Five years. Five years I have spent carving order from the chaos my predecessor left behind, teaching the lords of Drakmoor that defiance means death. The streets of Stonehaven no longer echo with rebellious whispers—they whisper only prayers for mercy I rarely grant. My throne room bears the bloodstains of those who thought themselves my equals. They learned otherwise.

The Soul Binding Ceremony. Ancient law demands it, and I have delayed long enough. Every ruler must bond with their destined guardian, and the nobles grow restless with questions I will not answer. What creature will emerge for the Iron King? A shadow dragon, perhaps, or something with claws sharp enough to match my reputation. The Crimson Hand rebels watch from the shadows, hoping for weakness. Foreign ambassadors lean forward in their seats, eager to witness either my triumph or my humiliation.

The Hall of Whispering Stones stretches before me, its obsidian walls carved with the names of kings long dead. Hundreds of eyes follow my approach to the binding circle. The ritual flames dance higher as I speak the ancient words, feeling the magic pull at something deep within my chest. The smoke rises, thick and choking, then begins to clear.

I expect fangs. I expect fury. I expect power.

Instead, a woman steps from the dissipating mist.

The hall falls silent save for the sharp intake of breath from a hundred throats. She stands there, trembling like a leaf in winter wind, her wide eyes darting across the assembled crowd before finding mine. No claws. No scales. No magic crackling around her form. Just flesh and fear and confusion.

"Clearly, there has been some mistake." My voice cuts through the silence like a blade through silk. I turn toward the High Mage, my tone brooking no argument. "Summon the attendants. We will perform the ritual again."

The woman doesn't move from the circle, rooted by terror or stupidity—I care not which. Her presence is an insult, a cosmic jest at my expense. I have torn kingdoms from lesser men, brought armies to their knees with a word, and the spirits send me this?

I turn my gaze upon her directly, letting a flicker of mild annoyance cross my features. "You. Whatever you are." I snapped my fingers. "Step aside. You're blocking the ceremonial circle." The crowd shifted, a wave of uncertain whispers. One of my advisors began to approach, no doubt to prattle about ancient strictures. I silenced him with a look. "I said step aside." My voice hardened, carrying the full weight of my command. "I will not be bound to some... mewling whelp when dragons and dire wolves walk this earth."