FANGS OF THE THRONE

Sickness Of The heart

The walls of the chamber trembled with Seraphine’s rage.

“How could he do this to me?” she cried, voice cracking with betrayal. Her hands, once cradling her belly, now clenched into fists. “I carry his child—and he locked my mother away like a traitor!”

Selyra stood in the doorway, eyes glimmering with worry. “What do we do now, Seraphine? How do we get them out?”

Seraphine turned away, pacing like a storm trapped in flesh. “I don’t know. I tried being a supporter. I tried understanding him. But I was wrong… I was just a pawn to them all. To him.” Her voice lowered, bitter and broken. “He used me.”

Far across the seas, in the Isles of Isharamar, the Empress of the Isles reclined at a long, golden table set for dinner. The ocean’s breeze rustled the sheer silks draped above them. Her name was Empress Azalyra, a woman known for her grace and cunning. Her silver eyes watched as her mother, Queen Myriana, and daughter, Calyra, took their seats.

Calyra’s husband, King Thalan, raised his goblet. Beside him sat his children—Prince Velior, a bright-eyed boy with dreams of flight, and Princess Elsyne, shy and soft-spoken. The family dined in quiet comfort until Azalyra laid down her goblet.

“They’ve captured Vyreth,” she announced, watching her daughter’s face pale.

Queen Myriana’s brows lifted sharply. “Was it Celeste?”

“Yes,” Azalyra confirmed. “She moves like she was born royal—but she was only a servant. A servant my father sold off to gain support. Now she acts like the throne belongs to her and her son.”

“And what of Alaric?” Thalan asked.

Azalyra smiled darkly. “Don’t worry. I’ve thought of something. Something she said opened my eyes—and perhaps the eyes of Fangs and Claws too.”

With dinner done, the women left for the chamber of an ancient witch who resided deep within the cliffs of Isharamar. The chamber smelled of salt and secrets. When they entered, the witch—an ageless woman named Sythael—looked up from her cauldron.

“I know why you’re here,” she rasped. “You want to make Alaric’s kingdom suffer.”

“We want you to cast a sickness over his land,” Azalyra confirmed. “Just his kingdom. Lust and rot. Let it spread through his halls.”

Sythael narrowed her eyes. “You ask for dark magic. That comes at a price.”

Azalyra handed over a ruby the size of her palm, redder than dragon fire. “Will this do?”

Sythael’s lips curled into a wicked grin. “It will.” She began chanting, smoke rising from the cauldron like spirits.

Calyra whispered, “Why not place the sickness on Seraphine’s unborn child?”

Her mother turned, shocked. “Why would you even suggest that?”

Sythael’s voice cut through the air. “To tamper with fate invites doom. You’ve failed once already. Try again, and consequences will come for you.”

The magic took root, swelling with darkness. “It is done,” Sythael said. “Dragons in Alaric’s kingdom and beyond shall fall sick. The land will decay.”

In the heart of the Dragon Kingdom, the sickness began quietly. A little girl collapsed in the streets—then a boy. Then mothers. Fathers. The air grew heavy with death.

Meanwhile, Seraphine still paced, her anger simmering. She needed a plan.

“I need to go to the city,” she said suddenly.

Selyra’s eyes widened. “You can’t! There’s a plague—”

“I don’t care!” Seraphine snapped. “What is the healer doing?”

“Nothing. They say it’s hopeless.”

Rage returned like a tide. Seraphine stormed to the treasury doors. The king’s advisor, Morren, tried to stop her.

“Don’t open it!” he barked.

“Why?” she challenged. “Dragons are dying, and you want to hoard gold?”

He blocked her path. “We have orders.”

Seraphine’s eyes narrowed with icy fury. “You will open this vault. You will send money and medicine to the dying. And you will release my mother and Taevin.”

Morren laughed. “And if I refuse?”

Seraphine didn’t flinch. Instead, she clutched her stomach and screamed.

“W-what are you—” Morren began, but he staggered back as blood poured down her legs.

“I’ll kill this child!” she screamed. “I’ll crush it myself! And when Alaric returns, I’ll say you did it!”

Morren blanched in horror. “You… you wouldn’t…”

Seraphine collapsed to her knees, still screaming.

“Enough!” Morren shouted. “Enough—I’ll do it. Gods help us…”

He fled, and Seraphine slumped to the floor, breathing heavily. From her robes, she pulled a fruit—deep crimson and sticky, now crushed. A trick, but a good one.

That night, the heavy doors to her chambers opened. Vyreth and Taevin entered, escorted by silent guards.

“Selyra!” Taevin cried, rushing to her. She embraced him with trembling arms.

Vyreth knelt beside Seraphine. “How are you?”

“They told me what you did…” she said softly.

“I didn’t kill,” Seraphine whispered. She lifted the fruit. “I hid this between my thighs.”

Her mother smiled grimly. “You’ve grown. Now you see. He doesn’t love you. He never did. They only want your child.”

“I know,” Seraphine murmured. “But the sickness… it’s killing people.”

Vyreth’s expression hardened. “Good. Let it weaken them.”

“You’re happy lives are being lost?” Seraphine snapped.

“No,” Vyreth said firmly. “But we can use it. Leverage. Force Alaric from the throne.”

“I’ve already sent healers and supplies,” Seraphine said.

Vyreth’s eyes widened. “Why? They betrayed you!”

“Because it’s not right, Mother,” she replied. “We don’t need to be like them. We can take the throne without more blood.”

“Threaten him, then?” Vyreth asked. “Force him to step down?”

“Yes. But even if he wants to…” Seraphine whispered, “…his mother won’t let him. Remember, I’m just a vessel to them.”

Far away, Alaric arrived at the Wing—a sky realm of soaring dragons and aerial courts. He was greeted with honor, though hesitation flickered in their eyes.

“Welcome, our Dragon King,” said Lord Aerivar, the Wing leader. “We thought you might not come, given the plague in your lands.”

Alaric froze. “Plague?”

Celeste stepped forward quickly. “A minor matter,” she said with a smile. “The healers are handling it.”

He didn’t believe her. Something tightened in his chest. Something cold. Still, he smiled and stepped forward, the performance of a king worn like armor.

Back in the Dragon Kingdom, the sickness spread beyond containment. Cries echoed in the alleys, and even the guards grew weak. Fear took hold.

But now, whispers began to spread—about a woman who defied the king. About Seraphine, who had sent supplies and healers when no one else would.

“She is the true queen,” they murmured.

“She cares for us.”

“She carries a child—and still fights for us.”

In the shadows, a rebellion stirred.

Back in her chambers, Seraphine stared out the window.

“They love you now,” Vyreth said quietly. “The people. The realm.”

“They need someone who sees them. Not just dragons in armor, but people.”

“And what of Alaric?” her mother asked.

Seraphine didn’t answer for a moment. Then: “I once loved him. Or thought I did. But now, I just want to protect what’s mine. And what’s right.”

The moonlight bathed her in silver, and for the first time in weeks, Seraphine smiled.

But her eyes—her eyes burned like fire.