A Dragon in Chains

It had been years since Mathias last walked these halls. The corridor that led to Emperor Jovan’s private chambers was long, silent, and covered in shadows. It was a part of the palace few ever saw—a place forbidden to most, even family. Mathias had only been summoned here once before, when he was barely a boy, just after he first arrived to Aston.

Now, he stood alone in front of a pair of large, black doors. Each one had a carving of a dragon across it, with its wings spread and its mouth open wide.

He tapped a finger against his forearm, feeling just as restless as the dragon beneath his skin. The corridors were too still and eerily quiet, as if death lingered in the halls. But then, after several minutes, one of the doors opened. An older attendant stepped out, lowering his gaze.

“His Majesty is ready to receive you, Your Grace,” he murmured softly.

Mathias gave a curt nod, uncrossing his arms as he stepped past the man and into the emperor’s chambers. The first room was large, with high ceilings and walls lined with dark curtains. A single fireplace was the only source of light, casting long shadows across the floor.

He walked past the audience hall and through the entertaining room until he reached a set of heavy curtains. Moving aside one of the black fabrics, Mathias entered the inner bedchamber. The bed was the main focus of the room—it was large, made from dark wood, and covered in layers of velvet. Sitting upright, supported by nearly a dozen pillows, was his uncle.

There was once a time when Jovan had been one of the strongest dragons in their part of the world. When he was still a prince, he had cut his way through battles and commanded hundreds of soldiers. But now… now he was only a shadow of the man he used to be.

His body was grotesquely swollen, to the point that his joints couldn’t bend or flex without being painful. His chest made rattling noises every time he breathed. And every so often, he’d be struck with a coughing fit that left him trembling.

Mathias approached the bed, dropping down to one knee beside it.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted softly with a bow of his head.

Jovan’s eyes turned toward the young man, barely able to see him in the darkness.

“Stand,” the emperor commanded. “Let me see your face.”

Mathias obeyed, rising from the floor. He had to force his gaze up to look at his uncle. It pained him to see Jovan like this—a man who raised him like a son, now barely feet from death’s door.

Jovan lifted his right arm, groaning as he gestured to the table beside the bed with a trembling hand. On top of it was a rolled-up piece of parchment, sealed by a fresh layer of black wax.

“There. Take it.”

Mathias reached for the paper, breaking the seal with his thumb. However, before he could even unroll it, Jovan spoke up again.

“It’s my will,” he stated in a hoarse tone. “As of this day… you are named my heir.”

Mathias’s hands froze, and his jaw tightened. He hadn’t even read the parchment yet, but he was ready to tear it to shreds.

“I don’t want this,” he said flatly, tossing the paper back onto the table.

Jovan smiled slightly before covering his mouth to cough. He turned his head, wiping his lips with the sleeve of his tunic.

“Few men of worth ever do…” He stated once he caught his breath. “But the throne is not meant to be given to those who desire it the most. It should go to those who the kingdom cannot survive without. However, above all else, it must go to a dragon.”

“Then find another,” Mathias growled as gray smoke seeped from the scales on his arms.

“If there were another of my blood, I would have named them my heir,” Jovan retorted weakly. “But there is not. Fate took Braylon away from us, leaving me with no choice.”

At the mention of his cousin, Mathias’s hands clenched into fists. Braylon was just three years older than him, and as the crown prince, he had gone east to the kingdom of Drakenthorn. However, instead of returning home with an agreement to sell land as intended, he died in a foreign land. Supposedly, he had gotten in a drunken fight with Prince Nolan and was killed in the process. But Mathias didn’t believe it—and neither did Jovan.

“Which is why,” the emperor continued. “As of this night, I am also declaring war against Drakenthorn. Nolan’s story of what happened reeks of lies. He murdered my only son, and for that, he must answer for it.”

Mathias straightened his back as his dragon stirred angrily within his chest.

“Then I’ll gladly take Nolan’s head,” he said. “I will see that my cousin is avenged.”

“Good,” Jovan nodded with a small smile. “However, I doubt I will live to see it. But… swear this to me, Mathias: you will not rest, nor sheath your sword, until either Nolan is dead… or Vespera lies in ruin. Only then may this war end.”

The young man pressed a hand to his chest, bowing his head.

“I swear it, Uncle. On my life, I swear. Braylon was a brother to me, and I will not fail to avenge him.”

— Seven Months Later —

Mathias groaned as the curtains around his bed were pulled back, one after another, exposing him to the morning light. He raised an arm to shield his eyes, but even that didn’t stop the brightness spilling in from all sides. With an irritated huff, he rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into the nearest pillow.

“Your Majesty,” someone said from across the room. “It’s time to rise.”

Mathias let out something between a growl and a sigh. He knew that voice all too well. It was Lukas, his head attendant. The man was nearly a decade older, with a lean body and a patient demeanor. He had served Mathias since he first arrived in Aston as Jovan’s ward. But now, six months after the death of the previous emperor, Lukas had taken on numerous burdens to ensure Mathias’s transition to the throne was seamless. Often, dragging the new emperor along the way, if needed.

“Your advisory council meets in an hour,” Lukas continued, pushing open one of the windows, letting in a breeze. “And Prince Isaiah will arrive momentarily.”

Mathias rolled onto his back with another low groan, glaring up at the canopy above him. It was the same dark fabrics that his uncle had used. From the paintings on the wall to the furniture and its placement, nothing had changed. It was as if he were living inside someone else’s life.

Running a hand down his face, the young emperor scowled. The last six months had been filled with meetings, endless complaints about crops and coin, too much rain or not enough of it, tariffs, titles, stolen sheep... Everyone wanted something from him, and no one seemed satisfied—not even himself.

He longed to be outside with the soldiers or soaring through the air as a dragon. The last thing he wanted to do was to be stuck in some suffocating council room, feeling as if he was rotting in his uncle’s shadow.

Lukas stepped closer to the bed, clasping his hands behind his back as he fought back a smirk.

“Shall I fetch Saphira to help you wake up? Perhaps a bit of… motivation might do the emperor some good.”

“The last thing I want this morning is her face in mine and that eager little voice echoing in my ears,” Mathias hissed, rolling his eyes.

The attendant chuckled under his breath as he went toward the wardrobe.

“I take it you didn’t enjoy her company last night? You sent her away quicker than usual.”

“She was insufferable,” Mathias muttered, sitting up in the bed. “Kept begging me to come inside her. Over and over. Gods, it made my cock softer than a feather pillow.”

Lukas pulled out a tunic, unbothered by the young man’s crude remark.

“She’s just trying to give you an heir, Your Majesty. A duty any good consort would want to see through.”

Mathias growled as he looked away, grumbling to himself. He didn’t want heirs, especially not with women his uncle had chosen for him.

Before his death, Jovan had hand-picked four consorts for Mathias. Each one was a daughter of some noble house eager to tie its bloodline to the throne. At first, Mathias indulged himself. But the excitement faded quickly, overshadowed by their family’s ambitions. Because every smile or moment of pleasure had a price, putting the young emperor further into debt.

Saphira was the worst of the four—beautiful, smart, and determined to become empress despite Vespera’s laws. She played her part well with her sweet voice, eagerness, and charm. However, Mathias only found her tolerable when she was silent or knelt on the floor between his legs.

Giselle, on the other hand, was quiet to the point of boredom. She had a plain face and personality, but her father owned half of the farmland in Vespera. Mathias had no choice but to endure the nights she had to visit his chambers.

Of the four consorts, Desirae was different. She was the daughter of Jovan’s most loyal general and had grown up alongside Mathias. The two of them, along with Isaiah, would often race horses, spar in the gardens, or sneak out wine from the cellars. To the young emperor, she was more of a sister than a lover, and when she came to his chambers, it was often to bring him news, not warm his bed.

Lastly, there was Paola—the one he pitied. She was lovely and soft-spoken, but she cried each time he touched her. It wasn’t out of fear, but grief. Her father had sold her off for some influence in the court, and the price was her freedom. On the nights when she visited his chambers, Mathias would simply share a bath with her. She’d wash and massage his shoulders, and if she was in a favorable mood, he’d take her to his bed.

If it had been up to him, he would have taken his pleasure where he pleased—willing servants, random nobles who threw themselves at him. It wasn’t as if having a bastard was an issue. Dragon shifters struggled with fertility issues and were considered lucky if they had at least two children in their lifetime.

Mathias’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted at the sound of footsteps echoing through the adjacent room. It was someone coming in unannounced, and there was only one man besides Lukas who could do that—Isaiah, Mathias’s younger brother.

“Are you still in bed?” The man questioned as he stepped through the curtained wall.

At nineteen, he was the closest thing Mathias had to a true friend. But unlike his elder brother, Isaiah had no dragon—just like their father before them. However, the young prince never let that hold him back.

When Mathias’s dragon, Ozai, had first awakened at the age of eleven, he had been sent north to Aston, placed under Jovan’s guardianship. Isaiah, though, didn’t like being separated from his brother. So, at just ten years old, the boy ran away from home, walking for nearly three weeks from the southern borders of Vespera to the capital. By the time he stumbled through Aston’s gates, the boy was starving and his feet covered in blisters.

Jovan had been furious at first. But when Isaiah collapsed in front of the throne room, refusing to go home, the emperor’s anger reluctantly faded. He couldn’t help but respect the child’s spirit and loyalty. Jovan spoke to his half-brother, getting his permission to keep both boys. And from that moment on, they trained side by side.

Even without a dragon, Isaiah endured every cut, bruise, and scar alongside his brother. Now he was among the best warriors in Vespera—though he was lazy at times and even avoided fighting when possible.

The young prince walked over to Mathias’s bed, crossing his arms.

“Why in Eena’s name isn’t he dressed yet?” Isaiah questioned as he glanced toward Lukas.

The head attendant stood nearby with neatly folded clothes in his arms.

“Because, Your Highness,” he replied dryly, narrowing his eyes. “I am in the process of dressing His Majesty now. Not all of us can rush through our duties like undisciplined boys.”

Isaiah raised his eyebrows, smirking slightly as he turned to face Lukas.

“Is that what you call this? ‘Process’? Looks more like you’re standing around, holding clothes, while my brother just sits there.”

“Forgive me for waiting until the emperor is on his feet before shoving trousers onto him,” Lukas shrugged. “I’ve found it works better that way.”

“Enough… both of you,” Mathias growled, interrupting their playful banter. He rubbed his head as scales rippled across his shoulders, letting out a stream of gray smoke. “My head already feels like it’s splitting—I don’t need the two of you making it worse.”

“I don’t know,” Isaiah muttered, glancing over at his brother. “You might miss this once you hear that the council’s already gathered.”

“What do you mean?” Mathias questioned with a frown. “I thought the meeting wasn’t for another hour.”

“It isn’t,” Isaiah confirmed. “But Ewan came back last night, and when I left my chambers, I was told he was already waiting in the council room.”

That made a growl rumble through Mathias’s chest. He stood from the bed, letting the covers fall to reveal his naked body. The young emperor was tall with a broad chest, and his pale skin was broken up by patches of scales.

“And why,” Mathias demanded as he snatched his pants from Lukas. “Is Ewan suddenly showing his face at a council meeting?”

Isaiah leaned against the bed frame, shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh, I don’t know… Maybe because you threatened to kill every one of your advisors in the last one?”

“If those cloud-brain fools could find something to discuss other than crops and coin while I wage a war against Drakenthorn, I wouldn’t have to threaten them,” Mathias snapped. He paused, pulled his pants on, and reached for his tunic, muttering under his breath. “Well, they can whine to Ewan all they want. Even he can’t stop me from getting rid of everyone on that council and starting over.”

Isaiah’s smirk widened, but he said nothing more. Lukas, however, sighed and turned to retrieve the emperor’s boots. There was no sense trying to reason with Mathias when he was upset and seeping smoke. It would only cause him to get more irritated, and the last thing anyone needed was to have an upset dragon emperor storming through the halls.

By the time Lukas fastened the last button of Mathias’s coat and draped the black-and-red sash across his chest, a servant walked in carrying a tray that he set on a nearby table. On it was a spread of typical breakfast food found throughout Vespera—freshly baked flatbread, soft cheese drizzled with oil, dates and figs swimming in honey, slices of melon, and a small dish of almonds. Beside them sat a plate of roasted quail and a copper pot filled with spiced broth.

Mathias walked over, ignoring most of it. He tore off a piece of bread, tasted the quail, then drank deep from the pot of broth. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the young emperor finally exhaled.

“Let’s go,” he muttered.

Isaiah glanced over toward Lukas, who sighed and followed behind as the brothers exited the emperor’s chambers. The palace was mostly quiet, with only the echoing of the footsteps filling the vast, empty halls. Incense burned in the corners and around the doors, filling the air with a slightly sweet scent. They passed by the portraits of previous dragon emperors, each of whom Mathias and Isaiah were descended from.

Guards were stationed along the way, straightening their postures as the group passed. And then, when they neared the council room, Mathias heard the sound of muffled voices.

“He won’t listen…” one of them was saying. “You must make him see reason, Prince Ewan—”

Mathias’s jaw clenched, and Ozai growled within his chest. They didn’t need to hear the rest. It was always the same: complaints about his temper, his judgment, and anything else they deemed questionable. They’d never dare to voice these feelings so openly. But now that Ewan had returned, they were more comfortable speaking their minds.

Once at the door, two guards crossed their spears in unison before tapping them against the floor to signal the emperor’s arrival. Inside the council chamber, the room was large, and the ceiling was supported by wooden beams carved with dragons. In the center was a long table, surrounded by high-backed chairs. All of them were empty as every man in the room stood near the middle, clustered around a single individual.

Ewan—Mathias and Isaiah’s father.

He stood there with his arms crossed, posture straight, and his head held high. As the half-brother of the late emperor, Ewan was a prince of Vespera, although he wasn't at court often. And unlike Jovan, Ewan was born from a human consort, and as such, had no dragon within his soul.

But what he did have was a lifetime of experience spent abroad—handling treaties on Vespera’s behalf, and learning the politics of foreign courts. He was also very charismatic, to the point that he could sit at anyone’s table and discuss any topic.

However, while he was popular among the nobles, Mathias had never been close to him. Neither had Isaiah. It was Jovan who raised them in Aston and was around more often than their father had been.

As the doors shut behind them, the nobles turned, and many of their faces paled when they saw Mathias. They quickly bowed their heads, stammering greetings and half-hearted apologies. But the young emperor didn’t acknowledge them. Instead, he just walked to his throne at the head of the table.

Once he sat down, Isaiah took the chair to his left, slouching slightly as he tried to hide his amused expression. Mathias glanced around the room before turning his gaze on his father.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said in a low voice. “Please. Feel free to continue your little conversation with Prince Ewan.”

The nobles didn’t speak as they hurried to sit, most of them keeping their heads down. Mathias leaned back in his seat. Smoke curled into the air around him, seeping from the scales on his shoulders.

“Well?” He said when the last person sat down. “Go on. I believe you were all complaining about my leadership.”

For a moment, there was only an awkward silence in the room. But eventually, one of the older lords cleared his throat.

“Your Majesty,” he began respectfully. “The people in Vespera are suffering. Hundreds of soldiers have already died. Fields have been left untended because the farmers were drafted into the army, and now food prices are rising with every passing week. In the smaller cities, riots have begun to break out. Your people are begging for relief.”

“We cannot continue to bleed the kingdom dry in the name of vengeance!” Another added quickly. “Enough lives have been wasted.”

Murmurs of agreement went across the table, cautious at first, but their voices were slowly getting louder. Mathias’s hands clenched into fists against the arms of his chair.

“I did not start this war,” he growled. “Jovan did. You all stood in this very chamber and swore to aid him in the fight against Drakenthorn. So don’t pretend the blood on your hands is solely mine.”

A younger noble—a distant relation to his consort Giselle—leaned forward on the table.

“But it is you who drags the war on, Your Majesty. You who refuse to seek peace. The kingdom is falling apart—fields are barren, trade with the kingdoms to the east has halted altogether. If you will not see reason, then the people will turn on you.”

Mathias’s hands slammed onto the table as dark blue scales rippled across his arms.

“Reason?” His voice echoed through the room like thunder. “Is it reasonable to reward murder with peace? To tuck tail like cowards and bow down to another king in exchange for my cousin’s blood?”

“Have most of you forgotten how just barely seven months ago, your crown prince was butchered?” He continued through clenched teeth. “By none other than Drakenthorn’s prince, who claims it was a drunken fight.”

Mathias paused, turning his gaze toward Ewan.

“And do not forget that this would never have happened if you had done your duty,” he growled, pointing toward his father. “It was your responsibility to negotiate with Drakenthorn. But instead, you sent Braylon in your stead.”

Ewan straightened in his seat as he met his son’s gaze.

“Watch yourself, Mathias,” he warned. “Don’t place blame on me when it was Prince Braylon who asked to go. He was more than capable—”

“Capable enough to die for your negligence?” Mathias retorted, rising from his chair. The smoke around him grew thicker, looking more like a small storm cloud. “You let him walk into another dragon’s horde—alone! Now you dare stand with these pathetic cowards who seek to end the war?”

“I stand for Vespera,” Ewan stated, raising his voice slightly. “You are not the only one who mourns Braylon. You are not the only one who lost him. But you cannot burn the kingdom down to avenge him. You may wear the king’s ring, but you are no longer a soldier. It is time you started thinking like an emperor.”

Mathias’s lips pulled back as he snarled. Thunder rumbled through the clouds above him, causing some of the men to flinch in fear. But Isaiah quickly stood, holding out his hands.

“Enough! Both of you. Mathias, they are right about the people. They are hurting, and it’s your duty to listen. But…” He added, looking around at the nobles. “Don’t mistake my brother’s grief for weakness. You insult him when you reduce Braylon’s death to an inconvenience. That murder must be answered for.”

Some of the lords nodded in agreement. Others merely muttered to themselves, avoiding the emperor’s gaze. But some of the more brave, louder voices spoke up again.

“We should raise taxes on the merchants—”

“More coin won’t fill the empty fields!”

“But it will help us when we inevitably seek to barter peace with Drakenthorn,” another added. “King Abel will not settle for anything less than land and money for the trouble we’ve put him through.”

Mathias pushed away from the table so quickly that his chair nearly fell backward.

“Enough!” He bellowed, instantly silencing the room. His eyes began to glow as they shifted between their natural dark green and Ozai’s bright yellow. “I will not sell Braylon’s life for gold and farmland! Nor will I seek to find a peaceful end with Drakenthorn.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heels, storming through a side door that led into his private study. He slammed the door behind him hard enough that cracks formed in not only the wood, but the surrounding stone.

Mathias clenched his fists, breathing heavily as he paced around the room. Ozai growled in agitation, which only added to the young emperor’s rage. After a moment, he stopped at his desk, gripping onto the edge as he dropped his head. He tried to keep himself together, but his grief and anger kept clawing their way into his heart.

“Curse them all,” he hissed aloud. “Curse them...”

Behind Mathias, one of the doors to his study opened.

“I want to be alone!” He snapped, tightening his grip on the desk. The young emperor knew he was seconds away from losing his composure, and the last thing he wanted was a lecture from either Isaiah or Ewan.

However, it was a feminine voice that spoke up.

“How disappointing… I was hoping for an audience with Your Majesty.”

Mathias’s smoke froze in midair as his head snapped up. Behind him, a woman stood in the middle of the room, wearing a strange, white dress, adorned with thick golden jewelry around her wrists and neck. She had long yellow hair and golden eyes that glowed like a dragon’s gaze.

He didn’t know her. He hadn’t seen her face among his court, nor smelled her scent in any of the palace halls. And yet, this stranger somehow made it past dozens of guards to get into his study.

Slowly, Mathias pulled his hands off the desk, and one went straight for the dagger on his belt.

“Who are you?” He questioned in a low voice.

“Just a friend,” she replied with a wide smile.

A/N: Thank you, everyone, for taking the time to read the first chapter of A Dragon in Chains!

Just a reminder, chapters will be posted on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. I have about 5 weeks worth of backlog, so if my writing slows down during the holidays, we shouldn’t miss an update ❤️

Lastly, I wanted to leave yall with a fun fact. For those who read the first three books of the series, the food, clothing, and even some of the city names were inspired by 16th-century England! Mainly due to my love for the series “The Tutors”!

Now, for this book, the inspiration for clothes and food will be coming from another show called “Magnificent Century”, based on Hurrem Sultan from the Ottoman Empire. L