The Ashborn Crown Chapter 3 | Orders and Opportunity
Tharion could command battlefields, but when duty binds him, he misses his only chance at destiny.
Tharion stood frozen in the middle of the suite, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, trying not to let his frustration boil over. The door had just clicked shut behind Kaelric, his footsteps fading down the hallway. The weight of his father’s order pressed down on him.
He swallowed hard, gripping his hands until his nails bit into his palms, trying not to let a growl, or worse, tears, escape. It was infuriating and humiliating.
He could feel the heat rising in his chest. This could have been his only chance, his only opportunity to exchange even a few words with the Lord of the Obsidian Flight. To see him and perhaps even be acknowledged by him. And this rare, fleeting chance he had waited centuries for was slipping irretrievably out of reach. Instead, here he was. Stuck in a suite babysitting a group of human yokels in an impeccable, formal Crimson Scale evening dress uniform. In the chaos of a suite this group had no business occupying.
Velara and her father had vanished into separate rooms, leaving him alone with the younger members of the family. He took several long, measured breaths.
Joren immediately took command, clapping his hands together. “Alright, everyone. Let’s get this room sorted.”
Malther groaned, but paused the game fully, dropping the controller on the table and moved to help, grabbing a pile of cushions and placing them on the couch and on chairs. Rhaelor followed, stacking stray blankets, tossing wrappers in a bin, and stacked bowls with surprising efficiency. Cyrelei marked the page in her book, gathered the scattered dry fruit into the bowl and took it into the suite’s kitchenette, setting it on the counter, before going into the bathroom Thalvor and Draemir had just exited wearing pajamas. She emerged a few moments later in her pajamas. Rhaelor set the bowls into the sink.
Somehow, the room began to settle.
The battlefield volume of the game had been replaced by the soft, cheerful intro music of an animated children’s film. Cyrelei sat cross-legged on the rug with Thalvor leaned against her and Draemir was lying on the couch, his head on one of the cushions his brother had placed at the end.
Joren opened a cabinet and pulled out a box.
Malther grinned. “Oh, we’re doing that?”
“Yeah.”
Rhaelor wiped the rest of the crumbs from the table behind the couch. Joren sat the box down and opened it. Inside lay a command and strategy board game with modular terrain pieces, carved units, dice with different colors and faces, and a rulebook thick with annotations.
The clock ticked closer to the dinner hour. Every instinct screamed for him to leave. To storm the Council dinner and seize the opportunity for which he had awaited centuries.
But Kaelric’s command held him in place. Official responsibility weighed on him like iron.
A cold, simmering fire of frustration burned through him, and he pressed his lips together to keep it from leaking into a sound, a snarl, or a cry of impotent rage.
He shifted slightly, eyes scanning the room, realizing he was stuck for the night. And with Velara and her father conveniently absent, there was no one to lean on, no one to help him navigate this absurd situation. He was trapped.
And he hated it.
“You can sit,” Joren said, not unkindly. Tharion remained where he stood.
Malther followed his brother’s gaze. “You look like you are about to duel someone.”
“I am fine,” Tharion snapped.
Rhaelor tilted his head. “Did you want to go to that dinner thing?”
Silence. Tharion’s throat tightened and he about lost control of the hot tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “Yes.”
The answer had slipped before he could contain it. His voice trembling and thin. Joren nodded once.
“Important?”
“Yes.”
Malther arranged his pieces on the board. “Like once-in-a-lifetime important?”
Tharion hesitated. “Yes.”
“That sucks,” Rhaelor grimaced.
Joren looked toward the room Velara was in. “She didn’t plan that.”
“You could join us. The game is designed for up to eight players. And it makes it a lot more interesting when there are more players.”
Tharion stared at the teenager. On the television, bright animated characters sang about friendship.
“I’m not here to play games,” he said quietly.
“No,” Joren agreed. “You’re here because someone else decided you don’t get to do what you wanted.”
Malther slid a carved game piece across the table toward the empty chair. “Still. You’re here.”
Tharion stared at the game pieces on the table. He could map battlefields in his sleep. He could recite lineages of the Thirteen Courts back generations. He could predict a shift in weather by scent alone.
None of that changed the fact he had just lost his only opportunity in centuries to stand in the same room as the Flight Lord.
Instead, he stood in a guest suite watching teen boys placing command units on a board game, murmuring about flanking advantages and resource choke points while animated woodland creatures sang cheerfully.
Velara stepped into the living room, her posture effortless, the silk of her gown catching the light in ember and obsidian waves. Her hair was braided with meticulous care, tiny jewels woven subtly into the plaits. She moved with the quiet authority of someone who understood the power of presence. Tharion’s first unbidden thought was that the gown would look just as stunning strewn across his bedroom floor as it did on her. He blinked, choking back a curse for even thinking it.
A moment later, another young woman, obviously her sister, appeared behind her, wearing a silk gown that complemented Velara’s. Her hair was also intricately braided with tiny jewels woven into it. Both young women wore jewelry that was obviously very old and very valuable.
Tharion was stunned. He had expected them to emerge with packed luggage in utilitarian travel attire, prepared to return to Sylphion that evening, perhaps on the last flight out of Crimson Scale, if tickets could be arranged.
“Just waiting on Edric, Mom, and Dad,” Velara said casually.
From the adjacent room, a young man stepped forward. Black hair cut with military precision, the Obsidian Flight evening dress uniform, tailored to the same standard as Tharion’s Crimson Scale evening dress uniform, immaculate. Tharion clocked subtle differences immediately. The insignia on the collar identified him as a pilot. And the riband draped not from his right shoulder to left hip like Tharion’s as was standard, but was reversed, draping from his left shoulder to his right hip. Not standard. Not ceremonial. A position reserved only for the very highest ranking members of the Flight.
Tharion’s mind raced, trying and failing to make sense of the display. Evening silk gowns. Intricate, extremely valuable jewelry. Formal braids. And on their brother, Obsidian Flight insignia, the riband draped across his uniform in a configuration reserved for command tiers most dragons spend lifetimes pursuing. Yet Tharion did not detect the presence of another dragon within the suite.
Tharion’s eyes narrowed as Velara stepped closer, the silk of her gown brushing the floor. She reached out and wrapped her hand around his arm. The touch should have been grounding, calming, but his focus was still tangled in frustration, barely registering her presence as he ground his jaw.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. Her fingers tightened just slightly.
“I want you to meet my brother, Edric, and my sister, Loria,” she said, voice light, casual, but carrying the same quiet authority her appearance demanded.
He blinked at them, jaw tightening, barely registering her voice. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement, his glare fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder and filed each of their names away.
“You should not have come,” he said under his breath.
Velara’s hand remained wrapped around his arm, warm and deliberate, as if tethering him to the moment, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips. But Tharion’s thoughts were elsewhere, caught in the impossible combination of his fury, disbelief, and the tight knot of frustration in his chest.
“We were invited,” Edric said simply.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look at her. He inhaled slowly, and let his arms fall to his sides, reluctantly permitting Velara’s hand on his arm.
“Not by me.” He glared at the young pilot. “You can’t even begin to understand what this cost me.”
Edric held Tharion’s glare without rancor.
“This may have been my only chance.” Tharion bit the inside of his lip to hide the tremble.
“To meet him,” Edric finished quietly, looking at his sister.
Tharion didn’t deny it.
Loria spoke up, her voice gentle. “And you assume that chance is gone.”
“It is.”
Edric checked his cuff. Tharion’s anger flared again. They were not behaving as though they were preparing to be escorted from the Court.
Another door clicked open. Tharion’s head wheeled toward the sound. He glared at Velara’s father as he stepped from the room behind a woman wearing a gown of obsidian and ember mirroring that of the young women standing by him. The woman looked as though she could be another of Velara’s sisters. Her hair was also intricately plaited, and she wore similar understated jewels which complemented Velara and Loria’s. And Velara’s father? Gone was the rumpled man who leaned against the doorway licking pastry crumbs from his fingers of earlier. Now he was cleaned up, polished, and formal. His slacks were perfectly pressed, shirt properly buttoned, tie knotted perfectly, shoes gleaming, and hair styled with deliberate care.
He stepped around the woman, brushing his knuckles lightly against her waist. She turned her head just enough for him to press a brief, intimate kiss at her temple.
Tharion’s eyes widened and his jaw tightened as Velara’s father moved to the coat and picked up the deep black coat as though he did it every day. A cold knot of terror settled in Tharion’s stomach at the sight of this human sliding this coat belonging to The Lord of the Obsidian Flight over his shoulders. The coat settled and his long fingers absently threaded the buttons one by one through their holes.
The woman who had exited the room with Velara’s father tapped her wrist. Velara caught the signal. It was time to go. Soft goodbyes and reminders to behave were exchanged with the younger children and last minute instructions regarding the care of his siblings were doled out to Joren by their mother as she reached into the coat worn by her husband and removed a small black glass rectangle and set it on the table next to the door, batting Velara’s father’s hand from it and shaking her head when he attempted to retrieve it. The children waved, calling out a few good nights and have funs before resuming their activities.
Tharion followed the elegant procession out of the suite. Velara led the way, her sister and mother flanking her, Edric walking a step behind his mother and sisters with a measured, quiet authority keeping him in perfect formation with the family. The polished floors echoed softly under their soft clicks of their shoes on the stone as the group strolled down the corridor at a deliberate, unhurried pace, more a promenade than a march. Fifteen minutes, maybe longer, from the suite to the dinner hall if they continued at this pace.
Tharion marched at the rear, fists clenched, his thoughts a storm of fury, frustration, and now an uneasy awareness that he had just revealed more than he ever intended. Velara’s father ambled beside him, speaking in a calm, even tone as the hallway wound through guest wings and the corridors of the palace proper.
His mind was still racing but he tried to nod along, letting the man’s words drift past as background noise.
Then, abruptly, Velara’s father stopped mid-sentence, his gaze locking onto Tharion with that piercing, measured intensity he hadn’t noticed before. “Tell me, Tharion,” he said, quiet, deliberate, “are you in love with Velara?”
Tharion blinked, completely unprepared. His mind went blank for a heartbeat. In love? His first reaction was disbelief, then indignation, then… a hot spike of irritation.
“Excuse me, Mr. Brenwick?” he said, voice tighter than he intended. His teeth clenched. He glared at the man. “What kind of question is that?”
Velara’s father regarded him steadily, unflinching. “I asked if you are in love with her. I need to know. Do not answer flippantly.”
Tharion’s jaw tightened as he froze mid-step. He wanted to throw a retort, maybe storm off down the corridor, maybe just give a furious growl and collapse against the wall. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled with the heat of frustration and the simmering embarrassment of being caught off-guard. He pressed his lips together, forcing his composure to the surface.
“I don’t see how that is your business,” he finally muttered, voice low, gritting out the words, refusing to look directly at Velara’s father.
Velara’s father nodded, not softening, not commenting further. Tharion’s cheeks burned, a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and the faintest trace of something he would never admit aloud. Velara, a step ahead, tilted her head just slightly, eyes unreadable. Her mother’s glance flicked toward him, polite but alert. Edric’s expression stayed neutral, gaze forward, betraying nothing.
The group resumed their slow stroll to the dining room, leaving Tharion to stew silently beside them. Tharion was still processing. Still furious that he’d missed his only chance to meet the Flight Lord. Still furious at this group whose very presence had caused him to miss that chance. Furious at their audacity. Their audacity at leaving the suite. Their audacity at dressing so formally. They hadn’t been invited. Not to Council. Not to the dinner that opened Council. This wasn’t a place or time for human presence. And, most distressingly, Mr. Brenwick’s audacity at wearing the formal ceremonial coat of the Lord of the Obsidian Flight.
The coat. Not a garment to be worn lightly. It was a symbol of absolute rank, a relic of centuries-old protocol. Anyone with eyes could see the carnage that awaited them. Within moments they would reach the hall in which the dinner was to be held. The Flight Lord would already be seated. Within moments, they would enter the hall. Merely arriving after the Flight Lord was a breach of protocol so severe that they would be ostracized for centuries. Even worse, the Flight Lord would see Mr. Brenwick wearing his coat with such ease, such arrogance. And the children who had remained in the suite would be orphans.
They were taking the final turn into the hallway where the dinner hall entrance was located, every step a reminder of how little control Tharion had. His centuries of preparation, of rank, of strategic patience counted for nothing against this family’s audacity.
“Maybe we should just turn back,” he muttered, just loud enough for Velara’s father, who was still beside him, to hear. “We can go back to the suite. No one will know we were gone.”
“It’s fine,” Velara’s father said quietly, as though he was dismissing the concept of danger entirely.
“Fine?” Tharion was incredulous. “You are about to walk, uninvited and unwanted, I might add, into the most formal, most dangerous dinner of the year. Wearing that coat. Do you even know who that coat belongs to?” He took a breath. “The Lord of the entire Obsidian Flight. Basically, the emperor of the entire Dragon Host, to borrow your term. Are you trying to get us all executed?”
The heavy double doors of the dinner hall loomed ahead, their polished wood gleaming under the chandeliers. The guards on either side of the door watched as Velara’s father stepped to the front of the procession and as Loria and Edric stepped to the rear, Velara slid her arm through Tharion’s, guiding him into position behind her parents.
Tharion squared his shoulders, trying to not let the adrenaline spike too high. He had admitted to Velara that he loved her and she had returned the sentiment. That thought helped, despite his pulse hammering in anticipation of the inferno waiting just beyond the doors.
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