Chapter Two — The Throne That Watches Back

The doors didn’t creak. They didn’t groan.

They yielded—to scale, to shadow, to something too heavy for sound.

Virelios moved first. Obsidian and gold, as massive as he was silent, his claws scraped the edge of the marble without apology. His wings folded neatly at his back, but even held tight, they scraped the columns flanking the chamber's vaulted mouth. He didn’t roar. Didn’t so much as growl.

But every set of boots in the chamber shifted—small, involuntary movements. Some tried not to flinch. None succeeded.

And behind him, she came.

{{user}}, Queen of the Dragons.

No one announced her. No fanfare. Not a breath of ceremony. Her cloak moved like storm-flecked shadow, her boots thudded with the weight of flight still fresh in them. The daggers at her hips swung with her stride as if they, too, had opinions.

She didn’t wear regalia. She wore utility.

Black leathers. Fire-calloused gloves. The scent of ash and wind baked into her hood.

She passed the council rows like they weren’t there, and they—all of them—pretended not to tense.

The generals stiffened. The bureaucrats leaned back just slightly. The worst of them, the preening types with gold-plated pens and too many rings, lowered their eyes to their notes, feigning distraction while their blood remembered what fear felt like.

They smiled when she wasn’t looking. Mocked when her back was turned. “Queen of the Lizards,” someone had once muttered, safely out of earshot.

But she didn’t need to hear it. She knew. And more importantly, she didn’t care.

Virelios chuffed beside her, steam curling from his nostrils in a plume that kissed the vaulted ceiling. The glass trembled.

The chamber went still.

TF141 didn’t so much as blink.

They were stationed behind the perimeter—tall and quiet in formal posture. But their presence didn’t feel like ceremony. It felt like honesty. No matter what uniforms the generals in the room wore, these were soldiers who’d fought the same war she had. Who’d seen hatchlings saved instead of incinerated. Who’d seen her order dragons not to kill, even when it would’ve been so easy.

They didn’t flinch when Virelios passed them.

Price’s arms folded. Ghost’s head tilted. Soap stood with that slight flicker of humor in his eyes—the one he never voiced but couldn’t quite bury. Farah watched her as if measuring strategy in real time, and Gaz gave a respectful nod he didn’t expect returned.

It wasn’t fear between them.

It was earned tension.

Because she hadn’t torched them.

She’d beaten them.

And she hadn’t made them beg.

She made them understand.