambrose had spent years observing his brother. "There's just one thing I've been having a difficult time understanding. Father, perhaps you could shed some light on it?"

Father smiled at Cornelius. "My son, I cannot shed light on that which is not there."

"Ah, right." Cornelius took a quick bite of his soup, but even that small gesture didn't hide the way his ears flushed from Ambrose's keen eyes. "All the histories say that Dracónia is the greatest empire, which it is—but they also say that humans are our greatest enemy, yet we can't live without them. Why have we never tried to ally with the lesser countries, the ones with humans in them?"

Father and Mother exchanged a quick glance between themselves. Somehow, they didn't look very surprised. Ambrose was aghast at Cornelius' question.

"We can't have humans in our country!" he said heatedly, gaining his brother's attention. "They're as dangerous as we are. What—you want to be friends with them? Grow up! They'd stab you in the back when you're not watching them."

Mother cleared her throat and pointedly looked at him. Of course, of course. The question hadn't been addressed to him, so he shouldn't answer it. He was the spare heir, in case anything happens to Cornelius—which it wouldn't, because his dear brother was perfect and flawless in all ways, and he would start campaigning in the West next year to display his bravery and raw potential to be Führer.

Father ignored his unseemly interruption. Not that that was any surprise to him; father always ignored him.

"Do you remember the Council of Elders? It was comprised of three elders from each corner of our nation, and they ruled Dracónia for several hundred years." Cornelius nodded, attention fixed on their father, and he was clearly soaking every word up if the fanatical light in his eyes was anything to go by.

"The last fifty years of their reign, before they gave our family the Crown, was the most turbulent and dangerous in the empire. This is because they tried to broker peace with our human neighbors; but the humans, liars and cheaters and scoundrels that they are, used the new treaty terms to create weaponry to eliminate us Dracónians. Our spies caught wind of it in time and warned us, but if they hadn't... we wouldn't exist today as we do now. That, my son, is why we never trust a human."

Cornelius' facial structure twisted with pain, but he nodded and smiled. "Thank you, father. I appreciate your words of wisdom."

Ambrose doubted that. Cornelius had always been soft-hearted and a human-lover, even when they were young boys and they had tolerated each other's presence. That was why he feared for the future of Dracónia under his rule; his brother would likely be foolish enough to try to approach the King of Alesia with terms for a new peace charter.

Lessons learnt but never understood, that was the problem with Cornelius. He was likely to doom this entire country because of his philanthropic outlook on life, which was incompatible with the position he was in. The future Führer of Dracónia could not afford to be merciful or compassionate to anyone—human or dragon, family or friend.

"You're always welcome to ask for them, Cornelius."

Ambrose couldn't stand this dinner any longer. His whole family was a bunch of traitors and human-lovers. Couldn't father see that he was only encouraging Cornelius?

"May I be excused?"

Mother nodded, not even glancing at him. Ambrose rolled his eyes and pushed his chair out, letting the servants scurry over to put it back where the chair belonged. Human lovers, the lot of them. Somebody had to find a way to save this country from their clutches; they'd destroy everything and drag Dracónia into a massacre if they would have their way.

It was a good thing that Ambrose wasn't soft-hearted.

In his thirty-first spring, Ambrose married the high-spirited Constance Fiennes of the Old Families under the light of the sun and in the wild grasslands. Flowers were braided into her hair and laughter came from the common folk as they danced and sang to their good health. Cherry blossoms fell into his hair and littered the ground.

It had been a marriage of convenience, and he had no intention to fall in love with the woman, fair skinned and graceful as she might present herself to be.

Lady Constance Fiennes-King, the wife of the Coming Führer's younger brother, was a priceless gem in the eyes of the court, and in the eyes of his parents. She conducted herself with poise, spoke fairly and justly so that one side was never excluded and both sides were always heard. She could stand toe to toe with the best of the political orators of their age. Not only was she intelligent, but she was beautiful, too. Her hair was a fiery auburn that was practically unseen in the dark-headed and fair-headed dragons, her eyes were an icy blue, and she was quick to laugh.

But when is reality so picture perfect?

Perhaps that was why Ambrose watched her interactions with his brother every time he came back from his campaigns within their borders, to settle the civil unrest. After all, she should have married Cornelius—except Cornelius had vowed to never marry for reasons Ambrose hadn't been privy to, and so she had became his by default.

Their relationship—his brother and his wife, they were too close to simply be friends. There was nothing he could do about it without proof; his parents would never believe that their precious eldest child was capable of infidelity and his wife had the courts wrapped around her little finger.

Was it paranoia that ordered the servants and the couriers to report her whereabouts to him, or was it something else that guided him? Regardless, he hadn't survived this long ignoring his instincts, and he wasn't about to start now.

They proved correct, as they always did in the end, when Constance announced one evening that she was pregnant to his parents and to the higher-ranking nobility. It felt like the blood had rushed between his ears, and he found himself glancing at Cornelius, sitting on his father's right side, eyes wide and back straight.

They hadn't even slept in the same bed after the first six months of their marriage.

He pulled her aside after dinner into a rarely used corridor.

"It is not my child," he accused, and it was fury that made his stomach churn and his voice shake, nothing else. Certainly not betrayal or hurt, when he had suspected her of committing the crime of infidelity with his perfect, flawless, moral older brother for over a year.

Constance didn't fiddle with her hands or drop her gaze; she merely lifted her chin and stared at him in the eye, showing no repentance, even now that she had been discovered in the act of wrongdoing. "There is nothing you can do. If you tell your parents, they will believe that Cornelius would never do such a thing." A slow smirk spread across her face, and she tilted her head to the side. "It was necessary."

He ought to undo their marriage, but their life forces were interwoven at the ceremony. The Highest Ritual to bind two lovers together in matrimony forever. The Common Folk thought it was romantic that the Crowned Family had such deep bonds, that even in death they will find each other again. Ambrose knew better: The Highest Ritual was an insurance so that the Royal Family Bloodline would be impossible to fracture.

"I will reject it, as soon as it comes out of your womb. Your child will never be a part of this family. You will be exiled for giving an unfit child to me."

A hint of panic in her expression—eyes widening fractionally, hands shaking—before her face carefully went back to neutral. She reached out to touch him, and he shied away from her touch with a scowl.

"You don't want to do that, Ambrose. My son will be the vehicle of your successful rise to the position of the Führer."

A pause, from him. "A son? The child isn't born yet. My brother, whom you've bedded, is the Hope and Heir of the Dracónian Empire, not I." Had she spoken to prophets? Was she scrambling for a reason to keep her child alive? Even she must have a mother's instincts, as cruel and manipulative as she might be, and it would be natural for her to want to protect the unborn child inside of her.

"You know."

"My brother is not exactly subtle."

She shook her head. "No, it's not that. You were setting the servants and guards on me, weren't you? I underestimated your paranoia."

"It's not paranoia if it's true."

She studied him, and somehow, the look on her face reminded him of the person in the mirror he saw every morning—she reminded him of himself. "If you do not harm my son when he is born then, and only then, will I tell you how I know you will become the Führer of Dracónia."

He thought about his People every day, and how his father and brother were both failing them. He wondered how he was to save them when nobody listened to him.

If he was Führer, and if it was possible like Constance seemed to indicate...

"Twelve months, Constance. In twelve months, I will decide this child's fate. If you are wrong, it will face the repercussions of your actions."

The child was born early, in the darkest months of Winter during the worst snowstorm the capital had seen in over a century. The newborn was unceremoniously plopped into his arms, and he found himself instinctively tightening his grip around the fragile bundle of limbs and flesh and nerves in his arms.

"It's a boy, my lord. What will you name him?" One of the nurses asked, a younger one, with worry in her eyes as she stared at the baby.

He looked up at Constance, who was watching him with a gleam of triumph in her eyes and a small smile on her face. How did she know?

Pure dragons were creatures of magic, who saw symbolism in every living thing. Even though they were rare, if not extinct in their day, magic still ran strong in the blood of dragonlings: humans who could shift into dragons, or dragons who could shift into humans. Nobody was quite sure which came first, just like how nobody was quite sure what came first: the chicken or the egg.

This newborn had been born in the dead of winter. Most dragons were superstitious, and would say that he was cursed, destined to be the bristling northern wind that crippled the kingdom.

Cornelius had been born in the dead of winter too, late, on an unseasonably warm day.

"Draco." He said, and watched as the smile slipped off her face as he cursed her son to a life of ordinary existence. "His name is Draco."

No parent would name their child dragon unless they wanted for them to have no magic in their veins.

Ambrose certainly wasn't this child's father. This child was nobody's boy, and nobody's boy he would remain.

"You named my son Draco!" Constance spat at him, after the nurses had left and her son had a cradle created for him on her side of the bed. She ran toward him with her fists raised, but never threw them at him.

"I said I would let him live. I did not say I would accept him."

"You cursed him! He was meant to be great, and you cursed him with weak magic!"

Ambrose sneered at her. "Then he'll have to work doubly hard to get what he wants. Just. Like. Me."

She stared at him, eyes wide, and her hands were brought close to her chest, as if she was hugging herself. "You truly hate your brother that much, that you would curse a defenseless child, despite the repercussions from your parents?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I held up my end of the bargain, Constance. The boy is not dead."

Constance sighed, glancing at the boy, and then at him. She sat down at the desk, in his chair. "I am a prophetess. Since I was a young child, I've seen visions of possible futures laid out in front of me."

"Only pure dragons can predict the future." Except she had known the future, hadn't she? She knew that the baby would be a boy, and she had been too certain, too smug, too knowing when she had told him, for her to guess.

"My mother was a pure-blooded dragon. My father wasn't. Her gift was passed on to me when I was born, and so here I am."

"I see." It wasn't something he wanted to know, but he was patient. He knew how to wait, and this was a situation where he felt like he had to wait. His entire life, he had waited, and he wouldn't undo years of work because he forgot the most important lesson he had learned.

"I said you would be the next Führer, and that Draco was the key to your success."

And she explained, that the only to become a Führer was to do it through his own methods—because his parents would never disinherit his brother, even though he was clearly the weaker brother. A blood traitor that he might be, which was punishable by a life sentence or death in Dracónian law... for anyone but the favored son.

Later, Ambrose stared down at the boy that was his brother's son as he opened and looked at him with his wide gray eyes—hauntingly familiar gray eyes.

He has my eyes, he realized, and he'll the reason for my rise to greatness.

It was in his right to reject this child... but wouldn't it be more hurtful for his brother to watch his son be raised by his younger brother, fully adored, without suspecting that Ambrose knew about his true parentage?

As if he was a specter outside of his own body, he watched himself reach out and lift the baby into his arms.

"I have a proposition for you, brother."

Carefully crafted expression held in place, Ambrose turned slowly and looked at Cornelius as he approached. What a strange occurrence, for Cornelius to approach him of all people, with a proposition—he had always demanded and expected it of him, as he was entitled to anything that was his.

Not that it would be that way forever, of course. Even now, the pieces of his master plan were falling into place; the Führer Consort, their mother, had died years ago, and their father had never been quite the same, after all. It would be understandable if he died from heart failure.

As for Cornelius—

"Would you wish to discuss this proposition in private, brother?"

—Well, it would be horrifying if evidence turned up that the Heir of the Dracónian Empire had been plotting its downfall all along. After all, he had been a sympathizer of the Humans since he had been a child. It would only be natural for him to feel like he owed the Humans that lived within their borders their natural land back.

"Ah, yes. It would be best if we took this somewhere secure. It contains sensitive information about the future of the Empire."

He wasn't quite sure how to take his brother's words, especially as they were directed at him of all people and not to the countless generals at his brother's command, but he nodded and followed him toward the rarely-used Eastern Wing of the castle. A word was passed between neither of them, and the silence felt heavy and dense, as if it was bearing down on Ambrose.

Had Cornelius become aware of his plans? It was entirely possible; even though he was outwardly good-natured and lenient, his brother's mind was as sharp as a tack. But no, he had been careful these last ten years since Constance had told him he could be king, and doubly so as his plans finally start coming to fruition.

Opening the door to one of the offices, Cornelius gestured with one hand for him to go inside first—always the older son, always the favored one, always used to getting what he wants—and Ambrose walked in with his chin held high. Automatically, he glanced around the room, looking for potential escape routes and hiding places, before he sat down on the chair and crossed his right leg over his left, waiting for Cornelius to sit, too.

"As I said, it's about the future of the Empire." Cornelius tossed himself into the seat across from him, throwing his arm across the back and immediately getting to the point. "We both know that father's health has been declining, and I'm not going to marry. The line of succession for the Throne is unstable, since you're the only other heir in case something happens to me, and that's not good planning."

"Yes."

Cornelius waited for him to say something else, but Ambrose firmly kept his lips shut. It wasn't like his brother would abdicate and pass the crown down to him. He would have done that years ago if he had.

"Right. Well, you're only a few years younger than I am, and I've been thinking about naming Draco as my primary heir. If something happens to me before he comes of age, you'll be acting regent."

Of course Cornelius would want his son to be his heir, never mind that that son wasn't acknowledged by him officially. Draco had always adored his Uncle Cornelius, even more so than his younger sisters, which was quite the accomplishment.

"I see. I assume you have already made this decision, and the documentation supporting this has already been written."

Cornelius shot him a wounded look, but there was the hint of a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Ambrose, he is your son. I would never make such a serious decision without asking for your permission first."

In other words, this was just a formality, and his words didn't matter. Maybe it wasn't written in word yet, but Ambrose didn't have a choice in this decision either.

"I already know that this a pretense for you to make yourself look like you're moral and just. Do whatever you want, Cornelius. You always have."

He stood up and walked out of the room without waiting for Cornelius' response.

"Is it done?" Constance asked when Ambrose walked out of his father's bedchamber, evidence removed from his person, dumped into his father's mouth and a dying plant. The poison had been untraceable and instantaneous, and he had timed it so that he would slip in between the changing of the guard's shifts. Nobody would have seen him. It had been executed perfectly, despite Constance's insistence that she tag along with him.

He had been planning this moment for years. It should have brought him a feeling of immense satisfaction, to finally topple his father's empire and become the stronger dragon.

So why were his hands trembling from fear and self-loathing?

Swallowing around the lump of his throat, he nodded and rasped out, "He's dead."

"Good. That's— good."

"Let there be a spark in your mind, an ember in your heart, a fire that burns in your belly, and a destiny in your hands."

Ambrose King raised the torch that had been passed down to him, and he finally allowed a victorious grin to emerge on his face. All the naysayers had told him he couldn't do it, that he was weaker than his brother, that he was the spare heir, and yet here he was, standing here, proving them wrong.

He was the Führer of the Dracónian Empire.

The newly crowned Führer of the Dracónian Empire, Ambrose King, ducked his head as he entered the low-hanging ceiling of the best fortified fault of Alcatraz Prison, the most secure prison north of the Gulfstream.

For the first time in all the years he had known him, Cornelius' eyes were practically burning with his fury. Smoke curled out of his flared nostrils and his barred teeth had distinctive fangs that grew over his bottom row of teeth. It was a testament to his brother's strength, that he was able to have even that much of a transformation into his dragon form. This prison had anti-magic wards etched into the stone that it had been built on, and this cell had anti-magic wards etched upon anti-magic wards etched upon anti-magic wards.

"Why?" Cornelius snarled at him, his voice dropping into a borderline subsonic growl that was characteristic of him when he was a dragon. He threw himself forward, at Ambrose, but the chains yanked his arms behind his back and kept him from reaching him. "He was our father!"

He couldn't harm him. Ambrose knew that he was unable to harm him, but he still had to forcibly remind himself to stand tall with his back straight as he stared his tormentor down.

"No, Cornelius. He was your father, never mine. He never showed a fraction of the affection he lavished upon you to me. I was nothing but the spare heir in his eyes."

Cornelius spat a fireball at him, but it sizzled and died in front of his nose. "He still sired you, Ambrose. He still chose you to be my second. And yet, here you stand, in front of me—a murderer, a king slayer, guilty of the crime of patricide—without a single shard of guilt."

You're wrong, he found himself wanting to retort fiercely. I loved my father, too, but he never gave me the time of day. I would have done anything to please him, but everything was never enough. Do you not think I don't regret that?

But he doesn't say any of that, because Cornelius was just like their father; every single time he barred his soul to his older brother, he threw the shattered pieces back at him tenfold. "Doesn't it bother you at all? That I stole your birthright?"

Cornelius' laugh was almost manic, and for a moment, Ambrose wondered if his brother's mind had been shattered. But then he leveled him with an sharp piercing look that he recognized from all the times he had directed it at some soldier, or even general, that had acted out of turn, and he knew that Cornelius' mind was sound.

"You can't steal that which was never mine, Ambrose. Führership was never my right; it was my privilege."

Ambrose sneered. "That's why you lost it, Cornelius. Your way of thought is too merciful; you would have doomed Dracónia if you had been its head."

"So that's how you justify yourself." Cornelius' eyes were still hot and burning, and smoke was still gently curling out of his nostrils, but his fire seemed banked, as if it was waiting for an opportunity to flare up again. "Tell me, brother, if I am so merciful, and as I am the true heir of Dracónia, then why have you not executed me? I am a dangerous enemy; too dangerous to let live without the threat of an uprising. Are you not showing mercy to me to live and find a way to topple your carefully crafted throne?"

Ambrose smiled and leaned in close. "Nobody will follow you, Cornelius. You're a traitor to Dracónia; you planned to let the humans take control of our land when you became Führer. You tried to bewitch the current Führer's wife into bed. You will suffer as I have suffered since the day of my birth."

Cornelius stared at him, his expression frustratingly blank. Ambrose pulled away, turned around, and began to walk out the door.

"Ambrose?"

He looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. Unexpectedly, Cornelius' face was contorted into a frown, and if he didn't know better, he might have mistaken the shining in his eyes for tears. "What?"

"One day, you will find that everything you have done to others, will be returned to you tenfold."

His kind-hearted, philanthropic brother sounded like he was cursing him to a life of misery.

"Maybe then your soul will be redeemed."

Ambrose almost laughed at that. His soul had been shattered to a thousand pieces; there was no possible redemption for his soul.

"I'm just getting started, brother of mine. Stop trying to save my soul; I'll forever reject you."

He slammed the door shut behind him, on that part of his life.

How many enemies have I made? Ambrose wondered as he stared into his full goblet of blood-red wine. How many People will try to kill me? I have weaknesses that I must find a way to remove, but I'm not moving quickly enough. I'm still as mortal as the humans, even if I live hundreds of years longer than them. I'm still susceptible to mortal wounds, while my heart beats within my chest.

There was Constance as well, a rapidly growing nasty thorn in his side. She knew everything about his plans; she had been the one who had first pointed him down this path, all those years ago. Out of everyone in his circle of council, she would be the one who could take him down. She was ruthless enough to poison him in his sleep, if she thought that one of her children were in danger.

After all, there was nothing more terrifying than a mother on a warpath.

The question he had to answer, however, was how far he would go to have his wife removed from the picture entirely.

(He already knew. He had been the one who had poisoned his father, after all.)

"Father?"

"Yes, Draco?"

The boy craned his head back to look up at him, his lips pursued with thought. It was a familiar expression on his son's face; if that boy was not so kind, Ambrose might have wondered if he was plotting to take his throne away from him, as he had done from his father and brother.

"Cassandra said that she was your favorite because her magic is stronger than mine. Is that true?"

Strictly speaking, yes; Cassandra was his middle child, his oldest if Draco was not included, even though she had only been born minutes before his youngest. Her magic was inherently much stronger than Draco's, but that was only because it was more aggressive, more suitable to combat. She had more natural talent than Draco, but Ambrose was all too aware that natural talent wasn't an indicator of success.

His father had always brushed him aside because he had been the second heir, always second best at everything, and he had risen above his father's expectations. Ambrose wouldn't make the same mistake with Draco.

Fire could temper steel, and Draco was a natural with his swords. He couldn't let the forge sharpen his son's will; he would become a threat to his reign.

"You, Astra, and Cassandra are all equally talented in different ways. She might have magic that is stronger than yours, but you have quick feet and a quicker mind to make up for your lack of raw talent. Never let anyone tell you are worthless or weak; they don't know what you have done, or what you can do."

A small smile lifted the corners of Draco's lips as he nodded slightly. "Thank you for your words of wisdom."

"You're welcome, son."

"Today, we lost a leader of our great nation, Lady Constance Fiennes-King of the Old Families from the Western Isles, the wife of our Führer, Ambrose King the Patient. She was, first and foremost, a mother, not only to her children, Draco, Astra, and Cassandra King, but to all our People. She was the Torchbearer of our homeland, a shining light which we all looked up to for guidance during the darkest nights. She was a prophetess, a warrior, and a wife, and she balanced her many duties perfectly. She was a Lady in every sense, and we shall forever follow in her footsteps.

"May the eastern wind guide you home and the blistering winter wind subside. May the gates of the heavens open for your journey to our ancestors' final resting place in the stars. May the sun be at your back and your wings beat strong. May you feast among the Greats in the Hall of Andor when you reach the end of your journey."

Draco and Cassandra, the only elemental magics in their family, raised their arms and the land smoothly split apart the crowds like the Red Sea. The High Families swept their arms from side to side, and the water was brought up to Constance's final resting place. As the officiator spoke about The Light of Constance, she was lowered to the water and pushed toward the sea both manually and with magic. Exotic orchids and palm branches were dropped into her casket

Fire was breathed on the arrows as they were drawn back, and they caught on fire. The edge of the sun crested above the horizon, temporarily blinding Ambrose, and for some reason, it reminded him of Constance; it would be like her, to have the last laugh by blinding him permanently with her smile.

He let his hand drop. The arrows were released, and the boat instantly lit on fire, built from wood, flowers, and tree limbs. Flower petals had been woven into her hair in the shape of a crown and cherry blossoms had been thrown over her body. She had been dressed in scarlet silks and the blood had been washed away from her face and hands.

She had been terrified in her last moments, as she had looked at him. His knife had been driven into her ribcage, up to its hilt, and yet she had begged him not to hurt Draco, to spare her son's life.

Even unto death, her primary concern had been Draco's welfare.

Dragons who were able to manipulate the tide waved their arms gracefully and gently pushed the boat out into sea. Others inhaled and let loose a gale to send her far into the horizon, to speed her way on the journey home.

Ambrose found his gaze drawn to his children, who were standing on the promenade below and across from him. Cassandra's face was streaked with tears as she clutched Astra's hand, who was staring at their mother's funeral pyre in the distance. He had expected their reactions—Astra had always been a strange child, and Cassandra had been closest to Constance, even if he had caught her pouring salt over a snail to see what would happen to it... multiple times. It was Draco's reaction that concerned him the most: Draco, who was staring at the ground with an unnaturally unreadable look in his eyes. Draco, who was usually quick to comfort and smile, even if his relationship with Cassandra was rocky at the best of times and dysfunctional with Astra.

He had taken their grandfather, uncle, and mother away from his children under a year's time. Draco had barely turned fourteen, and the girls were only twelve... but no, it was the only way to train them to be stronger than him.

They couldn't afford to be soft in times of war.

As he watched Draco sharpen his sword, Ambrose studied the tense lines in his son's face and the way he held his shoulders rigid. Even when he practiced his magic in tandem with his swordplay, which was typically loose and wielding for his style, Draco seemed to be coiled tight as a string about to snap.

Yet he threw himself into his studies with a fervor Ambrose had never seen from him, before his mother died. His tutors had told him, personally, that Draco was going to outstrip Cassandra at the rate he was going, and Cassandra was both prodigy in magic and a genius in academics.

His relationship with Cassandra had further taken a nosedive, alarmingly, while he and Astra seemed to have grown distant. He hadn't seen Draco talk to Astra in months, and when Cassandra wasn't antagonizing him, he was picking a fight with her. Their training for their individual magical cores had bawled into a fistfight once already, and Ambrose knew that he couldn't tolerate this. Even though he had not said a word to them, everyone knew that they were both equally likely to take the reins of the country when he died.

At this rate, he might have to choose Astra as his heir, and she had expressively told him, several times in fact, that she didn't want the crown.

Maybe he was going through a phase; he had reached that age, and compounded with his mother's death...

He wasn't sure what gave himself away, but Draco's head snapped back and his burning gaze landed on Ambrose. He frowned, still unable to name the hot, burning emotion in his son's gray eyes that had lurked behind his irises since Constance's funeral last year. He might have called it fury or hatred once, but he couldn't imagine what reason he had given Draco to show such a vengeful face toward him.

Not unless Draco knew he had murdered Constance, somehow.

"My lord, I don't believe I should... this is a secret that had been kept guarded by my family for thousands of years, since the Human Golden Age. I'm the last of my kind."

"Tell me." Ambrose knew that if he forced it out of the physician's mouth, he would forget what the key was, to not being confined to a mortal body. He wanted that key more than anything else; if he had no reason to fear death by unnatural means... but it had to be given to him willingly, first. "If you do not, you will be charged with treason and will be given a swift punishment."

Even if he didn't execute the physician, exile was as good as execution for a dragon. The kingdoms outside of Dracónia didn't take kindly to dragons roaming their lands; this was a fact that was universally recognized and accepted by everyone whose name wasn't Cornelius.

The physician swallowed hard, but Ambrose could see the decision made in his eyes. The cowardly always chose to live another day to save their own skin, rather than face death.

"Generally, it is accepted that for every life you take without provocation, the soul of a dragon fractures off. This is why we are unaffected by vengeance, as our souls are generally so broken that there is nothing left to save. However, if you steal a life from an innocent who has done harm to no one, your heart will essentially become as hard as steel, and every foe you have will be unable to pierce it."

"And who would be innocent?"

"M-my lord?" The physician looked nervous, and Ambrose nearly rolled his eyes at the cowardice shown to him.

"The innocent. How would you be able to activate this magic, if you need an innocent?"

"I-I... an innocent is usually someone who is pure of heart, obviously. They would have a heart of gold."

"Thank you. I trust you will keep your silence on this visit?"

"O-of course, my lord!"

Ambrose smiled at the physician. "It's 'sire.' I'm no lord."

"I-I'm sorry, sire. I'll never disrespect you again!"

"I'm sure you won't."

Within the blink of an eye, Ambrose pivoted, unsheathing his sword as he cleanly sliced the physician's head off his shoulders. He stared down at the body lying on the ground, and he wondered if this is what the physician meant—about his soul becoming so fractured that he didn't even feel regret about his actions.

"Nothing against you personally, it's just good business. I can't leave loose ends like you hanging around."

Now, to find someone among the People who had a heart of gold. Easier said than done.

Draco's face was red and blotchy as tears ran down his cheeks in rivets as their gazes met. However, in contrast to the misery written in his eyes, his lips were twisted back in a snarl, his fury was almost made tangible because of the tiny scales starting to erupt around his eyes as his tenuous hold on his innate ability to shift started to tether. The ground trembled beneath their feet and cracks had begun to form in the walls and ceilings, but Ambrose barely paid any attention to this.

He didn't understand why his eldest son had stormed into his bedroom, in the middle of the night, with his magic crackling around him and his hands clutched around the grip of his sword.

"Draco?" he gasped. His reading glasses fell off the bridge of his nose and shattered against the ground. The wine from his goblet had fallen over, and was steadily soaking through the thick layer of cloth that staved out the cold from his feet. "This is unacceptable behavior from you, young man! Your mother taught you not to lose your temper."

The trembling around them intensified, and under any other circumstance, it might have been impressive, if it clearly hadn't been triggered by his son having a temper tantrum like a two-year-old human. He'd have to find a way to teach his son to access this power when he wasn't acting so immature.

"You killed her!" Draco roared at him, sparks coming out of his nose. The coals that had been burning lowly in the fireplace flared up suddenly and the window shattered. Ambrose dug his feet into the ground, even as a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach started to form. "Almost three years ago—I saw you. You had a knife in your hand, and you were arguing again, and you stabbed her!"

This was a problem.

Nobody could know that Constance Fiennes-King's death had been at the hand of her husband, not even their—no, hers and his brother's son. As much as he had grown to care for the boy like he was his own, Draco wasn't. And Draco knew.

It was likely the boy's fury had been slowly boiling over since he had watched his mother's death. If he could push the boy over the edge, he could have the justification to throw him into prison, or exile him.... Besides, he and Constance had had a deal, and he would spare Draco's life. He had honor, after all, and he wouldn't break his word to her.

As much as he would have preferred Draco to be his heir over Cassandra, as he was the more level-headed of the two, he knew that Cassandra had the potential to be an excellent Führer. She was a prodigal genius in all her academics and magic; he could groom her to become a politician easier than Draco.

This would destroy Draco, but it was for the good of Dracónia. It was always for the good of Dracónia, and he was the head of Dracónia.

He took a step forward, closer to him, and Draco flinched away and lifted his sword, pointing it directly at him. His hands were trembling. "One more step, and I'll kill you! I-I will! Don't think I wouldn't!"

You're not a murderer. Not yet.

He ignored Draco, and took another step forward, until the tip of his sword was touching his chest, right over his heart. "Do it then. Kill me, Draco. It is within your right to avenge your mother, after all. Kill me for my sins. "

"W-What?" he stuttered, but he clutched the sword tighter. Terror clashed with fury as the tears dripped off his chin onto his arm. Thunder clapped outside, and if Ambrose was a superstitious sort of person, he might have thought the ancient sky dragons were gifting him with their presence. But he wasn't.

He smiled at Draco.

"Kill me, Draco. Avenge your mother. After all, that is what true dragons do. Are you even a true dragon? Are you a coward like my brother? Perhaps I should make Cassandra my heir instead; her strength is my pride. Your weakness is disgraceful to me. True dragons do not hesitate when their pride is on the line. They do not hesitate to take their vengeance—"

SLIIIINK!

Ambrose met Draco's wide, horrified eyes as he sank onto his knees, the sword jutting out of his chest. He... hadn't expected him to do that.

He'd thought Draco was better than he was.

"No, no—father?" Tears clung to his eyelashes now instead of falling down his cheeks, but all Ambrose saw was his terror. "Father?!" His voice was pitched higher, and something clattered to the ground as he skidded forward onto hands and knees, slipping in the blood pooling around them. "F-father! I—oh, skies, I screwed up. I'm so sorry! I didn't— I didn't mean to... no no no nonono— please don't go—I'm sorry, please don't die, don't—"

Ambrose... wasn't dead?

Yes, there was crimson blood running rivets down his chest and torso and legs, around him and Draco, but he wasn't in shock, which he was sure he would be in by now, nor was he dead. In fact, it hardly hurt at all.

He twitched his fingers, and then slowly raised his hand, wrapping his hand around the hilt... and he yanked it out of his chest.

First, he noticed that it was instantly easier to breathe (even though it had hardly felt he was panting). Second, he stopped bleeding.

Draco stared at him with wide, wide eyes, and then he half-stumbled, half crab-walked away from him, somehow tripping over his own hands and feet.

Weak. He had never noticed it before, but there was an inherent goodness that made Draco weak, compared to Cassandra and Astra. He wasn't quite as ruthless as they were, even furious and clearly acting without thinking. It would have cost him his life, if he hadn't been his father, and if Ambrose hadn't apparently unlocked the key somehow.

"You're... still alive," Draco breathed. Ambrose smiled humorlessly.

"There are phenomenon on earth that you will never be able to truly understand, Draco," he said softly, and it might have been gentle to anyone else. Draco cringed, curling into his shoulders and ducking his head. "There are consequences to your actions tonight."

"I... I know. I'm so sorry."

Ambrose pretended he hadn't heard Draco. "It's treason, to kill the Führer, or even to attempt to kill him. I could have your head, or I could throw you into the coldest, darkest cell in Alcatraz, which would lock your magic away, like I had to do with your uncle. You would never be safe there, we both know the rumors of murder and assault are not truly rumors."

There was terror in Draco's eyes, and there were fresh tears streaming down his face. He was hunched over his legs so far that he almost looked like he was bowing before him. But, somehow, Draco still had the courage to accept what he had told him. "Do with me as you will. These are the consequences of my actions, and I accept them. It was pure luck I didn't kill you. You have every right to destroy me and take away my name."

For a moment, Ambrose froze. Draco... he looked just like he did, and he sounded just like he had, whenever he had to talk to his parents and Cornelius at the same time. He was still just a child, just as he had been. As much as he didn't want to admit it, a part of him still considered the boy his son.

He should kill him; put an end to his disgraceful son. Draco was a threat to his reign, clearly, and a threat to Dracónia, as he couldn't keep his temper from boiling over. At the very least, he should imprison him.

He couldn't destroy his life like that, as much as he deserved it.

"Draco King," he said slowly and heavily, "I sentence you to a life of exile. I will lock away your memories, so that you will have no claim to Dracónia. You will be essentially an orphan with only the clothes on your back. Do you accept?"

Draco's head rose and he was staring at him with wide, wide eyes. Ambrose waited, idly noticing that he was still kneeling in a pool of his own blood. That was morbid. He would have to tell his servants to clean it up in the morning.

"I... I won't be able to remember mother, or Astra, or Cassandra? Or Dracónia? But... these are my people, too. I'm indebted to them."

Ambrose hesitated. Draco's words were a facsimile of his own most basic motivations, even if they were phrased differently in a different context. "I'll let you remember that you are Dracónian, but any connection you have with the royal family will be forgotten forever."

The boy blinked, but then he nodded jerkily. "O-okay. I understand. I accept these consequences."

After Ambrose moved and began to lock away Draco's memory of them, the boy reached up and caught his wrist with a grip as tight as iron. He was staring at him with a furrow in his eyebrows, even if his lips were pressed together in a thin line.

"The truth will rule the day, father, and your castle of glass will shatter and fall around you. You can't run away from death."

"No, I can't," he agreed, "but I'll continue to run from the grim reaper until I have accomplished everything I have to do to make Dracónia great."

Draco frowned again—and there were the tears clinging to his eyelashes again. The boy cried more than his mother ever had. "I'm sorry, father. I really, really am."

Ambrose hesitated, and then he placed the final lock on Draco's memories, closing them away forever. The boy's eyes widened for a split second, right before he tilted forward and fell unconscious in his arms.

"I was never your father."

So was the straw that began Ambrose's final descent into madness.

years later

The last time he had seen Draco, he had been just a boy. His face had been streaked with tears and steel gray eyes spitting a fire that was entirely metaphorical; his pride had been cowed and his shoulders were slumped as he accepted the weight of his actions.

But the young man who stood before him was not that boy. His face was hard set and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. His hands were steady as he wielded his swords against him and his shoulders were straight as he pulled himself up to his full height.

With something that might have been mistaken as a start, Ambrose realized that they were eye level now. The last time they had stood face to face like this, the tip of Draco's head had barely reached his shoulder blade.

"Why would you hurt so many People?" Draco asked; he didn't sound angry, and he wasn't even glaring. He merely sounded calm, as if he was asking about the weather for the day. His hands were steady as he held Ambrose at sword point. "Did you ever think about someone who wasn't yourself?"

"Everything I did was for Dracónia."

His face twisted and he shook his head. "You ordered the execution of a thousand innocents, simply because they didn't agree with your way of ruling!" Now, now, there was a fire burning in Draco's eyes and his hands trembled—but then he closed his eyes, took a shallow breath, and exhaled it slowly. "No. You might have started thinking that you were helping Dracónia, but your methods twisted at some point down the line. If you had truly cared for Dracónia, you would have accepted Cornelius King as the Hope and Heir of the Dracónian Empire."

He should have never spared his life, all those years ago. If he had known... this boy was his father's son, and he, too, would destroy Dracónia if he continued on like this. Ambrose either had to destroy him, kill him, or show him reason.

To think, he once had cared for the boy as if he was his own son.

"What are you going to do about it? The only way to topple me from my throne is to kill me, Draco. Are you truly ready to tarnish your soul in this way?"

His words didn't have the intended affect on the boy.

Cornelius once had a smile that could have rivaled the sun, inspiring hope to those who had none, as he swept in like a stranger in the night to give his people to means to save and restore their lives. Constance's smile was as sweet as it was fake, always used in the presence of the couriers and people as she carefully crafted her words so that they would come to her point of view. Even his father, the late Führer, and his mother, both had smiles that hid layers of deceit.

Once, Draco's smile had been eerily similar to Cornelius, like a miniature burning sun that lit up the room. Occasionally, when he was being polite even though he didn't agree with an aristocrat, he had seen a glimpse of Constance in the smile on his face. But now, he looked like nobody that Ambrose had ever known; not Cornelius, nor Constance, or even his parents or himself.

Draco brandished his smile like it was a weapon.

Chills crawled down his spine as Draco leaned closer to him, finally lowering his swords. With the way his eyes were burning with the light of conviction and all the charisma that Cornelius had been known for, there was a magnetic presence around the young man that made him feel otherworldly.

"I am the Hope and Heir of the Dracónian Empire. Dracónia is my homeland. Generations of our family have closed us from the outside world, and I will no longer tolerate this infringement of every living creature's birthright in our country. Dracónia once belonged to the will of the Council of Elders."

Ambrose stared at him. "That failed."

Draco's smile widened. "Which is why I'll find a way to fix the Old System. The people will represent themselves."

Suddenly, Draco's smile dropped, and his glare almost felt soul-piercing. For a moment, the two of them stood there in a standstill, neither of them willing to make the next move or to say the next word. There was a heavy look in the boy's eyes as he swallowed and shuttered his expression.

Closing his eyes, Draco raised his hand into the air, and cut it across his body, pointing at him with his second and middle fingers. Ambrose's nonexistent heart froze; that was... an ancient magic that was barely used.

It was used on the worse of criminals, that were so terrible that a dragon, who had a heart of gold, had to pledge their life to destroy everything they had created. If the person who cast the curse failed to carry out their end of their duty, they would be subject to an eternity of torment. Nobody had the moral code to stand to their conviction—not even humans or faeries, and especially not dragons, which was why it was never used.

Except, Draco, who had tried to kill him all those years ago, had just invoked the curse. On him.

"The People have invoked the right of justice in accordance to the Right-Hand of Justinian the Righteous of the Original Seven, and they have charged me to deliver it. As your son, I reject your principles, name, and property. I willingly accept the weight of your sins upon my shoulders, and I will not rest until I have rectified your wrongs. I forsake my right to pass beyond the vale and to feast at the Gates of Andor if I have not concluded my life's purpose at my death.

"Ambrose King, I charge you with the crimes of mass genocide, treason, assassination, patricide, regicide, and obstruction of justice. I invoke the rite of Trial by Fire, and I sentence you with your life. From henceforth, you shall be known as Kingslayer, Tyrant Over-Ruler of the Imperial Dracónian Empire. Your magic will drain away and it will be converted to energy for future generations. Your powers are sealed in your earthly bones, and you will be unable to shift into your true form. Your titles and lands are stripped from your possession, and your exile begins tomorrow at sunrise. If you are seen in Dracónian lands after this period, you will be executed on sight."

Ambrose stared at the boy. He couldn't believe that he had the nerve, the audacity, to do such a thing to him. "I am not the villain."

Draco opened his eyes and studied him. "To me, you are."

"What have I done to deserve this hatred from you?" Ambrose demanded, taking a step forward—or, at least, he attempted to take a step forward... but something held him back. Draco half turned away from him, as if he was ready to run. "I am your father!"

The boy paused, shifted, and then he lifted his chin and looked at him straight in the eyes. "You're not a father to me. You never believed in me, but gave me an anvil to shape and sharpen my sword. I am glad you took my memories away from me, because I had to learn to stand on my own two legs and move forward.

"It was your arrogance that caused your downfall, and my salvation."

fini