The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch
Chapter 3: Our Lack Of Heirs Changes Nothing

Chapter 3: Our Lack Of Heirs Changes Nothing

Draeven hated council meetings.

He hated the cold stone of the throne room, the oppressive weight of the vaulted ceiling, the way his ministers droned on and on about matters he had stopped caring about decades ago.

But most of all, he hated the looks.

The pitying, anxious, barely concealed desperation in their eyes every time they brought up the one subject he could never escape.

Heirs.

Or rather, the lack of them.

He sat slouched in his chair at the head of the long table, his fingers drumming against the armrest, his mind anywhere but here. The market. The girl. The way her eyes had flashed when the bread seller had pushed her. The way the air around her had shimmered...

Focus.

To his left sat Kaelen, the youngest of the three brothers, his posture rigid and his expression carved from ice. He looked bored. No...worse than bored. He looked like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

And knowing Kaelen, he probably would rather be in his chambers with whatever female he’d left tangled in his sheets this morning.

To Draeven’s right sat Thorne, the middle brother, who had barely looked up from the book he’d brought with him. A book. To a council meeting. Thorne’s long fingers turned the pages slowly, deliberately, as if the fate of the kingdom mattered less than whatever philosophical drivel he was reading.

Draeven resisted the urge to knock the book out of his hands.

"...and so we find ourselves, once again, at an impasse."

The voice belonged to Lord Cedric, the head of the council and the oldest man in the room by at least three decades. His white beard reached his chest, and his eyes, sharp despite his age, fixed on Draeven with the kind of look that suggested he was expecting an answer.

Draeven hadn’t been listening.

"An impasse," he repeated flatly.

Cedric’s mouth thinned. "Yes, Your Majesty. As I was saying, the matter of succession cannot be ignored any longer."

Draeven’s jaw tightened. Here we go.

"The kingdom grows restless," Cedric continued, his voice gaining strength as the other ministers around the table murmured their agreement. "It has been nearly two centuries since the last heir was born to the Draconian line. The people whisper. They wonder. And our enemies..." He paused, letting the word hang in the air. "....they watch."

"Let them watch," Kaelen said coldly, his pale eyes flicking up from where he’d been inspecting his nails. "We’ve crushed every kingdom foolish enough to challenge us. Our lack of heirs changes nothing."

"It changes everything," snapped Lord Varrick, a younger minister with a perpetually anxious expression. "Without heirs, the line dies. Without the line, the dragons fall. Without the dragons..."

"We’re well aware of the stakes, Varrick," Thorne said quietly, still not looking up from his book. His voice was soft, almost gentle, but there was something sharp beneath it. Something dangerous.

Varrick paled and shut his mouth.

Draeven leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the high windows where pale morning light filtered through. He could still see her in his mind. The girl. The way she’d walked away from the bread seller with her head high, her braid swaying against her back.

Who was she?

"Your Majesty."

Draeven blinked and found Cedric staring at him expectantly.

"What?" he said, his tone sharper than he’d intended.

Cedric’s expression didn’t change. "I asked if you had given any thought to the proposal we discussed last month. The one regarding...."

"The parade of noblewomen you want to throw at us?" Kaelen interrupted, his lips curling into a sneer. "We’ve tried that. A dozen times. None of them could carry our seed. None of them were... compatible."

"Because they weren’t the right women," Cedric said firmly. "The oracle was clear. There is one, one....who can break the curse. We simply haven’t found her yet."

"And you think inviting every eligible daughter from every neighboring kingdom will help?" Thorne finally closed his book, his dark eyes lifting to meet Cedric’s. "That sounds less like a solution and more like desperation."

"It is desperation!" Varrick burst out, his voice rising. "We are running out of time! The curse...."

"The curse isn’t going anywhere," Draeven said, his voice low and dangerous.

The room fell silent.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his golden eyes sweeping over the assembled ministers. "We’ve lived with this curse for two hundred years. We’ll survive another two hundred if we have to."

"Will we?" Cedric’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade. "Your Majesty, forgive me, but the curse is worsening. You know this. You feel it. The fire inside you grows hotter, harder to control. Your brothers..." His gaze flicked to Kaelen and Thorne. "...they suffer as well. And without an heir, without the prophecy fulfilled...."

"We’ll fade," Thorne finished softly. "We’ll burn out. Or worse."

Kaelen’s expression darkened. "You think we don’t know that?"

"Then do something about it!" Varrick slammed his hand on the table, his face flushed. "Bring the women here! Test them! If even one of them is the chosen one, if even one of them can..."

"Enough."

Draeven’s voice wasn’t loud, but it silenced the room instantly.

He stood slowly, his chair scraping against the stone floor, and the ministers shrank back slightly. Even after all these years, even after centuries of ruling alongside them, they still feared him.

Good.

"You want us to invite noblewomen to the palace," he said, his tone flat. "Fine. Send the invitations. Throw your banquet. Parade them through the halls like cattle at market. But don’t expect us to pretend this is anything other than what it is."

"And what is it, Your Majesty?" Cedric asked carefully.

Draeven’s smile was cold. "A waste of time."

He turned and walked toward the door, his cloak sweeping behind him.

"Where are you going?" Kaelen called after him.

"Anywhere but here."

Thorne watched his brother leave, then turned his gaze back to the council. The ministers were already whispering among themselves, their voices rising in a familiar chorus of worry and complaint.