Page 18 of King of Flames and Shadows

I sigh, exasperated. “Listen. We can split it down the middle. I’ll take the East; you can have the West. That way, we both get what we want. And I get Fjordmarse—and Fjordmarse has the best fighters. And anyway, you get the Great River, which is the coolest.”

He shakes his head violently, his golden hair catching the light. “No! I want the whole kingdom! I don’t want half of anything! It’s not fair!” His tantrum escalates, and I can see the anger bubbling beneath the surface, a storm waiting to break.

“Fine,” I say, my voice lowering, trying to calm him down. “But you can’t rule alone. You need me. You’ll need someone to help you. Someone to—”

“No!” he shouts, his face turning crimson. “I’ll do it all myself. I’ll show everyone that I’m the best!”

There’s a moment of silence, and I can feel the weight of our words hanging in the air. I want to reach out, to comfort him, to remind him that we’re stronger together. But a part of me knows it’s futile. My little brother is impossible when he gets like this. He isn’t like our sister, who has the sweetest temperament of anyone in our fiery family.

“Fine, Ulric,” I say at last, my voice heavy with resignation. “You can try to do it all by yourself. Just don’t come crying to me when it all falls apart.”

He glares at me, and for a fleeting second, I see the boy he’ll become—the ambitious, ruthless king who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. But here, in the golden light of our childhood, we’re just two brothers fighting over a kingdom that feels far away.

“I don’t need you,” he mutters, turning his back on me, the sound of his footsteps receding as he storms off into the woods.

I watch him go, a knot forming in my stomach. I can’t shake the feeling that this moment is just the beginning of something much larger, a rift that will only widen as we grow. I turn my gaze back to the sky, where the clouds drift lazily, a stark contrast to the storm brewing between us.

Waking from the dream, I am still there for a moment, in my childhood, in the memory of that conversation. I’m not certain why I dreamt it, but I did. Despite myself, I linger in it for a moment, the sounds of my distant childhood echoing in the quiet of my chambers. But reality quickly tugs at me, pulling me back into the present. I shake off the memory, the bittersweet sting of nostalgia fading as I force myself to face the day ahead.

The room is dim, the light just beginning to filter through the heavy drapes. I rise from my bed and move across the cool stone floor.

As I cross the chamber, my gaze lands on a family portrait hanging on the wall, the colors faded but still vibrant in my memory. It captures a time when we were whole—Mother’s gentle smile, Father’s proud stance, my brother and I standing tall despite our youth, and my baby sister in my mother’s arms, her bright eyes sparkling. The image feels like a relic from another lifetime, one that has slipped through my fingers like sand.

I move past it. I do not like to linger upon sentimentalities like that for long.

Commander Darian arrives in the late hours, cloaked in the chill of Millrath’s thick fog. It seems to roll from the shoulders of his cape as he enters this place. I sense the chill of his presence long before he steps into my private study.

He’s been away for days, taking care of my cities for me. Eyes open in search of revolt, insurrection, unrest.

Heavy boots strike against the flagstone beyond my doors, reverberating through the stillness. It’s a sound I’ve come to associate with him: steady, unwavering, reliable. Yet, tonight, there’s a subtle shift to his gait, a faint hesitancy.

I have been king of this land long enough to recognize the sound of bad news.

Squaring my shoulders, I turn from where I stand by the window, gazing out over the spires of my city, the beating heart of my kingdom. It’s a view I’ve seen a thousand times, but tonight there is some wavering fragility in its visage, a brokenness.

I glance back as Darian enters, his silhouette broad and formidable against the flickering firelight, unmistakably draconic. The commander of my forces has been in his position for as long as I have been king. While I avenged my parents’ deaths, he stood silent at my shoulder. We have known one another almost our whole lives.

“Your Majesty,” he greets with a bow, his voice low and grave. He straightens, but his eyes flicker with something unspoken. “I bring news from Whiteraid.”

“Then speak.” I cross the room with measured steps, hands clasped behind my back. “I’m in no mood for ceremony.”

Darian’s expression tightens. He somehow looks older than when I saw him last, deep lines creasing his brow beneath the steel of his close-cropped hair. His uniform, still dusted with the dirt and salt of travel, hangs on him like an ill-fitted shroud.

“Word has spread farther than we anticipated,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “The unrest has grown beyond whispers. There is word the houses of the outer cities—Draven, Morwen, even Vos—are rallying their forces. There’s talk of forming a coalition against you, my lord. They intend to challenge your reign at its first sign of weakness.”

I study his face in silence, absorbing the weight of his words. Like distant tremors beneath my feet, the rumblings of rebellion have reached me for months now. It has been yearssince the lords were contented with my position. I doubt they ever have been. But to hear it spoken aloud, confirmed by my most trusted commander …

“They intend to dethrone me,” I say softly, my gaze shifting to the flames dancing in the hearth. “Interesting. Their gall beggars belief. Who leads them?”

“House Draven of Eldran,” Darian replies. “They’re pushing the hardest. They’ve garnered support from the other lords, promises of lands and titles if they succeed. I’ve intercepted letters detailing troop movements. They’re not bluffing, Highness. This is more than posturing.”

The room seems to constrict around me, the air thickening.

A coalition. The mere thought of it is laughable. They should know better than to stand against me.

I will grind them to a paste, take their land, their cities, their houses, their families. I will burn all they have ever loved, then crumble its ash in my fist.

“Let them come,” I murmur, eyes narrowing. “I’ll crush them all. Burn their cities to the ground if I have to.”

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