THE LAST DRAGON LORD AWAKENS

"Any last words, thief?" Xin Hang stared at the sword as it gleamed in the afternoon sun, its polished edge sharp enough to split a hair. He'd imagined his death a thousand different ways since becoming a palace servant, but never like this—kneeling in the Grand Court before the entire kingdom, with the Silent General's blade kissing his neck. "I didn't steal anything," Xin muttered, though he knew it was pointless. The golden seal sat on a silk cushion ten feet away, glinting mockingly in the light. They'd found it hidden in his quarters. Case closed. The Silent General—so named because he never spoke before a kill—pressed the blade closer. A thin line of blood trickled down Xin's neck. Around them, hundreds of courtiers whispered and pointed. Some looked horrified. Most looked entertained. Public executions were always good theater in the Xing Dynasty. "Your Majesty," the Chancellor announced, bowing low to the Emperor. "The criminal Xin Hang, servant of the Third Carriage House, stands accused of stealing the Imperial Golden Seal. The evidence is clear. The sentence is death." Emperor Feng sat on his dragon throne, looking bored. He was younger than Xin expected—maybe thirty, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that seemed tired of everything. He waved one jeweled hand dismissively. "Get on with it." The Silent General raised his sword high. Xin closed his eyes. At least it would be quick. At least he wouldn't have to shovel horse manure anymore or bow to nobles who treated him like dirt. At least— "Wait!" The sword stopped. Xin's eyes snapped open. The Emperor was standing now, pointing directly at him. No, not at him. At his forehead. "What is that mark?" Mark? What mark? "Your Majesty?" The Chancellor stepped forward, confused. "On his forehead! That symbol!" The Emperor's voice rose with each word. He descended the throne steps, robes flowing behind him like wings. The court parted like water. Xin's heart hammered. He couldn't see his own forehead, but he could feel it now—a burning sensation, like someone had pressed a hot iron to his skin. The pain was intense but not unbearable. It felt... old. Ancient. Like something waking up after a very long sleep. The Emperor grabbed Xin's face, tilting it toward the light. His eyes widened. His hands trembled. "No. It can't be." "Your Majesty, what is it?" The Chancellor peered closer. "That's the Mark of the Dragon." The court erupted. Nobles gasped. Guards stepped back. Even the Silent General lowered his sword, staring at Xin like he'd grown a second head. "Impossible!" someone shouted. "The dragon bloodline died out three hundred years ago!" "The prophecy," an old woman whispered. "The prophecy spoke of this." Xin had no idea what they were talking about. Dragon bloodline? Prophecy? He was just a chauffeur who'd been framed for theft! He didn't know anything about dragons except the stone ones carved into the palace pillars. The Emperor released his face and stumbled backward. "Unchain him. Now!" "But Your Majesty, the theft—" "I don't care about the seal!" The Emperor's voice cracked like thunder. "Can't you see? This changes everything!" Guards rushed forward and unlocked the iron chains around Xin's wrists. He rubbed the raw skin, still kneeling because nobody had told him he could stand. His mind raced. This had to be a trick. Or a dream. Or maybe the Silent General had already killed him and this was the afterlife. The burning on his forehead intensified. Xin touched it and felt raised skin—a symbol, carved into his flesh by invisible hands. The moment his fingers made contact, images flooded his mind. Dragons soaring through crimson skies. Ancient warriors wielding lightning and flame. A massive war that shook the heavens. A betrayal. Darkness. Death. And then... silence. Xin gasped and pulled his hand away. The visions vanished, but the knowledge remained, settling into his bones like sediment at the bottom of a river. He knew things now. Impossible things. The dragon cultivation technique. The Nine Heavenly Gates. The path to power that mortals could only dream of. "Someone get Master Zhou," the Emperor commanded. "Tell him we've found one. Tell him the dragons have returned." The Chancellor bowed and hurried away, still looking bewildered. The crowd of nobles pressed closer, whispering urgently among themselves. Xin caught fragments of their conversations. "...last dragon lord was executed for treason..." "...prophesied to return during the dynasty's darkest hour..." "...could destroy us all or save us..." A young woman in purple robes pushed through the crowd. She was beautiful, with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones. A sword hung at her hip—unusual for a court lady. "Father, you can't be serious," she said to the Emperor. "This peasant could be a spy. The mark could be fake." "Princess Mei, the Dragon Mark cannot be faked," the Emperor replied. "You know this." Princess Mei glared at Xin with pure contempt. "Then let's test him. If he truly carries dragon blood, he should be able to withstand the Trial of Flame." The court murmured approval. Xin didn't like the sound of that. "Very well," the Emperor said. "Prepare the trial." Two guards hauled Xin to his feet. His legs wobbled like a newborn colt's. Just moments ago he'd been about to die. Now he was apparently some prophesied dragon warrior? And they wanted to set him on fire to prove it? As they dragged him toward the Hall of Trials, Xin caught the Silent General watching him. For the first time ever, the man spoke. "Good luck, Dragon Lord. You're going to need it."