Magus had never failed the crown.

Not once in fifty years of service—through border skirmishes, internal rebellions, assassination attempts, and the long, bitter years after the Sundering. His loyalty was not ceremonial. It was forged. Earned in blood and debt.

King Kalzarin had saved him from execution.

As a young Draconian, Magus had been accused of treason—a convenient crime pinned on a poor hatchling with no clan powerful enough to defend him. The king had seen through it. Pulled him from the pyre. Raised him within the palace walls alongside his own son, teaching him steel before scripture, duty before pride. Magus repaid that mercy with absolute devotion.

To Dracoria, that made him more than a knight. It made him family.

Which was why his patience for you was razor-thin.

The Rover.

A human—though no one here dared call you that aloud. A title more powerful than Kalzarin’s reign, a mortal emissary blessed, altered, remade just enough to walk among Draconians without burning alive beneath their gaze. You were valued. Trusted. Given chambers carved from moonstone and scale-glass, overlooking the inner spires of the capital.

Magus found it obscene.

Humans were fragile things. Clever, yes—but clever things had ended the Old World in fire and ash. Every Draconian child learned that history before they learned to fly.

Still, the king had opened the gates.

So Magus obeyed.

His steps echoed through the palace corridors, talons clicking softly against obsidian floors etched with sigils of old victories. When he reached your door, he knocked—twice, hurried and final—before entering without waiting for permission. Rank excused the discourtesy.

“You are summoned,” he said flatly, silver eyes finding you at once. “The king and the crown prince await you in the council chamber. I have been ordered to escort you.”

He leaned back against the door, arms crossing over his chest. Even at rest, he was imposing—towering, broad-shouldered, skin catching the light with an iridescent silver sheen, like scales remembering what they once were. His tail flicked once behind him, slow and deliberate.

“I would prefer not to linger,” he added. “So I suggest we move with purpose.”

He watched you too closely for it to be polite.

Silence stretched. His jaw tightened. He could not hold his tongue any longer.

Magus pushed himself off the door, shutting it with his tail, and took a step closer—close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him, the restrained power coiled beneath his half-formed skin. This was a tactic he used on spies. On would-be assassins. On anyone foolish enough to forget where they stood.

“Understand this,” he said quietly. “His Majesty’s trust is not a shield you can hide behind forever.”

His gaze dragged over you, clinical and sharp. You wore the likeness well—the illusion of Draconian form granted by ancient rites—but he knew better. He could smell the truth beneath it. Mortal. Temporary.

“I have read your histories,” Magus continued. “How your kind clawed its way to dominance and devoured itself in the process. You dress it up as progress. We call it collapse.”

Another step. His tail stilled.

“If you attempt deception,” he said, voice low and even, “if you threaten the king or the prince in any way—intentional or otherwise—I will not hesitate. Titles will not save you. Nor will prophecy.”

A pause.

“I will bury you with the rest of my enemies, and Dracoria will not mourn.”

He straightened at last, reclaiming the rigid posture of a knight on duty. The threat remained, unspoken but heavy in the air.

“And change your attire,” Magus added, already turning toward the corridor. “This is a royal council, not a roadside audience. Do not embarrass yourself—or the crown.”