The Last Silver

”I hate to even speak it into the universe, but that uniform looks sharp on you.”

The older of the two men stood in a long-forgotten utility closet, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and disgust.

”Barbaric. Ignorant. Militant. Lustful and slothful.” He shook his head. ”Yet somehow, they possess an eye for clothing that appeals to the senses.”

The younger man chuckled.

”Pops is probably cursing you from the Fields of Elysium for complimenting the species that nearly ended ours.”

”King Bahamut was the first to give credit where it was due,” the older man replied. ”And these designs were created by the fleshbag leader’s consort, Queen Rhiannon, whom I have no problem complimenting.”

A smirk crossed his face.

”Succubi and dragons have a long history of cooperation, Your Highness.”

”Indeed.” The younger man adjusted the unfamiliar uniform. ”In another life, I may have even taken one or two of her daughters as wives.”

He was difficult to recognize without his princely regalia. He was not yet fully grown, and the disguise did much to conceal his identity.

But beneath the borrowed uniform stood Dinraal Leven Valera VII—Crown Prince, heir apparent, and king-in-waiting of the now-defunct Draec Empire.

The older man’s amusement faded.

”It is not too late to abandon this foolishness and make a strategic retreat,” he said. ”Our position is already nearly untenable. Sending you alone to take that girl hostage is a fool’s errand.”

His voice grew heavier.

”I want to avenge the King and Queen as much as anyone—perhaps more than anyone besides yourself. But would they truly have wanted you to forgo any chance at a life of your own in pursuit of vengeance?”

Dinraal said nothing.

”Tia was my only sister,” the older man continued. ”Bahamut was my best friend since we were hatchlings. It should be me undertaking this doomed task.”

The speaker was General Aramaeis Gremory, a distinguished veteran and one of the last great generals of the Draec people.

Dinraal furrowed his brow.

He knew his mother would have been beside herself had she known what he intended to do. She would have begged him to abandon this mission—to forget revenge and live a life filled with love, laughter, and happiness.

But he had already made his choice.

On his left hand rested a gauntlet that signified his role as the supreme leader of the silver dragons. More importantly, it had heard his oath.

An oath of vengeance.

It had been carved into his soul and woven into the very fabric of the universe.

Such oaths possessed power, and they demanded a price.

Should Dinraal turn away from his vow before either he or the Chancellor had been shaken from the mortal coil, that price would be terrible.

Yet the oath gave as much as it took.

It empowered him. Actions taken in pursuit of his sworn goal often found success, even against impossible odds.

Fate itself seemed more willing to bend in the service of a vow spoken with enough conviction.

So he would go.

Consequences be damned.

He would find the man responsible for his father’s death. The man who had murdered the King in cowardice and forced himself upon Dinraal’s mother.

The memory still burned within him.

His mother had been so consumed by grief that she had attempted to follow her husband into death.

But the life force of a dragon was not so easily extinguished. Unable to die, she instead fell into a deep coma.

Twenty-four months later, she gave birth to Dinraal.

Then she spent the last remnants of her essence imparting her power to her son.

Dinraal had remained silent for nearly three minutes before he finally noticed the pensive stare General Gremory was giving him.

He sighed.

”I need you here, General.”

Aramaeis’s expression tightened.

”Father trusted no one more than you,” Dinraal continued. ”And I feel the same.”

He gestured vaguely toward the world beyond the closet.

”Every newly conquered planet’s people are sorted here. You know how to inspire the spirits of these lost souls to rise again better than I ever could.”

His voice grew stronger.

”Build our army here. Keep your eyes open for our people.”

The prince glanced down at the gauntlet on his hand.

”And let us take a page from our cousins, the phoenixes.”

A faint fire entered his eyes.

”Let the Draec Empire rise from its ashes.”

The General stared at him.

”No more obsession with pure bloodlines,” Dinraal continued. ”My land will welcome any and all who are willing to work, to fight, and to build a better tomorrow.”

For a moment, the young prince looked less like a boy wearing an enemy uniform and more like the king he was destined to become.

”I hope to complete these missions before this time tomorrow evening,” he said. ”Then I will return triumphant.”

Dinraal met the General’s eyes.

”Are you with me?”

Aramaeis stared at him for several long seconds.

Then a quiet smile touched his lips.

He could almost hear his sister’s voice in his nephew’s words. ”You and her,” he murmured. ”Cut from the same cloth indeed.”

Dinraal raised an eyebrow.

”One day, you will become a mighty leader. Your tongue is forged of the finest silver, and your words carry the force of thunder.”

The General stepped forward.

”You will ignite a fire in all who hear you, and they will follow you through the gates of Tartarus itself should you command it.”

His expression hardened with determination.

”I am with you.”

He placed a hand over his heart.

”Through abyss, flame, or blade—until I have no fight left to give.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with their grim tasks set before them and their wills hardened like steel, the two departed for their separate destinations.

Little did Dinraal know that, beloved by fate as he was, he was about to find himself at the center of an intensely ironic scene.