Chapter 7 - THE MARCH TO THE CAPITAL
The journey from the remote northern frontier down to the sprawling, ancient imperial capital was unlike anything the continent had witnessed in three centuries. It was not a secret flight of stealth, nor a swift military deployment, but a deliberate, unstoppable procession that grew larger with every league they crossed.
Word had spread like wildfire across the provinces: The Dragon Emperor lives. And he is marching home.
At first, it was just the mountain folk—farmers, woodcutters, miners, and villagers from the outlying valleys who fell in line behind Kestrel’s majestic frame, armed with pitchforks, iron tools, and walking staves. By the time the procession reached the central agricultural plains, the column of ordinary citizens stretched back for ten miles, a moving river of common humanity walking proudly behind the beast that had sworn to protect them.
Dileia and Bram walked near the front of the column, right beside the emperor’s massive left flank. Dileia had packed her father’s newly reinforced firewood sled—the ultimate symbol of their stubborn defiance—and loaded it with supplies, resting it proudly between the towering legs of the dragon as he walked.
Kestrel moved with a measured, rhythmic stride, his golden scales gleaming under the spring sun, his healed shoulder showing only a faint, silvery scar where the poisoned bolt had once torn his flesh.
“You know,” Bram muttered, eyeing the endless sea of people marching behind them with a mixture of amusement and disbelief, “you started this trip as a fugitive hiding in a snowbank, Your Majesty. Now you look like a one-dragon parade.”
Kestrel turned his massive head, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest. “Power is an illusion claimed by kings, Master Blacksmith. True strength belongs to those who pick up the broken things on the road and refuse to leave them behind.”
He lowered his gaze to Dileia, who was marching steadily beside him, her boots clicking against the paved stone of the imperial highway.
“And you, Dileia Halloway,” Kestrel continued, his voice soft enough only for her to hear. “You carry the Imperial Sigil on your hand. When we reach the capital gates, the High Council will offer you gold, lands, and titles beyond your imagination. What will you ask for?”
Dileia didn't hesitate for a second. She didn't look up at the distant spires of the white marble capital rising over the horizon. She simply looked straight ahead at the open road.
“I don’t want their gold, Your Majesty,” Dileia said firmly. “And I certainly don’t want their titles. When this is over, I want a permanent decree carved into the stone of every city gate from here to the sea.”
Kestrel’s golden eyes narrowed with curious interest. “Name it.”
“The Road Law,” Dileia replied, her voice ringing with absolute conviction. “That no traveler in trouble—man, beast, or dragon—shall ever be turned away by village decree, royal tax, or cowardice. That if something is on the road, you help it first. Ask questions later.”
Kestrel stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, a magnificent, radiant smile seemed to spread across his ancient reptilian features.
“It shall be done,” the Dragon Emperor vowed, his voice echoing across the plains like the peal of victory bells. “Written in stone, sealed in fire, and sworn by my blood.”
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Ahead of them, the massive iron gates of the imperial capital swung wide open—not in welcome, but in sudden, paralyzed terror as the guards within caught sight of the approaching multitude.
The trial for the soul of the empire had arrived. And the road led straight to the throne room.
