When the Lion King entered the hall, silence fell as if by instinct.

  King Johan Aramis de Ansara III did not need to assert his authority. It was already present—tempered by decades of rule, battle, and reform. Though he had passed his fiftieth year, his appearance remained that of a man in his prime. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in golden armour fitted with restrained elegance, he carried himself with a calm that inspired confidence rather than fear.

  This was a king who listened. And when he spoke, he was obeyed.

  He stepped before the Council of Generals and inclined his head slightly.

  The response was immediate.

  “HONOR BE TO THE KINGDOM. GLORY BE TO THE KING!”

  The hall echoed with the sound of hundreds kneeling.

  “Rise,” Johan said evenly. “And be seated.”

  Only once the chamber had settled did he continue.

  “Today marks both loss and renewal for the Ancestral Kingdom of Ansara.” His voice was steady, but not cold. “Our Third Dragon General, Elisabetta Mariana de Varona, has crossed the threshold into Legend. For her achievements, loyalty, and service, her title has become eternal on Aeonia by her own right. Let her be known forever as the Iron Maiden

  A murmur of approval moved through the hall.

  The King paused.

  “But this ascension comes at a cost. Donato Berthan, Seneschal of AEON, defender of Ansara, and shield against chaos, has passed from this world after long suffering.”

  The mood shifted.

  Many in the hall lowered their eyes. Donato had been a constant for decades—stern, distant, immovable. Even those who had never met him understood the significance of his absence.

  His presence had long tempered Templo's strains with the Kingdom. With him gone, perhaps the Inquisition would turn its head once more towards Ansara.

  “With his passing,” the King continued, “the balance we maintained grew fragile.”

  Silence.

  “But renewal is the law of the world,” the King continued, his gaze sharpening. “After receiving an oracle from the Vicar, the Iron Maiden has been chosen as the new Seneschal of AEON

  Reactions rippled outward—shock among the soldiers, calculation among the nobles, restrained satisfaction from House Varona. No one questioned the legitimacy. Some questioned the implications.

  The King did not give them time to dwell.

  “With Archduchess Elisabetta stepping beyond the Kingdom’s command, a vacancy has been left within the Grand Army.”

  His gaze swept the hall.

  “The title of Dragon General is not granted lightly. It is not a reward. It is a burden borne only by those willing to place the Kingdom above themselves.”

  The air felt heavier.

  “Two candidates were considered.”

  No names yet.

  “To decide between them required deliberation, restraint, and foresight.”

  The King fell silent.

  Seconds stretched.

  Elisha sat perfectly still, hands resting on his knees, breath slow. He had faced death countless times, yet this silence weighed differently. Across from him, Viggo de Alara remained composed—back straight, expression neutral—but something beneath the surface had tightened.

  Gamon de Alara’s smile had not faded.

  His eyes had narrowed. At last, the King spoke again.

  “Elisha Nil Radomia.”

  The name rang through the hall.

  Born of no great house. Raised on the frontier. Forged by war. The King’s gaze held him.

  “Step forward.”

  Elisha rose.

  He did not smile.

  “By decree of the Crown,” Johan continued, his voice resonant with authority, “you are hereby named Dragon General of the Ancestral Kingdom of Ansara. You will defend this land with your blood, your judgment, and your life.”

  He raised his hand.

  “Honour be to the Kingdom.”

  The hall erupted.

  Viggo De Alara’s fists clenched. For the second time, he had been bypassed. First by Elisabetta, and now by an orphan, a rank below him. Yet, as a high-ranking Saint, he masked his turmoil. When he turned to Elisha, his smile was measured, flawless.

  “My congratulations,” he said warmly.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Only AEON knew what lay beneath.

  Elisha inclined his head in return.

  Relief washed through him—followed immediately by weight. This was no victory. This was a responsibility made absolute.

  From the noble seats, eyes gleamed. Some in approval. Others in quiet recalculation.

  The balance had shifted.

  And thus, a new Dragon General was born. Elisha Nil Radomia, the Qilin.

  To assert that Viggo and Gamon harbored no trace of disappointment would be to utter falsehood entirely. Viggo's fists clenched until the knuckles paled beneath his skin, though the slight smile upon his lips revealed nothing of the storm raging within his heart.

  Many drew near to Elisha, offering congratulations—some with sincerity born of genuine admiration, others with calculated warmth, seeking to ingratiate themselves with the kingdom's newest pillar of power. He had stepped through the Dragon Gate, ascending to a station of profound influence not only in Ansara but across the continent, where news of a new Dragon General would soon kindle widespread discourse among the masses.

  The King himself descended from the dais and approached Elisha with measured grace. The young General dropped to one knee, bowing deeply toward the monarch who had opened this exalted path before him.

  “You are a worthy lad,” the King said, his voice resonant with paternal pride and commanding authority. “Remain strong in body and spirit, brave in the face of peril, irreproachable in conduct. Great deeds are expected of you, for it is not We, nor the royal line that holds paramount importance, but Ansara itself—the kingdom and its people. You shall be their shield against calamity, their sword against foes, the mighty dragon that devours all who seek to harm our realm.”

  Elisha's chest swelled with boundless pride—pride in serving such a sovereign, in belonging to Ansara, in repaying the debts of opportunity granted him, and in securing a brighter dawn for his siblings.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he declared with fervent resolve. “I shall not falter in my duty. My blood will flow for Ansara's honour if need be.”

  He raised his head and claimed:

  “HONOUR BE TO THE KINGDOM!”

  The King favoured him with a warm smile before saluting his ministers and officers, then departing for the Golden Palace amid reverent silence.

  Viggo drew near his father, their whispers exchanged in low, urgent tones. Gamon withdrew soon after, his mood taciturn, eyes cold and flickering with thoughts none could decipher.

  Viggo turned to the assembled Generals. He was the youngest among the Council yet bolstered by considerable support.

  An elder General—stern of bearing, grey sideburns framing a scarred cheek—spoke gravely.

  “Bear it not too heavily upon your heart, Viggo. The greater part of the Council lent voice to your candidacy. His Majesty's reasons remain his own, veiled as they may be, yet the future unfolds in ways unforeseen. I shall not deny that Elisha… Dragon General Elisha possesses remarkable talent, but youth and inexperience may yet prove burdens. Time holds unknown possibilities.”

  Three nearby Generals murmured in agreement. The others maintained silence. After all, they were soldiers first and foremost, bound unwaveringly to the King's will.

  Viggo replied with measured magnanimity.

  “All is well. We place our trust in His Majesty's judgment. Our duty lies in supporting Lord Elisha through his endeavours ahead, for a portion of the kingdom's welfare now rests upon his shoulders.”

  Whether these words reflected his innermost convictions remained a matter known only to him.

  The Generals offered salutes to Elisha, some warm, others perfunctory, before withdrawing to their quarters within the Martial Temple.

  Rafael the Titan merely smiled and nodded. Elisha returned a deep bow.

  A voice transmission reached him privately: “We shall speak later, when the festivities wane, and fewer ears attend. Seek my quarters then.”

  Elisha acknowledged with a subtle nod.

  Abram De Varona and Santiago De Renato approached, their congratulations warm and genuine.

  “My thanks for your steadfast support, Uncle Abram,” Elisha said humbly. “It is through your aid that this honour has come to me.”

  Abram laughed with hearty warmth.

  “I must confess, first impressions can be deceiving. I originally opposed Elisabetta's choice to take you as her disciple, yet you have proven my doubts unfounded, and I rejoice in admitting my mistakes. Come now—we have arranged a gathering to celebrate properly. Ministers and officers await to make your acquaintance. Such connections will serve your path well.”

  Elisha hesitated briefly, but Santiago interjected persuasively.

  “Refuse not this invitation, Elisha. Approachability forges alliances vital to your ambitions and the kingdom's future—trust our counsel in this.”

  Santiago was beaming as well. Although not as entrenched with Elisha’s interests like House Varona, his own brother Sebastian had vouched for Elisha since the latter was but a rookie in the army.

  Persuaded at length, Elisha acquiesced.

  The celebration convened in the eastern Quarter's meeting hall—nobles, officers, and select families invited. Houses Varona and Renato prominent; Corina represented by Manke and Julieta.

  They crossed the central courtyard, soldiers regarding the leonine-haired man with profound respect—he who had traversed the Dragon Gate.

  Near Julieta walked Hernan De Varona, refined, red-haired, fourteen and deeply enamoured. Suitors encircled her like stars to the moon.

  Julieta responded with light smiles, neither encouraging nor rebuffing. Her heart remained open to fate, awaiting one worthy of claiming it wholly.

  As the group crossed back through the central courtyard toward the eastern wing, sudden commotion erupted at the main entrance.

  Many wondered idly, unalarmed. After all, there were even Legends inside. What did they have to fear?

  Servants were dispatched to inquire.

  At the gates, soldiers barred a simply clad youth with a modest bag, his pleas growing insistent.

  “For the thousandth time, I’m seeking my brother, Elisha. Someone told me I could find him here. I’m just asking for someone to inquire about him.”

  A noble-born soldier sneered, accustomed to authority.

  “Do you truly think the Martial Temple is open to any beggar claiming kinship to a Lord? Well then, my kin serve Lord Falma himself. This is your last warning, you better vanish in five breaths, or I’ll make you regret it deeply.”

  Nerion bristled, ready to retort once more, his patience running thin, when his gaze caught a familiar figure in the courtyard: a golden-haired beauty beside a red-haired youth.

  He shouted joyfully across the space.

  “UGLY GIRL!”

  The dissonant cry resounded through the courtyard and entrances.

  Julieta nearly stumbled, forehead veins pulsing as her usual composure shattered, the name-calling tearing loose a memory she had long buried in her heart.

  “WHO ARE YOU CALLING AN UGLY GIRL, YOU LITTLE BEGGAR?”

  However, right after the outburst, she clapped her hands to her mouth, face crimson. The yell had been instinctual, a callback to simpler times. She saw the teenager standing at the Martial Temple’s gates. He had grown taller, yet still had the same mischievous eyes. Even in her shame, a tiny smile crept onto her lips.

  Hernan noted the shift, his own expression altering. He’d never seen Julieta react like that to any person, less a member of the opposite gender.

  The rest of the Nobles also stared wide-eyed. Who possessed the audacity to address House Corina's pearl like that?

  The soldier paled.

  “You've sealed your fate, brat. Seize him!” he snarled. “I’ll see you broken and thrown in irons—”

  A gust intervened, a figure materialising right in between the soldier and Nerion.

  The soldier cursed out loud, then choked.

  Elisha Nil Radomia. The day's exalted hero.

  His comrades distanced themselves, like avoiding the plague.

  Elisha ignored him, his gaze fixed on the youth. The teen had delicate features, handsome yet lean, as if his meals were sparse.

  His battle-hardened face softened, something private and unguarded breaking through. Memories surged inside, after all he had been caring for this boy from infancy.

  Nerion's eyes misted, tracing the many scars on the heroic and youthful leonine figure.

  Elisha extended a hand, fondling Nerion's hair gently.

  “You've grown, little brother.”

  “Yes, big brother. I've missed you beyond words.”