Chapter 7 - Poison in the Cup
The tension around the banquet table grew so thick it felt like walking through waist-deep mud. Prince Vane’s eyes flicked down to the untouched goblet of poisoned wine, then back to Jaren, a subtle hardening settling over his handsome features.
"A prudent choice, boy," Vane murmured, his voice dropping an octave so only Jaren could hear. "Water keeps the head clear. But caution can only protect you for so long when you are playing a game of kings."
"I never asked to play," Jaren replied evenly, taking a calm sip of the fresh water. Inside the leather pack against his chest, Silver shifted restlessly, emitting a low, vibrating growl that rattled the cutlery on the table.
Before Vane could respond, High Chancellor Voren rose from his seat at the center of the high table, tapping his gold-ringed fingers against a crystal glass to demand silence. The murmurs and laughter across the garden died away instantly.
"Lords, ladies, and honored guests," Voren’s voice boomed across the garden, rich and theatrical. "Tonight, we celebrate an event that has eluded our royal house for three centuries. The awakening of the Last Dragon. And we honor the unexpected vessel chosen by destiny—Jaren of the lower rings."
Polite, sterile applause rippled through the gathering. It sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement.
"However," Voren continued, a sharp edge cutting into his tone, "with great power comes absolute responsibility. A dragon is not a toy for a peasant, nor a weapon for the untrained. Therefore, the High Council has decreed that for the safety of the realm, the dragonlet must be housed in the Royal Menagerie under expert supervision, while Jaren is appointed as its stable handler."
A collective murmur of approval rose from the nobility. It was a masterstroke of political theft: strip the boy of his bond under the guise of safety, leaving him powerless.
Jaren stood up so fast his heavy wooden chair tipped backward, crashing loudly against the stone paving.
"No," Jaren said. The single word rang out clear and resonant, cutting through the murmurs like a steel blade.
Voren’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. "Beg pardon, boy? Did you speak out of turn?"
"I said no," Jaren repeated, stepping away from the table, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "The egg chose me. Not the council. Not the king. Not a single person sitting at these tables who spent their lives looking down on everyone else. If the dragon stays, I stay with it. If it goes, it goes with me."
"Insolent whelp!" Lord Malakor roared, slamming his goblet down, spilling red wine across the white tablecloth like fresh blood. "You speak to the High Chancellor of Oakhaven! Guards, seize him!"
A dozen armored soldiers lunged forward from the shadows of the apple trees, their hands reaching for Jaren.
Jaren didn't flinch. He reached inside his pack and gently touched Silver’s head.
Now, Jaren thought.
Silver burst from the leather pack with a piercing, bell-like shriek. In mid-air, the dragonlet’s body expanded violently, its scales flashing with blinding silver fire as a wave of superheated air blasted outward, sending the charging guards flying backward into the rosebushes.
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The garden erupted into absolute panic. Lords screamed, ladies scrambled over benches in their silk gowns, and tables overturned in a crash of silver and crystal.
"Kill it!" Vane screamed, drawing his sword and lunging forward through the smoke and fire.
