BLOOD OF THE DRAGON GOD

Chapter 3: The Royal Order

The grand doors of the throne room did not open for Logan, they slammed against the marble walls like a death sentence.

Four heavily armored royal guards marched him into the vast chamber, his hands bound tightly with heavy iron chains that dragged against the polished floor. High above on an elevated dais sat King Alistair, his crown glinting under the pale light filtering through the stained glass windows. Flanking the sides of the room were the high mages, their long white robes whispering against the floor as they watched Logan with pure venom in their eyes.

Your Majesty, this boy is an anomaly that cannot be tolerated, High Mage Eldon shouted, his voice echoing off the high stone pillars. The destruction at the northern border was unnatural. He is a walking hazard, a curse to the kingdom. He must be executed before the sun sets.

Vivienne stood a few paces behind the guard line, her face a mask of calm, though her fingers twitched near her robes. The artifact backfired, High Mage. The boy is simply a survivor. Killing an innocent apprentice of the realm will cause an uproar among the lower ranks.

He is not innocent, Eldon hissed, pointing a wrinkled finger at Logan. Look at him. He survived a tier-five blast that turned his entire squad into dust. There is something hidden inside his flesh, and the mages demand the right to extract it.

King Alistair raised a single, scarred hand, and the entire room fell dead silent. The king looked down at Logan, his sharp gray eyes assessing the bruises on the boy's face and the rigid way he held his posture despite the heavy chains.

You are Logan, the king said, his voice deep and steady. The sole survivor of the northern vanguard.

Yes, Your Majesty, Logan said, keeping his chin up, though the dragon crest beneath his shirt burned like hot coal against his skin.

Eldon steps forward, his face flushed with anger. Sire, you cannot seriously listen to this peasant. Give him to the academy. We will discover the truth of what happened on that ridge.

I am still the ruler of this kingdom, Eldon, King Alistair said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. I do not take orders from the academy. The crown requires soldiers, not more corpses for your laboratories.

The king turned his gaze to a towering man standing in the shadows beside the throne. Captain Garrick, step forward.

The captain of the Royal Knights moved into the light. He was a mountain of a man, his silver armor covered in dents and scratches from decades of actual warfare. His face was a map of scars, and his eyes were as cold as winter ice.

Your Majesty, Garrick said, bowing his head slightly.

Take the boy, King Alistair ordered. He is no longer an apprentice of the outer guard. As of this moment, Logan is assigned to the Royal Knights. He will train under your personal supervision. If he steps out of line, or if he proves to be the monster the mages claim he is, you have my permission to take his head.

Garrick looked at Logan, his expression completely blank. Consider it done, Sire.

This is an insult to the high council, Eldon roared, his robes shaking with his fury. You are putting a ticking bomb into the heart of the capital.

The court is dismissed, the king replied coldly, standing up from his throne and walking away without another word.

Garrick marched down the steps, his heavy boots thudding against the marble. He grabbed Logan by the shoulder with a grip that felt like a iron vice and yanked him toward the side exit. Vivienne followed them into the corridor, her eyes darting around to ensure no mages were lurking in the shadows.

You got lucky, Logan, Vivienne whispered, stepping alongside them as they walked toward the training grounds. The king just saved your life.

He did not save me, Logan muttered, the chains rattling around his wrists. He just handed me over to a different executioner.

Keep your mouth shut, apprentice, Garrick barked, not even looking back at him. You are in my world now. If you want to survive the week, you will do exactly what I tell you to do.

Garrick led him through the winding stone corridors until they reached the dusty, enclosed courtyard of the Royal Knights. The captain stopped, drew a small dagger, and sliced through the ropes binding Logan's wrists with a single, swift motion. He then kicked a heavy iron practice sword toward Logan’s feet.

Pick it up, Garrick commanded.

Logan rubbed his bruised wrists and looked down at the weapon. It was twice as heavy as the cheap swords he had used on the border. I have been marching for two days without food, Captain.

I do not care if you have not eaten in a month, Garrick said, drawing his own massive broadsword. The high mages are watching those walls right now, waiting for you to fail. They want to see what makes you special. Your job is to show them absolutely nothing.

Garrick lunged forward without warning, his blade whistling through the air. Logan gasped, barely bringing his iron sword up in time to block the blow. The sheer force of the impact rattled the bones in Logan’s arms, sending him stumbling back into the dirt.

Get up, Garrick yelled, advancing on him. You fight like a clumsy peasant. Is this the great survivor of the north? Move your feet.

Logan scrambled up, his breathing ragged. The heat in his chest began to bubble, the dragon blood reacting to the threat, urging him to growl, to let the scales tip his fingers. He clamped his jaws shut, forcing the wild energy back down into his gut. He swung his sword in a wide arc, but Garrick easily parried it away, planting a heavy boot into Logan’s stomach.

Logan flew backward, crashing into the wooden fence, coughing violently.

Is that all you have? Garrick sneered, standing over him. If you cannot even handle a standard human strike, you will never survive the first trial. Use your strength, boy.

I am trying, Logan choked out, wiping sweat and dirt from his forehead.

Then try harder, Garrick roared, bringing his sword down in a brutal overhead strike.

Logan rolled to the side just as the blade embedded itself deep into the earth. He swung from his knees, catching Garrick’s greave with a sharp metallic clang. It was a clean, human hit, born of pure desperation and standard martial training.

Garrick stepped back, a tiny, grim nod of approval showing on his scarred face before his expression hardened again. Better. Again. We go until you cannot stand.

For the next five hours, Garrick pushed Logan to his absolute physical limits. They traded blows until Logan's arms felt like lead and his palms were blistered and bleeding. Every time the dragon power tried to rise to protect his exhausting body, Logan forced it down, using nothing but his raw human willpower and basic martial combat to parry Garrick's relentless assault. Vivienne watched from the upper walkway, her hands gripping the stone railing, her heart in her throat every time Logan nearly slipped up.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of dark purple, Garrick finally lowered his weapon.

That is enough for today, Garrick said, breathing heavily himself. You are sloppy, but you are not a coward. The barracks are through that archway. Find a cot and stay out of sight.

Thank you, Captain, Logan muttered, his voice barely a whisper as he dragged his aching feet toward the dark archway.

The knights' barracks were empty, the other recruits still out at the mess hall. The room was long and cold, lined with dozens of simple wooden cots and rough wool blankets. Logan found the bed at the very end of the row, the one assigned to the lowest ranking newcomer.

He dropped his heavy iron sword onto the floor, the metallic clang echoing loudly in the quiet room. Every inch of his body was bruised, and the dragon crest on his collarbone throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache. He just wanted to sleep for days.

Logan pulled back the rough wool blanket, ready to collapse onto the straw mattress.

He paused.

A tiny, unusual scent hit his nostrils. It was faint, sweet, and metallic, completely different from the smell of dust and old sweat that filled the room. His enhanced dragon senses, even suppressed, picked it up instantly.

Logan narrowed his eyes. He carefully reached his hand under the thin linen pillow, his fingers searching the dark space. His knuckles brushed against something cold and solid.

He pulled his hand back, gripping the hilt of a long, slender dagger.

Logan held it up to the faint moonlight filtering through the high window. The blade was made of dark, polished steel, but the edges were smeared with a thick, sticky green substance that shimmered unnaturally in the dark. It was a rare, highly lethal poison, the kind that stopped a man's heart within seconds of touching his bloodstream.

The weapon had been placed perfectly where his head would have rested.

Logan stared at the poisoned blade, his fingers tightening around the hilt until his knuckles turned white. The high mages had not waited for him to fail his training. Someone highly placed within the palace walls wanted him dead before his training even officially began, and they were already inside his sanctuary.