Chapter Seven – Chains and Choice
1442 Words
The council chamber was colder than he remembered.
Stone columns stretched like bones toward the vaulted ceiling, and the heavy silence pressed down with a weight that no banners could lift. Daghan stepped forward, flanked by nothing but his own shadow.
Six thrones were occupied. One remained empty — his father’s. The center throne, raised slightly above the others. Next to that, Consul Vaerum was sitting.
Vaerum didn’t rise. He didn’t need to.
“Prince Daghan,” he said smoothly. “Your presence honors us.”
Daghan didn’t bow.
We’re all very aware of your… recent activities,” Daghan didn't answer. Vaerum continued. “And while we understand that grief may stir unrest in a prince’s heart — we cannot permit it to scorch the city.”
He paused, then stood.
“Your father’s condition troubles us as much as it must trouble you. And we’ve tolerated your outbursts — until now. But dragging an entire guard unit through the streets in pursuit of a lice-ridden thief? Destroying the northern wing of the castle in an uncontrolled fit? These are not acts of a sovereign. These are tantrums.”
He stepped down a single stair, his voice hardening.
“You are a prince. Your actions reflect upon this kingdom. Upon your father’s name. Upon ours.”
Daghan’s lip curled.
“And you forget what this kingdom is,” he said. “This is not a federation. This is a throne built on blood, not ballots.”
He took a step forward.
“My father didn’t rule by consensus. He ruled because the fire bent to him — and so did men.”
The silence deepened.
“I am the strongest dragon in this court,” Daghan growled. “Whether you like it or not. And if any among you wishes to contest that —”
He looked directly at Vaerum.
“— then try.”
He turned, cloak flaring, and strode out.
The doors slammed behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then one of the older councilors muttered, “His fire is impressive. But it burns too loud.”
Vaerum’s thin smile returned.
“All in time. Even dragons shed their skin.”
—
Runi’s boots echoed faintly as she led Aksanaa through a long-forgotten corridor. The walls were etched with dwarven carvings — some cracked, some worn, but all humming with a history that pulsed just beneath the stone.
Aksanaa’s gaze flicked to a rack near the entrance of a side chamber. Among the relics was a double-bladed axe, dark-handled, etched with runes worn from use.
"May I?" she asked, fingers already lifting.
Runi gave a grunt. "Just don’t drop it on your foot. That one remembers who’s clumsy."
Aksanaa smiled faintly and lifted the weapon. It was heavier than she expected, but the weight was… right. She spun it once, tested its balance. Her stance shifted almost instinctively.
She held onto the axe as they moved through the hall, trailing behind Runi, fingers curled tight around the handle. The cold steel was oddly grounding.
“This place,” Runi said, tapping one symbol with her hammer’s hilt, “used to be part of the Great Hall of the Seven. Before the crown buried it. Before they decided who was noble and who was not.”
Aksanaa’s fingers brushed a faded crest.
“I don’t know any of this,” she said quietly.
“Of course you don’t. They rewrote it.”
Runi paused at an old brass plate embedded in the rock. It was tarnished but still legible.
“Seven bloodlines. One throne. You hear the songs about how peace came after the War of Binding?”
Aksanaa nodded.
“They don’t sing the verses about who burned.”
“Once, the people of all seven nations lived here in Veyrun.
They coexisted in peace: Dragons, Elves, Dwarves, Hippogriffs, Nymphs, Umbrals — and Humans.
And above them all, the Aetherians watched over us.
Then one day, Ulven Dar — the beloved father of your hunter — decided that all glory should belong to Dragons alone.
He burned, and burned, and burned…
Until the Dwarves retreated deep into the mountains,
The Elves hid behind enchanted forests,
The Hippogriffs were chained into servitude,
The Nymphs were lost to the seas,
The Umbrals dissolved into shadow,
And the Humans were banished from Garraddum.
And worst of all — the Aetherians turned their faces away.
This world is cursed now. And broken.”
Silence passed between them — heavier than dust.
From behind, Saelwyn approached slowly. He glanced at the axe in Aksanaa’s hand, then stepped closer and gently took it from her.
“You carry things like someone who never learned how to set them down,” he said — and whether he meant the axe or something else, even Aksanaa wasn’t sure.
She glanced back, not unkindly, but didn’t answer.
Runi crossed her arms. “Alright then, mystery girl. You've got blades and balance, but that still doesn't explain one thing.”
Aksanaa raised a brow. “Which is?”
Runi narrowed her eyes. “What in the nine molten pits is a human doing in this world? I haven't heard your kind in two hundred years. Not since the Great Burning. Since Ember Dominion began calling the shots.”
There was a pause. Saelwyn looked to Aksanaa, silently asking.
She nodded.
“She fell through Garaddum’s Gate,” he said. “Two years ago. The elves found her in the edgewoods during a patrol. She didn’t speak our language, didn’t know the soil, the moons, nothing. She was a storm that landed wrong.”
Aksanaa spoke next, voice quieter. “They took me to their outpost. Tied me up. I bit one of them.”
Runi smirked. “Sounds about right.”
“At first, I thought she was a spy,” Saelwyn added. “Or cursed. I almost killed her. She nearly returned the favor.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No,” Saelwyn said. “She stayed. And after a while... taught our young how to throw knives. How to fight with axes.”
Aksanaa shrugged. “Better than cooking.”
Runi chuckled. “You’re alright.” Then glanced at Saelwyn. “So what happened? Why’d you two leave the forest?”
Saelwyn’s face darkened. “The Ember Dominion. Their pressure on our borders increased. And Queen Elarion Virelle decided our realm needed protection. She sealed the forest behind Nyvanor’s Veil. A living wall. Nothing in. Nothing out.”
Runi’s voice softened. “And you didn’t go with them.”
Saelwyn shook his head. “I chose the sky. Freedom. Maybe... something else.”
Aksanaa looked away.
Runi watched them both. “Well, the rebellion’s not picky. As long as you can hold a blade and keep your secrets.”
She clapped her hands. “Come on. Supper’s waiting. You’ll need the strength.”
—
The courtyard outside the palace was still. Daghan walked through it without speaking, the weight of a hundred unspoken oaths pressing against his spine.
Grön followed.
After several long paces, the half-giant finally said, “You burn too hot, my prince. Fire… not always light.”
Daghan halted.
He didn’t turn.
“Then perhaps it’s time we all learned to live in shadow,” he murmured.
Grön said nothing.
They kept walking.
—
Night. Cold. Alone.
Daghan sat in a chamber he hadn't entered since he was a boy — a stone room with a high window and no fire.
Sleep came too fast.
—
She was there again.
Aksanaa.
Pressed against the stone, the same way she’d been in the ruins — but not resisting this time. Just watching him. Her breath was soft, the space between them electric. One breath. That’s all.
Daghan leaned closer.
Her lips parted.
He felt the pull — ancient, impossible to name.
And then — she laughed.
Not joyfully.
Cruelly.
“So this is what the great Daghan fears,” she whispered. “A girl with a blade and no crown to bow to.”
He froze.
She stepped forward — not in fear, but in dominance. Her gaze scorched through him.
“You think you hunt me?” she said. “You're the one bleeding.”
Her laughter echoed.
He tried to move.
The stone cracked beneath him.
Then —
He woke.
Gasping.
The chamber was cold. His back damp with sweat.
Her name hovered behind his teeth.
But he didn’t speak it.
Not yet.
The wind shifted, and in the distance, a single horn cried out.
The hunt was not over.
But the hunter… was no longer sure who he was chasing.
- Writer
