A Cursed Day

That room was cold and carried no scent. It was adorned with gold reliefs and statues of dragons curling along the columns. Their snouts pointed downward, and their eyes seemed to hungrily follow anyone passing beneath them. The high ceiling opened to the sky through a long glass window, running parallel to the red carpet leading to the throne.

The hall was immense, and Rogan felt like a flea beneath the morning light, which hid nothing from the eyes of those present. He walked beside his uncle, careful not to be left behind, barely making a sound. He observed the faces hidden in the shadows.

It was clear what they thought. The Dràkan, especially those of the aristocracy, felt no need to hide their opinions from anyone—save for the Dragon King. It was a matter of pride, or so he’d been told.

He felt their eyes fall cold upon his skin, brimming with disappointment at what he represented to them. At what his mother had represented. He didn’t like being looked at that way. As if he had to be ashamed of who he was. He straightened his back, taking a deep breath, and looked straight ahead as a wave of nausea threatened to push his breakfast back up.

Perched on the gold and crimson brocade throne sat the man who, supposedly, was his father. He was the most imposing Dràkan Rogan had ever seen. Even seated, his stature was impressive. Everything about him seemed designed to dominate. A hollow ache settled in Rogan’s chest. Strangers—that’s what they were to one another. He seemed to have nothing that could match the warmth his mother gave to those around her. Or had been able to give. It had been more than two years since she left them.

The boy looked up at Alisteir. On the journey that had brought them there, the man had grown steadily darker, as if he’d aged all at once. Rogan had never seen that side of him before. But then again, there were parts of his mother he’d only discovered after her death.

His uncle kept his eyes ahead, face taut and furrowed in a stern expression. He advanced toward his brother on the throne. His lips pressed into a hard, straight line. Only when he caught Rogan’s gaze he seemed to realise the boy was beside him. A trace of the warmth Rogan knew once returned to his grey eyes, and his face softened into a faint, encouraging smile. His pace slowed to match the boy’s, and something about him changed—became calmer, steadier—as he looked up again.

They stopped a few paces from the raised platform of the throne and bowed, just as Alisteir had instructed him—heads lowered, knees to the ground, hands lifted with palms facing the king. “Before the king, Rogan,” he had said in a grave voice that morning, “you offer your being: present, future, and past. Body and soul. And place all of it under his judgment.”

Rogan felt his hands tremble and clenched his teeth to force them still. He was so far from home, and that position left him sweaty and uneasy in his own skin. The weight of his father’s gaze crushed him like a rock over an insect.

“Alisteir, brother. I thought you were dead. It’s been over a year since we’ve last seen each other. But I see you’ve finally graced us with your presence.”

Rogan suppressed a shiver. Even his voice was pure power—deep and thunderous, like the sound of a storm.

Alisteir didn’t move, remaining bowed with his eyes on the floor, though he clenched his jaw before replying.“My king, other duties kept me away, but I hope you will be kind enough to pardon my insolence and allow me into your presence today.”

Rogan heard a derisive snort, then his father’s voice boomed again. “Very well. I shall be kind, brother.” He caressed the throne indolently “I welcome you into my home today—but when I call, you must answer and show yourself—for above all, I am your king.”

Beside Rogan, Alisteir seemed to relax slightly, letting out a silent breath. He bowed his head in acknowledgment, then rose to his feet. Rogan moved to follow, but the king’s voice pinned him in place.

“And who is your guest?”

A burning sensation flooded Rogan’s chest, tightening his lungs. It was impossible his father didn’t know who he was. He looked up stunned, at the man who didn’t seem to recognize either himself or the boy’s mother—with whom Rogan shared many traits, as Alisteir always said. Waiting for him were two sea-turquoise eyes, cut by a vertical slit. Just like his own, and yet so different. In them burned a violent light, one that could bend and break.

He hadn’t noticed his uncle step closer until a hand rested gently on his back, inviting him to rise. His familiar scent embraced him, and the warmth of the touch slipped through his thick cotton shirt, settling on his damp skin. He swallowed and stood on slender legs. His uncle’s hand moved to his shoulder, leaving a sensation of both comfort and unease.

“Sire,” Alisteir began.

His uncle had made him promise to let him do the talking and only speak if addressed directly. Again, the king’s gaze fell on Rogan, and his guts twisted. A flicker of amusement—one he couldn’t understand—curved his father’s lips. The king shook his head, as though finding the whole situation terribly entertaining.And suddenly, it became clear.Rogan understood.

“He knows,” Rogan murmured, voice choked, lowering his eyes. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in particular—maybe only to himself. Yet he felt Alisteir tense beside him in a rustle of fabric.“He knows,” he repeated, more firmly with a rough edge to his voice as his cheeks heated.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to be back in his attic room, where the smell of paint still reminded him of his mother. Where he could wash away those horrible feelings through painting and drawing, just like she’d taught him. He didn’t need that man. He didn’t need any of them.

He just needed to go home.

He blinked, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Deep down, he had always known he would be rejected. Ever since Alisteir had told him his father was the King of Seoirse. If the man had truly wanted him, he would have moved mountains to keep him close. But he never had. He had wanted neither him nor his mother. His uncle gently squeezed his shoulder, yet firmly enough to be noticed, and Rogan pulled away.

“I came to tell you—” Alisteir continued tensely, but was cut off by a wave of his brother’s hand.

"He knows what, boy?” The king asked, scrutinizing the child with eyes that shone like a predator.

Rogan narrowed his gaze, a burning rising in his stomach. Yet not even anger could fully soothe the pressure his father’s presence caused. It was instinctual. But before his uncle could speak for him, he spat out the words with bitter clarity:

“That I’m your bastard!”

Alisteir flinched, whipping his gaze to the boy. He searched for his eyes, and when he found them, something dimmed within him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the king’s laugh shattered the stunned silence.

“I see,” the king said, still shaking with laughter as he slapped his jeweled hand against the throne. “At least you’ve got a heart fit for a true Dràkan!” He gave Rogan a once-over and twisted his mouth. “Maybe the only thing you’ve taken from me,” he added, his voice turning low and cold.

“So you admit he’s your son!” Alisteir exclaimed, his voice laced with accusation—but his eyes flickered with a desperate light.

“I admit he’s my bastard,” the king replied nonchalantly, nodding at the boy. His deep voice dug a hole in Rogan’s chest. “Why?”

“Then you should acknowledge him publicly. Make him your rightful son, and take responsibility for what you did—for Osìn’s sake!”

“A Dràkan king has no obligation to acknowledge a bastard. Perhaps you’ve spent too much time among lesser beings and forgotten that.”

“Nonsense!” His uncle said, bringing a hand to his mouth and turning his face away.

“You call our traditions nonsense, brother? You’d best be careful where you say such things.” The king gestured to the entire room, and a whisper of assent slithered along the walls. He opened his lips in a sneer and slumped back onto the throne.

Alisteir clicked his tongue and shook his head slowly. “Now you call them traditions,” he cursed under his breath, then turned to the king. “What kind of tradition is it to bring a child into this world only to leave him to face it alone? Cora... his mother, is dead. You’re the only parent he has left.”

“How old is he?” The king asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Ten, this June,” his uncle replied, narrowing his eyes.

“Then he’s old enough to find his own place in my land. I’m sure some farmer would be willing to give him work.”

Rogan tasted bitterness on his tongue and pressed his lips together. What was even the point of coming here? He clenched his fists at his sides.

Alisteir looked at the king with wide eyes, then turned to the boy. He seemed to look directly at his soul, and some of the harshness in his gaze melted. “You ignore what truly matters.”

“What is it that I ignore? I already have my heir. Why should I care to make the boy my successor?”

“His name is Rogan,” his uncle replied with a sigh, closing his eyes for a breath.

“Let me ask you something, Alisteir. If you care so much for the boy, why not take him under your name?” the king said with a shrug, though his eyes lit up with hunger—one that smelled of blood.

“That’s not the point.”

The boy didn’t understand it, but Alisteir’s eyes betrayed a game of tag between his emotions. They seemed to feed on one another.

The king chuckled mockingly. “Then what is?”

“That he’s not my son!” Alisteir growled, baring sharp teeth.

Gasps and hisses rose around them, but the king silenced them with a lazy gesture. His eyes burned hotter by the second, like the dragons crawling up the columns.

Alisteir’s, in contrast, were so cold they seemed capable of freezing the room. His pupils were thin blades surrounded by deadly waters. But then, after a few deep breaths, it was as if the outburst had turned on him and bit him back. “The point is... he’s not my son,” he repeated hoarsely.

Rogan lowered his eyes, face stiff. He had never imagined his uncle could lose control. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over him.

The king’s mouth curled into a cruel, feral smile as he leaned forward slightly. “Shame it turned out this way, isn’t it, brother?” he said, with a deceiving playful tone that made his brother tense once again. He then rested his chin on his hand and laughed again.

Rogan was looking at him in a cold trance. His jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it. His laughter shook Rogan like a drum and the idea that man’s blood flooded in his own veins made him sick. He only snapped back to reality when his uncle took his hand and said in a terribly low voice:

“Let’s go home, Rogan.”

The boy tightened his fingers around his hand and followed him without a word. They walked down the nave, wrapped in a silence thick with whispers. A silence that belonged only to them. The king’s laughter followed each of their steps.

“Leaving already, brother?” He thundered. “Weren’t you trying to convince me to keep the boy? As always, you give up the moment you realise you can’t win.”

Alisteir’s grip became firmer, his pace gradually slowed until he came to a halt. Rogan looked up at him and met his grey eyes. But before he could decipher the tangle of emotions he saw within them, his uncle turned once more toward the king.

“Would it change anything if I told you thatheis the one who will break our curse?” He said, swallowing the bitterness in his voice. “The dragons will sore the sky yet again thanks to this son of yours whom you so disdain. He bears the mark of the prophecy.”

Rogan felt as though the axis of the world had shifted. The throne room plunged into a silence that robbed him of breath.

His birthmark.

His hand moved to his lower belly, where he always had a darker patch of skin. A circle branching out like ink, split down in the middle. Broken.

His hand moved to his lower belly, where he always had a darker patch of skin. A circle branching out like ink, split down in the middle. Broken.

Alisteir nodded gravely at the boy. He gave his hand a squeeze, never taking his eyes off him. Rogan swallowed and slowly turned his gaze to the throne, where the silence seemed to thicken.

The king sat unmoving, none of the haughty mirth of moments earlier lingered. His hands gripped the armrests of the throne as though he had half-risen, his knuckles bone-white. His face, carved in the stark shadows cast by the stained glass, remained frozen in shock.

With blood roaring in his ears, Rogan felt his lips twist into a grin. It was ironic, really—how much he now looked like him in that stunned expression.

The king stiffened, breaking free of his stupor, and barked, “Show it to me, boy!”

Alisteir tensed and moved a step forward to shield Rogan, but the child let go of his hand and stepped beside him. Still, he feared to meet the king’s burning gaze.With a brisk motion, he lifted his tunic and shirt, revealing the skin of his belly, where the mark slipped beneath his trousers. He grimaced and pulled the fabric lower, exposing it in full. Then he raised his eyes, jaw locked, feeling the weight of every gaze pressed to his bare flesh.

“It’s just like the one illustrated in the prophecy...”

“But that’s impossible. Isn’t it?”

“With the mother’s filthy blood?”

“It must be a joke of the Great Ones.”

The whispers rose to a frenzied murmur until the king stood abruptly, slicing the air with a sharp gesture of his hand.

“Silence!”

A wave of heat surged through the room, making the royal banners flap—the crest of a dragon clutching a crown between its jaws. Rogan might have thought it unoriginal, had every fibre of his being not been responding to the king’s terrifying power. All around, heads bowed and palms turned upward in a gesture of submission. Like beasts.

He remained still, breathing fast, eyes wide as his father scorched him alive with a glare, steam curling from his reddened hands.

“Claim him as your son, and the Nightmare-Breaker will run in your bloodline,” Alisteir said, gently lowering Rogan’s hand and adjusting his clothes. “It should be an honour to have him in our house. He is—”

“That’s enough,” the king spat through gritted teeth. “You’ve been insolent enough for one day. I’ll summon you again once I’ve made my decision. And this time youwillcome, Alisteir. Or by Osìn himself, I won’t care what blood runs through your veins.”

Alisteir clenched his jaw but nodded. Placing a hand on Rogan’s shoulder, he swiftly led him out of the throne room.

Down the nave, Rogan could feel every gaze piercing through his clothes, as if the mark were still exposed. But once the doors closed behind them, he shook off his uncle’s grasp and shoved him back.

“You didn’t tell me! Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked as he bit his lip and blinked hard.

The man’s chest heaved, and he stepped toward the child, who dodged him. His eyes grew misty with regret. “Rogan... I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted you to find out. I wanted to talk to you about it properly. But this was the only way—”

“No! Those are excuses!” He shouted, clenching his trembling fingers in fists. “You knew! Mum knew too... but you didn’t say anything!”And maybe that’s what hurt the most. He squeezed his eyes shut when they began to burn. “I want to go home! I don’t want to stay here!”

“My boy—”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not your boy!” He turned toward the hallway and started walking—he didn’t even know if it was the way out. He sniffled and wiped his eyes with his arm.

Alisteir caught up to him in a few steps and blocked his path. He knelt down to meet the boy’s lowered gaze.The man parted his lips as if about to speak, and Rogan’s flinched.

“You’re just like him! You only care about that stupid mark, don’t you? About the fact that I’m...”

“The Nightmare-Breaker?” His uncle placed his hands gently on either side of the boy’s small arms. “No, Rogan. I don’t care what you’re destined to do, son. I’d stand beside you regardless.”

Rogan shook his head grimacing “You’re a liar.”

Alisteir nodded slowly. “I made a mistake, yes. I’m sorry that I hurted you.” He rubbed gentle circles with his thumbs, his face furrowed but warm.

A tear slid down Rogan’s cheek, and he bit the tender meat there. The only thing keeping him from shaking to his core was his uncle’s familiar grip. The betrayal was still heating him from inside, but Alisteir wasthere.

“I... I don’t want to be the Nightmare-Breaker...” he whispered, voice unsteady.

“I know.” His uncle brushed the tear away with his fingers. “But it’s what you are. It’s part of you—just like the gifts your mother gave you. And that’s exactly why you need the king’s protection. It’s something I can’t give you.”

“What will I have to do?” Rogan’s gaze dropped to his stomach again, a fresh wave of dread tightening his throat.

“Much of what concerns the Nightmare-Breaker is still unknown. But we’ll find out—together, my boy. Alright?”

Rogan looked his uncle in the face, and slowly nod once. And even when the man stood back up the warmth of his touch lingered. He took the hand Alisteir was offering him.

The man squeezed it tightly as if to tell him that he would never let go.