"You are a fool," Nir-Ur said, no longer the kindly old man walking through his gardens but a twisted wretch.

"The only foolishness, Father, is letting our kingdom weaken." Raem raised his sword. "I have led armies and vanquished the desert tribes of Tiranor, the southern city-states who would rival our kingdom if left to grow, and the northern barbarians across the sea. I strengthened these walls, and I placed a bronze khopesh in the hand of every soldier in our kingdom. I did this for Eteer's glory—not to see the reptiles rise, to see this dawn of dragons undo my work. They would be the death of us all if they bred." He trembled with rage. "I will eradicate the curse."

Blood trickling down his chin, King Nir-Ur pointed at his son, and his eyes hardened with cold rage. "Then, my son, you are no longer my heir. Raem, I disavow you. I—"

Raem's bronze sword sliced into his father's chest, passing between ribs.

"And I will eradicate any who stand in my way," said Raem, tugging the blade back with a red curtain.

His father stared at him, eyes wide. Blood dripped from his mouth and down his chest. He tried to speak but only hoarse gasps left his mouth. The old king—frail, weak, his time done—fell.

"Raem," the old man managed to whisper, clutching his wound. "Your own son . . . your heir . . . Prince Sena has the gift."

Raem stared down at the dying man, and rage exploded through him. "Even with your last breath, you lie."

His father reached out and touched Raem's leg. Tears streamed down his creased cheeks. "Accept your son. You already lost a daughter. When you learn what Sena is . . . accept him. For our family. For—"

Raem swung his sword again.

The blade sank into the king's neck, and the old man spoke no more. Nir-Ur collapsed onto his back, fingers curled like talons, dead eyes gazing upon the birds he had loved.

"You were a traitor," Raem whispered, and suddenly a tremble seized him. "You were a lover of weredragons. You spoke heresy."

He looked down at his slain father. Raem had faced barbarian hordes in battle. He had slain dozens of men, maybe hundreds, and the scars of wars covered his body. He had never flinched from bloodshed before, but now he shook, and now his eyes burned, and now he felt very young—a humble boy in the courts of a rising kingdom, so afraid, so alone in a palace of shadows and echoes. A boy with a secret. A boy with a shame.

He turned away.

He all but fled the rooftop gardens.

He raced through his palace, bloody sword in hand, ignoring the startled looks of scribes, slaves, and guards.

I exiled my wife and firstborn child. I killed my father. I must see my two remaining children, the noble Sena, the beautiful Issari. His breath shook in his lungs. I must see the purity that remains.