Prologue
The air in the grand birthing chamber of Asclepia’s royal palace was thick with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of blood. Queen Livinia Asclepian, her crimson hair damp with sweat, lay on the ornate birthing bed, her cries echoing through the vaulted halls. Outside, a storm raged, lightning splitting the sky as if the heavens themselves were in turmoil. The dragons of the Asclepian family, perched on the palace spires, roared in unison, their voices a mournful symphony that reverberated across the kingdom.
Barvohn Asclepian, Emperor of Okurr, stood at the foot of the bed, his face a mask of stoic resolve. But his hands, clenched into fists, betrayed his fear. Livinia, his queen and niece, had borne him two daughters before, but this time, the court physicians had assured him, the child would be a son. The empire needed an heir, and Barvohn’s line, already weakened by whispers of instability, could not afford another disappointment.
The midwives worked in silence, their faces pale as they lifted the first child from Livinia’s trembling body. The room froze. The infant was stillborn, its tiny body twisted and scaled, with elongated limbs and a tail—a grotesque fusion of human and dragon. The second child, delivered moments later, bore the same cursed features. The midwives gasped, and one dropped to her knees, muttering prayers to the old gods.
Barvohn’s heart sank. The blood bond between the Asclepians and their dragons, a sacred magic that granted them their power, had turned against them. The incestuous union of Barvohn and Livinia, meant to strengthen the bloodline, had instead cursed it.
The heads of the seven families, summoned to witness the birth, stood in stunned silence. Jax Long, the 89-year-old werewolf alpha of Dragonhearte, his silver-blue hair gleaming in the torchlight, stepped forward. Despite his age, his wolfish vitality made him appear no older than a man in his prime. “Barvohn,” he began, his voice gravelly but firm, “this is a sign. The blood bond is rejecting the union. You must—”
“Silence!” Barvohn roared, his voice shaking the chamber. His crimson hair, the mark of his lineage, seemed to burn like fire in the dim light. “I will hear no more of your superstitions!”
Alavestor Khang, the half-sea nymph ruler of Naga, his pink hair shimmering like coral, stepped forward. At 36, he was the youngest of the family heads, but his voice carried the weight of the ocean. “Barvohn, Jax speaks truth. The dragons themselves are grieving. Listen to their cries.”
Abigail Forsaken, the 18-year-old queen dowager of Vanaer, her purple hair cascading like a waterfall, clutched the hilt of her dagger. “The prophecies warned of this,” she said, her voice trembling. “The bloodline is weakening. The empire will fall if you do not act.”
Soran Vanderghast, Barvohn’s Sword and the highest-ranking military officer in the empire, stood at attention. His white hair, a mark of his bastard Ashstoker heritage, gleamed like snow. “My emperor,” he said, his tone respectful but urgent, “the people will see this as an omen. The other kingdoms already plot against us. We cannot afford to show weakness.”
Silvonius Ashstoker, the 93-year-old fire elf governor of Brightburn, his white hair glowing like embers, stepped forward. To the elves, he was barely more than a youth, but his wisdom was unmatched. “Barvohn,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “the blood bond is sacred, but it is not infallible. You must consider the future of the empire.”
Aerys Candor, the 21-year-old golden-haired ruler of Candor, his arms adorned with intricate tattoos, crossed his arms. “The dragons are restless,” he said. “If we lose their favor, we lose everything.”
Chriven Kolv, Barvohn’s Shield and personal protector, stood silently by the emperor’s side. At 32, he was a pillar of loyalty, his presence a reminder of the strength Barvohn still commanded. But even he could not hide the concern in his eyes.
Barvohn turned to Livinia, who lay weeping, her hands clutching the stillborn infants. “Take them away,” he ordered, his voice hollow. “Burn them. Let no one speak of this.”
As the midwives carried the cursed children from the chamber, the dragons’ roars grew louder, their grief echoing across the empire. The heads of the seven families exchanged uneasy glances, their alliances already shifting in the shadow of this tragedy.
Barvohn stared out the window, his crimson hair catching the light of the storm. The prophecies of old whispered in his mind, their words a dire warning: When the blood turns against itself, the throne shall crack, and the empire shall fall.
The Song of Okurr had begun, and its melody was one of fire and blood...
