Chapter 8 - THE GATES OF THE CAPITAL
The colossal iron gates of the imperial capital loomed before them like the jaws of a dormant leviathan. For generations, those gates had opened only for conquering generals, visiting monarchs, and the elite lords of the High Council. Today, they trembled on their massive bronze hinges as twenty thousand common citizens, farmers, artisans, and border folk surged up the grand avenue behind the Dragon Emperor.
Atop the towering granite gatehouses, hundreds of elite palace guards in polished silver-and-blue plate armor stood paralyzed with terror. Their bows were drawn, their lances leveled, but not a single soldier dared give the order to loose. How do you shoot arrows at a living god who walks beside an army of ordinary citizens carrying firewood sleds and blacksmith hammers?
At the front of the column, Kestrel stopped thirty paces from the threshold. His massive shadow swallowed the grand stone archway completely.
Dileia and Bram stood directly beneath his left wing, their expressions calm, resolute, and completely devoid of fear.
A figure stepped out onto the central battlement above the gates. Lord Vane, Chancellor of the High Council, dressed in lavish velvet robes embroidered with silver thread and glittering gemstones, looked down with a face twisted in absolute panic and disbelief.
“Kestrel!” Vane’s voice cracked across the silent plaza, amplified by a whispering wind-charm. “You… you died in the northern pass! The poison should have rotted your heart!”
Kestrel tilted his massive head upward, his golden slit pupils locking onto the chancellor with a gaze so intensely cold that Vane involuntarily took a step backward, nearly tripping over his own silken robes.
“You underestimated the resilience of the road, Vane,” Kestrel’s voice rumbled through the plaza, shaking the stained-glass windows of the grand palaces. “You believed that by striking me from the shadows with poisoned iron, the throne would fall into your greedy hands. You thought my life belonged to your council.”
Vane’s face flushed a mottled crimson of blind rage and terror. He raised a shaking hand toward the archers on the battlements. “Shoot! Fire upon the beast! Kill the traitor and everyone standing with him!”
Not a single arrow flew.
The archers looked down at Lord Vane, then down at the terrifying majesty of the dragon, and finally out across the endless sea of ordinary citizens filling the grand avenue. Slowly, deliberately, the captain of the palace guard lowered his bow, unbuckled his sword belt, and let it drop clattering onto the stone battlements.
One by one, the guards followed suit. The illusion of absolute tyranny shattered in an instant under the weight of truth.
“Your time is over, Vane,” Kestrel commanded, stepping forward and placing one massive, razor-sharp front talon against the base of the grand iron gate.
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With a single, effortless shove of his titanic shoulder, the massive iron gates—forged to withstand sieges of entire armies—buckled, shrieked, and burst inward, crashing flat against the cobblestone plaza inside.
The path to the throne room was open.
