The hundred candidates did not move as a single army. They moved as seven rival Houses. Each House burned for its own glory. None wished to stand in the Dragonborn's shadow—each sought to claim it.
Arteè of House Citrineclaw raised a gloved hand, his triple-bladed gauntlet catching the light.
"Halt. Let the savages exhaust him first. We are the House of precision. We are Citrineclaw! We wait… and when the Dragon tires, we strike—with elegance."
He was not wrong.
Killian of House Asulfang moved first. A howl tore from his throat, wild and sharp, as he lunged forward. His House followed like a starving pack, their formation loose, predatory.
"We draw first blood! We were born to hunt… even dragons!"
"AWOOOO!"
Steel flashed. Longswords, axes, bows—each weapon gleamed with that same dark sheen. The rare black metal, the very kind once used by King Drakovitch to wound the Primordial Dragon, Tiamat
