The golden Leonovis peers into my soul, just as he did when I saw him long ago in Dragon's Valley, and the surroundings fade away as he stares at me, his lynx-like ears perked. I see a hint of his soul then, a hint of his long-awaited joy mixed with sorrow. How he has seen millennia pass and his kind come near to extinction. Waiting… waiting for me.

I kneel and bow my head before him.

He flares his wings. His breath washes over me and strangely does not stink. It almost smells of air before the rain or the indescribable scent of water.

He touches his snout to my forehead, and I feel a burning there as my heritage makes itself known. All will now know I am the missing prince of the Shifters. The rightful king of Irialshon.

Funny how a small mark shaped into a paw can change how everyone views me. As if I were made of gold instead of flesh and bone like the rest of them.

The leonoavis nudges me until I stand. He steps back and drops to a knee in a regal bow, his pin-stripped wings flared to either side.

Both Leonoavis and Wyvern gather before me in a semi-circle, bowing next to him. The golden rises first and meets my eyes with something both humorous and serious within.

Fare thee well, Chosen One.

I swear he winks before he flares his wings and pushes off from the ground. The rest roar, leaping up to chase the golden into the air.

Morgana mutters something under her breath as all around is still and silent as the eye of a storm as we watch the leonoavis wing their way back to the mountains and the wyvern circle where Nova went down.

Morgana bustles around in front of me, sends me a wink, then holds that blasted cane in the air and yells, “Long Live High King Roland!”

My poor ears are ringing again.

She says it again, and those on the chargers and the army at my back join her, creating a roar that makes me deaf.

“Long live High King Roland!” The chant grows, until most of the people and creatures before me bow and shout and the dragons all around bend a knee and keen, a trill that somehow makes the chant sound almost musical and matches Beast’s purr.

I stand stock still, my mouth gaping.

“Stop lookin’ like a monkey’s hinny and a bit kingly, deary,” Morgana hisses in front of me.

My jaws snap shut and I let my chin rise, trying not to keep the emotions swirling in my gut from showing. I'm covered in blood, mud, and ashes with arrow heads embedded into my skin. I'm sure I look mighty kingly.

The one I take to be the mage leader bows, placing his fist to his heart, and joins the chant of the thousands, excluding the jingoist, who flinch with each word where they kneel on the ground.

“Long live the king!”

The other mages glance at each other, the first uncertainty I have seen, then follow the black-robbed mage's lead.

The wall is broken, just like the people at my back. There are places where holes were burned through. Some areas are tilting precariously as if they will fall with a breath of wind. Other areas have fallen in sections.

Screams of the fallen and wounded meet my ears beyond the wall.

The soldiers behind me are bloody and weary after fighting through a hopeless battle with more courage and grit than I’d ever imagined humans to have.

But the brave soldiers now stand and thump their spears, beat their shields, and stomp their boots while raising their voices to the skies. Horses rear and snort, their hooves churning the bloody ground. The dragons roar as they lift on hind legs and flap their wings, the riders on their backs hanging on for dear life. A few send streamers of fire into the air, the warmth making perspiration glisten on my skin despite the cool wind brushing across the field.

My lips pull into a grin that somehow makes the jingoist about sixty feet away pale further beneath their helms as they kneel still and silent, unsure what to do in the face of a newly crowned king with unknown power. I need to deal with them, but first….

“Morgana, Nova—”

She nods, patting my cheek with her hand and something in her eyes sad and her face more puckered than usual. “I’ll make ‘er comfortable, deary.”

My heart hurts, but I push back the grief and look ahead. First, I need to ensure what we fought for and what many gave their lives for is not in vain.

I stalk forward, the cheers at my back and large thumps following me as the dragons stay at my back. It takes more willpower than I’d like to say to not turn and keep my eye on them in case one decides I look tasty. But it’s time for fear to take a back seat to life.

But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take precautions. There is prudence in wisdom, after all.

So I keep my ears swiveling on my head, keeping a literal ear on them just in case and Beast pooling at my feet… which makes me look like I’m stepping on sunshine and is quite unnerving.

He feels so much different. Not so broody and broken, but more... happy.

He is you, idiot.

That doesn’t deserve a response.

The freed humans and wolves part before me, most watching me with something akin to reverence. And it makes my cheeks grow red. Hopefully it’s hidden beneath the dirt and grime.

The mages go to a knee when I come to them, the one in the front like the point of an arrowhead.

“Rise,” I say, my voice deep with a hint of a growl.

They get up, and the one in front bows deeply. The hiss of an arrow meets my twitching ear. Before I can catch it, the lead mage raises his hand and the arrow stops. He turns it, pointing it at the man on the dragon who had shot it.

The dragon swivels its head. The dragon is the albino with red eyes… the one Yellow rides.

It shows its fangs at the rider, and he drops the bow and raises his hands.

My heart grows cold.

“Yellow,” I growl, the blue eyes giving him away. The hate and the pain within almost makes me empathize… almost. He looks like… me, from before.

The dragon snakes its head down and grabs the bow, snapping the wooden yew with his teeth. He goes back up to the man on his back, opening his mouth to snap him just as he did the bow. Yellow sits straight, staring death in the face without flinching.

“Wait,” I command.

The dragon brings his head back up and snaps his mouth shut. He looks at me with white feathers trilling forward and ears perked. I know from Nova that typically means they’re asking for scratches or looking for approval. I shove down the grief yet again and nod at the dragon in appreciation. He trills and prances a few steps and I can’t help a rumbling chuckle at his enthusiasm.

“Don’t let him escape,” I tell the dragon, who nods, showing his fangs in a grin.

The arrow drops to the ground as the mage releases it.

“Your majesty,” the mage says.

I remain silent, studying him as he, in turn, studies me. His eyes take in the arrows sticking from my chest and shoulders that I’ve snapped off at the head and the blood slicking my skin without paling or recoiling in fright.

“Are you turning on your own?” I ask, my voice soft even with the growl.

His eyes show nothing. His face doesn’t twitch. This man could give Purple a run for his money.

“I am serving the True King, your majesty,” he finally replies.

“And if I had not shown myself?”

“We would have burned Videlia to the ground and killed her people,” he says without remorse. A mere statement of fact.

It makes me both respect him and loathe him. “How did you know I was the king? Why take the word of an old lady?”

This time something flashes in his eyes, something I can’t quite name, before he schools his features once more. “There is a tale, your majesty. A tale of one who would rise with Gifts unlike any other who would be of many nations but at home in none. One the creatures of old would obey.”

I cock my head. His voice and his scent rings of sincerity. “Return to your people, but harm mine no more.”

He hesitates.

“Is this not to your liking?” I ask.

“Sire, I would rather stay with you.”

I walk closer to him, lowering my voice. “Do you serve me?” I ask quietly.

“Sire, I have only just met you. I wish to take your measure.” I appraise him anew. This is a man of politics… but with a refreshing straightforwardness I find is growing on me.

“One may stay. The rest will return to your lands. Has the Empire stolen any of your people?”

“Many, sire. My son among them.”

My heart grows heavy. “Where?” I growl.

“They hold them in the center of the army, threatening if we do not comply—“ he leaves the rest to my imagination.

I nod to him, walking past him to the jingoist army.

The men in dingy purple capes avert their eyes.

I point one out. “You!” I bark.

He lifts his head, his eyes growing so wide his whites seem too large for his face. “Me?” he mouths.

“Yes, you. Where is your commander?”

He trembles, glancing at each of his comrades. They back away from him, leaving him in the center of a semi-circle to face me alone. So much for honour among this army.

“H-He left, y-your majesty,” he whispers, his voice cracking and trembling as bad as his body.

I raise an eyebrow. “Left?” Ahhh, so some did retreat and made it through even when Flash brought his wingless dragons to trap the jingoist army. I had wondered. Most of the army was still on the other side of the acid water.

“H-He told us t-to cover his retreat,” he whispers, looking down.

I shake my head. This army sickens me. “Who is next in command?” I raise my voice to encompass all of them.

“I am,” someone says, coming forward. His blue tunic and cape is crisp, the one who first surrendered if I recall, and as he takes his helmet off, it reveals a white streaked black beard and salt and pepper hair shorn close on his head. He has a dimple on his right cheek and the hint of a double chin. His eyes are hard and flinty, and there is a ropey scar just under his chin. Someone tried to kill this man by slicing his throat. And yet he lives.

Interesting.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I am Ben Errol.”