The Blood of Tyrants

The air in the Nine Dragons’ vault reeked of mildew and betrayal. David knelt on the stone floor, the Dragon Crown heavy in his hands—a twisted circlet of blackened gold, its jagged spines biting into his palms. Flickering torchlight danced over walls lined with crumbling scrolls and ossified bones of past bearers.

One text lay open before him, its pages stained with what looked like blood. The illustrations were grotesque: kings with hollow eyes devouring their subjects, warlords reduced to ash mid-battle, a woman clawing her throat open as roots burst from her veins.

David's voice is low. “It’s not a crown. It’s a cage.”

Thalia from the doorway, hesitant. “Eka found fragments of these records years ago. She said the Crown doesn’t choose leaders—it chooses sacrifices.”

David reading aloud. “The bearer’s soul becomes a bridge… for the Dragon’s hunger.” He laughs bitterly.. “All this time, I thought I was fighting them. Now I’m just their newest vessel.”