Drakovitch's hand remained heavy and proud on Draculeus's shoulder. The King looked out at the silent, trembling nobles with a triumphant grin.
"The Dragonrite was once easy. When our blood was pure, we did not struggle. But the war with the Demigods turned our paradise into a graveyard. Every Dragonborn died. I was left alone. You called my restoration 'insanity.' You called the breeding of human mothers a waste of time."
He squeezed Draculeus's shoulder, his claws glinting.
"But look at him! He is the first of thousands! He is the answer to your doubts!"
A murmur ran through the crowd. In Drakarian history, Tiamat's blood was a wild, unpredictable thing. When a Dragonborn was born, they usually only inherited a small piece of the Dragon God. Yet two traits were certain: the vertical slit eyes… and the armored skin.
