THE GLIMPSE OF HEROES—OR MONSTERS

Now, in the heart of Farland—within the mighty Kingdom of Tiamat— Atop the stone-clad heights of its capital, Crownpeak.


The day had come.

The Dragonrite—a sacred, deadly rite of passage that would choose the next Dragonborn—was about to begin.

The capital, Crownpeak, pulsed with life—bursting with music, color, and celebration. Banners of gold and Velvet shimmered in the sunlight, while the flags of every noble house flapped proudly in the wind.

The streets overflowed with villagers, nobles, priests, and guards. Laughter echoed through the plazas as musicians played flutes and drums.

Children chased each other with paper dragons while dancers tossed flower petals into the air.

Market stalls overflowed with smoked meats, honeyed fruits, and crisp bread stuffed with melting cheese. The air was rich with spice and incense.

It wasn't just a ceremony—it was a festival.

A reckoning.

A reckoning cloaked in joy.

Amid the roaring crowd, three children fought their way forward—elbows out, hearts racing.

"Come on!" the girl barked over the noise. "We're gonna miss it!"

A skinny boy huffed behind her, cheeks flushed red, his wooden sword smacking his leg with each step.


"I'm trying!" he gasped.

Bringing up the rear, a round boy waddled after them, one hand gripping his side, the other still holding half a smoked chicken leg.


"Wait—I'm eating!"

They darted past shouting merchants and leapt over a knocked-over crate.
The girl didn't stop.

"There—up the wall!"

Using stacked barrels and a crooked awning, they clambered up like wildcats, fingers clawing for the roof tiles.

At last, they perched on top of the world, wind tugging at their clothes.


Below them: a sea of people.
Above: banners dancing in the sun.
And ahead—
The road where the candidates would march, like gods returned to earth.

"They're coming!" the girl shouted, rising to her feet.

Immediately, heads turned.

The city held its breath.
Conversations stopped.
Dancers froze.
Even the wind seemed to pause.

Then, the drums.
Booming.
Then, the horns.
Blazing.

And then—
The candidates arrived.

Twenty-two in total, aged between fifteen and seventeen—each of noble or royal blood, mounted atop proud, snorting Wyrmfoot, the lizard-like beast native to the Kingdom of Tiamat, its clawed feet clicking against the stone. The candidates, wearing armor in different hues, each bore the symbol of their house across the chestplate.

"Look! The House of AsulFang is first!" a girl shouted from the rooftop.


Gasps rose from the crowd as a charismatic boy at the front waved confidently to the crowd. His blue armor gleamed in the sunlight.


"Make way for your future Dragonborn!" he roared, flashing white teeth.


A girl nearby shrieked with delight.


Beside him rode his brother—same armor, same symbol—but completely different. Quiet. Composed. His gaze was steady, his mouth unsmiling.


Then came a boy with loosely tied hair and a lazy posture, slouched in the saddle, yawning exaggeratedly.


"This is so dramatic. Do we really need all this just to drink some blood?"


"You could use some blood 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!"


The men in the crowd clapped and cheered.

"Now that's what we need! Grit! Guts!"


The crowd roared with laughter.

Next came an odd trio—three boys in matching armor from a lesser-known house.


Two of them were shouting, fists high in the air.


"We'll take the dragon's power! Mark our words!"
"We'll bring glory to our house!"


But the third… lagged behind.
He trembled. His helmet shook slightly with every step. He kept his head down.


"Is he crying?" someone whispered.
"Poor lad… he's not ready."

More candidates followed, each one bringing different symbols and colors, different expressions.
Some were proud.
Some nervous.

The final candidates arrived—and the energy shifted.


A hush fell.


Then—a sudden eruption of cheers. Drums pounded. Horns blasted a royal fanfare.


The royal Wyrmfoots emerged, draped in velvet and gold silk. The crowd bowed. Some dropped to their knees.


Two figures rode beneath the royal banners.


First came a princess, upright in golden-velvet armor, the six-headed dragon crest gleaming on her chestplate. She walked with elegance, her smile calm, her wave measured.


"Princess Eira! So beautiful!" a woman called out.
"May the gods protect her!" another cried.


But others whispered:
"That beauty will twist."
"What a waste."


Eira heard it all—but she let none of it touch her. Her stride never faltered.

Then the crowd erupted. Cheers thundered across the capital— But not for her.


Their eyes shifted—to the boy behind her.
Bathed in sunlight.
Prince Johnquis.


His armor shimmered in gold and velvet, his cape billowing behind him like fire. His hair caught the breeze, and his smile— It broke the crowd open.


They surged forward, calling his name.
"Prince Johnquis!"
"The Golden Flame!"
"Our hope!"

A woman clutched her child, tears in her eyes. "He saved my son—thank you, my prince!"
The boy stepped forward, eyes shining. "When I grow up, I want to serve you!"
Johnquis knelt slightly, smiling. "I'll wait for you."


Men wept. Mothers clutched their children. Elders dropped to their knees.


One old man reached up with a trembling hand, just managing to graze the prince's gauntlet.
"Please… save us. You are the promised prince."


Johnquis looked down and gently placed his hand over the man's.
"I'll do my best," he said softly.
(He smiled—no grand promise. Just quiet warmth.)

But as he began to move past, he noticed the man's eyes shift—his gaze sliding over Johnquis's shoulder.

Something in his face changed. Displeasure. Fear. Contempt.

Johnquis turned his head.

Another boy followed behind him, dressed in the same gold-and-velvet armor.

Whispers rose like smoke through the crowd.

"Why is he here?"

"How dare he wear the armor of royal blood!"

The crowd was in a fury, shouting:

"Strip off that armor! You don't have the right to wear it!"

A stone flew. Then another.

"I pray for the gods to twist you!"

"Let him pay for his parents' sins…"

The warmth in the air turned cold.

But the boy—didn't flinch. He didn't cower, didn't shield himself. He kept riding, eyes fixed on Johnquis.

And Johnquis met that gaze.

No words.

Just silence.

The three children weaved through the crowd, scampering up rooftops and over balconies, keeping pace with the parade below.


"Who do you think will become our next Dragonborn, huh?" the girl asked, breathless with excitement, her eyes wide as the armored candidates passed beneath them.


"It's gotta be Prince Johnquis!" the chubby boy said proudly. "He has elven blood, just like the legends in the book!"


"Yeah! He'll be the one to save us all, right? Prince Johnquis, the Vanquisher of the Twisted!" the skinny boy shouted, punching 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!"


Their laughter trailed them as they rushed to the final rooftop, just above the massive gate that led to the Grand Chamber.
Below, the candidates marched—silent, proud, heavy with fate.


And from high above, three voices rang out like bells.


"Good luck, candidates!
May the dragon Tiamat bless you with his blood!"

The procession never paused. But some looked up. Some smiled. Some lowered their eyes.

They had been seen. By the people. By the future. They had been judged. Praised. Scorned.

From this day forward…

History would remember their names—
…or curse them.