Johnquis woke up in a moving cart.
His hands were tied, but not tight. He sat up slowly. The sky above was clear. He could hear wheels turning, voices, and the sound of more carts ahead.
The man in black armor was riding beside him on his brown lizard, chewing on dried meat.
"Oh good, you're up," The man said. "Didn't want to knock you out, but you were being difficult."
Johnquis didn't reply.
"Name's Luc, by the way," he said. "Not a captain or anything. Just a dragonborn, ascended by the Six-Headed Dragon—rank 57. Pretty low, right? Heh. Doesn't matter now. What matters is, I was lucky to find you!"
"Where are you taking me?"
"To the capital," Luc said. "All the candidates are being gathered. The Dragonrite's starting soon."
"I'm not a candidate."
Luc raised an eyebrow. "You've got no marks. That makes you bear the right blood. Whether you like it or not, you're in."
"I didn't ask for this."
"Doesn't matter, you were born into it. Same as me."
Johnquis turned away, thinking of Tarah. His mother. The village. Of the promise he made.
Luc looked at him again, this time more curious. "You lived in a marked village all your life and no one noticed? Damn. Must've been rough hiding."
Johnquis said nothing.
Luc nodded to the ring. "From your mom?"
Johnquis gave a small nod.
"Anyway, they'll explain the rest at the capital. You're not the only one. All the noble houses are sending their sons. Right age, right blood."
"You mean… there are others like me? Without marks?"
"Yeah," Luc said. "You'll meet them soon."
The walls of the capital came into view—tall and grey, with guards posted on top. Flags waved above the gates. As they passed through, horns sounded.
Johnquis looked around, wide-eyed. The city was huge. The streets were packed with people. Stone buildings rose high on both sides.
The colors of blue and gold were everywhere, filling his eyes with awe.
They arrived at a large square near the palace. Dozens of Wyrmfoots waited there—dragon-like beasts with thick legs and short tails. Unlike Luc's mount, these had no wings. Their power came from their strong, heavy feet. On each one sat a boy, dressed in fine armor.
Luc helped Johnquis off the cart.
The nobles turned when they saw him.
One boy frowned. "Who let the stable boy in?"
Another laughed. "He smells worse than my horse."
"Looks like he hasn't bathed in weeks," said a third, sneering. "Where's your house, dirtblood?"
Johnquis ignored them. He kept walking. He looked at the Wyrmfoots, nervous but curious.
Luc stepped up beside him and patted his back. "That one's yours," he said, pointing to a dull red wyrmfoot. "Don't worry, they're smart. They can smell blood. He knows you're one of them."
Johnquis walked toward it. The creature sniffed him, then knelt slightly, letting him climb on.
The nobles muttered among themselves.
"He's unmarked," Luc said loudly to one of them. "That's what matters."
The tall boy in blue scoffed. "He's still filth."
Then two larger Wyrmfoots stepped forward. Both were dark blue, with gold armor on their heads and legs.
The first carried a girl in blue and gold armor, marked with the six-headed dragon crest. She looked calm and quiet.
The second carried the crown prince. He wore the same armor. His face was cold and focused.
Everyone in the square went silent.
A tall man in silver robes raised his hand.
"Let the parade begin! Sons of noble blood, ride!"
The horns sounded.
One by one, the Wyrmfoots began moving through the city streets. People cheered from both sides.
Johnquis rode at the end of the line, still dirty, still tired. Rode beside the clean, polished royals and noble boys.
In the streets nearby, three kids rushed through the crowd.
"Come on!" the girl yelled. She held a stick with a paper dragon flapping in the wind.
"I'm trying!" the skinny boy shouted behind her, wooden sword bouncing off his leg.
"Wait—I'm eating!" the round boy panted, still holding half a smoked chicken leg.
They climbed up crates and barrels, then scrambled onto a rooftop. Below them, people packed the streets, waiting. Banners flew. The drums began.
Then the horns.
A knight called out, "The candidates are coming!"
Twenty-two boys, all between fifteen and seventeen, all of noble or royal blood, rode forward on their Wyrmfoots. Armor shining, house crests on their chests.
The crowd clapped. Some shouted names.
"House of AsulFang is first!" someone yelled.
At the front, a confident boy in blue waved.
"Make way for your future Dragonborn!" he roared, flashing white teeth.
A girl nearby shrieked.
His brother beside him was quiet, focused.
Next came a boy yawning, barely sitting straight.
"Ughhh… too many people. Too much noise for the morning…"
"You just need some sunlight to wake you up," muttered the energetic bald boy behind him, flexing his biceps for the crowd.
"Look at these arms! Built to hold a dragon's power!"
Men in the crowd clapped and cheered.
"Now that's what we need! Grit! Guts!"
The crowd laughed.
Next came an odd trio—three boys in matching armor from a lesser-known house. Two of them were shouting, fists raised high.
"We'll take the dragon's power! Mark our words!"
"We'll bring glory to our house!"
But the third… lagged behind.
He trembled. He kept his head down.
"Is he crying?" someone whispered.
"Poor lad… he's not ready."
More candidates followed, each one bearing different colors, different faces.
Some were proud.
Some nervous.
Then silence fell again.
The crowd gasped.
The royal riders arrived.
First came the princess—firm, straight posture, six-headed dragon crest shining on her chest. She rode with elegance.
"Princess Eira! So beautiful!" a woman cried out.
"May the gods protect her!" another shouted.
But others whispered:
"That beauty will twist."
"What a waste."
She heard it all—but she let none of it touch her.
Then came the Crown Prince.
Cheers exploded. People shouted his name. Some wept. Some knelt.
They surged forward.
"Prince Savier!"
"The Promised Prince!"
"Our hope! Our savior!"
One old man reached up with a trembling hand and just barely touched the prince's gauntlet.
"Please… save us. You are the promised prince."
Savier looked down and gently placed his hand over the man's.
"I'll do my best," he said out loud.
But in his head: Disgusting.
Johnquis rode behind him, in the same royal armor. The crowd changed.
"Who is that?"
"Why is he wearing that?"
"Where did he came from?"
The reactions were mixed. Some stared in confusion. Others scowled. A few looked curious.
Johnquis looked at all of them.
They all had the purple marks—on their faces, arms, necks—just like everyone in his village.
He felt a wave of sadness.
"I never knew there were this many… marked by the purple sickness," he said quietly.
He lowered his gaze.
"I used to think we were the only ones. But now I see… it's everywhere."
He held the reins tighter.
He looked at his hands, then at the ring on his finger.
"My blood… it's the same as theirs," he said, looking at the noble boys and royals nearby.
He went quiet, then spoke softly,
"Why did she hide me?"
"What is all this for? Candidate? Dragonrite?"
He looked down, worried.
"What's going to happen to us?"
Far above, three kids watched from the rooftops.
"Who do you think will become our next Dragonborn, huh?" the girl asked.
"It's gotta be Prince Savier!" the chubby boy said proudly.
"Yeah! He'll save us all, right? Prince Savier, the Promised Prince!" the skinny boy shouted, swinging his wooden sword in the air.
The girl twirled, nearly stumbling in her excitement.
"Mine's Princess Eira! I know she'll be the first girl to ever become a Dragonborn. Look at her! She's gorgeous! Like me. Blink blink."
The boys burst out laughing.
They raced to the final rooftop, just above the massive gate that led to the Grand Chamber.
Then the girl's voice turned serious.
"And who do you think will become… monsters?"