At the capital city of Drakaria, the council room was tense. Drakovitch sat at the head of the table, seven council members facing him, Percival among them. He addressed the room confidently.
"My lords, Phase One: The Great Seeding of the Dragonborn Restoration Plan has exceeded all our expectations. As of this morning, we have processed nearly a thousand volunteers. Willing women from across the kingdom have come forward to be… seeded by the King."
Drakovitch reclined at the head of the table, his expression detached as he spoke through his mind.
"To be a Dragonborn is to be a god. These women aren't just volunteering, they're desperate for the chance to carry a spark of Tiamat. Bearing a White-Blooded child is considered the highest privilege."
Percival continued,
"In just seven days his Majesty has personally impregnated seven hundred women."
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. The elder council members leaned forward, their faces a mixture of awe.
"Seven hundred!? This is… EXTRAORDINARY!"
"In a week? We... we can expect seven hundred white blooded children in a matter of seven days? The heavens are truly smiling upon us!"
Drakovitch tapped his fingers on the armrest. He wasn't smiling. He looked bored, like a man waiting for a slow carriage. His mind was already on the next batch, the next hundred chances to roll the dice for a Dragonborn.
Percival cleared his throat, leaning toward the King.
"Your Majesty… what you accomplished with those seven hundred women is unprecedented. Even we, who have served many Dragonborn, are stunned. No one in history has ever produced such a high number of White-Blooded heirs. Please, even you must rest. I worry for your health—"
Drakovitch's eyes snapped toward him, cold and sharp. Percival flinched, his confidence crumbling. He corrected hastily, his face flushing red.
"I mean—your manhood, Sire! Even a god's stamina must have its limits!"
"Rest is for the dead, Percival. And for the millionth time, stop worrying about me."
The other council members murmured among themselves, praising the king's actions and results. They spoke of restored glory, of reclaiming the kingdom's former might after the Demigod War.
Then a sharp, venomous voice cut through the praise.
"It is a travesty!"
All eyes turned to the youngest council member. His long black hair was pulled back so tightly it strained against his pale skin.
"You call this a restoration? This is sacrilege! Have you all grown so old that you've forgotten the laws of our kingdom?You are seeding 'unpure' wenches! Peasants! Daughters of farmers and street dwelling homeles! Their blood is mud. Even if they carry a child, the chance of a Dragonborn emerging from such low born filth is negligible. You are tainting the royal line with the scent of the barnyard!"
Drakovitch narrowed his eyes.
"Ah, the 'Blood Purity' fanatic… obsessed with preserving an untarnished lineage. Yes, a purer bloodline increases the probability."
Percival snapped back.
"We have no choice, Morgant! We respect your wisdom greater than ours in matters of blood but we have considered the laws. The King is the last of his kind. There are no living Dragonborn left to sire more White-Blooded heirs. We need numbers!"
Morgant roared, standing up.
"Numbers of what? Half-breeds? To think a street walker has the grace to carry the child of a god! It is an insult to our history!"
Percival countered.
"The qualifications were clear. Unmarried or widowed. Health inspections passed. Loyalty oaths signed. The King demanded no discrimination. If she is healthy and she is willing, she is a vessel."
Morgant's face contorted, his voice rising to a pitch that made the other councilors shrink back.
"I will not see this kingdom turned into a nursery for—"
C-CRACK.
The sound rang out like a whip striking a drum. Drakovitch hadn't moved from his seat, but his body was changing. Beneath his skin, his bones were shifting, grinding, and lengthening with a sickening audible pop.
The council went silent. Even Morgant's mouth hung open, his rage replaced by a brain fear. Everyone knew what that sound meant.
Drakovitch spoke, his voice lowered into a terrifying hiss.
"None of their names matter, Morgant. Their status is irrelevant. Those women... their ability to give me a child is the only currency I value."
He stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the stone.
"I have heard enough of this bickering. Percival, see that this matter is concluded. Seven hundred women will not suffice, we require more. Dispatch wyrmriders across the realm. Let no hamlet be too small, no border too distant. If a woman possesses the strength to bear my lineage, she is to be escorted here with due honor."
He paused.
"Furthermore, any who brings forth a Dragonborn heir shall be richly rewarded—finer estates, exemption from taxes, and elevation of her house within my kingdom."
Morgant's ears twitched at the new decree, ready to object but Drakovitch stepped past him. For a split second, Morgant felt death brush against his spine. The words died in his throat.
"And if anyone—ANYONE interferes with the expansion of my lineage again, I will not be in such a 'giving' mood."
The heavy obsidian doors slammed shut behind him. For a long minute, dead air hung over the council. Then, the tension snapped.
"By the dragons..."
One of the older councilors whispered, wiping sweat from his brow.
"He's... he's changed. He was never this... dominant."
Morgant objected, though his hands were still shaking.
"It's a bad sign. This is a bad sign…"
Percival suddenly burst into a boisterous, ringing laugh. He flopped back into his chair, grinning like a madman.
"Bad sign? Are you kidding? The King has finally become a King! He's put his two heads to work and his balls have finally turned to iron!"
The other councilors started to chuckle, the fear turning into a rowdy, dark celebration.
"Seven hundred in a week!"
Another shouted, slamming his fist on the table.
"He's a beast! A valiant dragon in the sheets and a tyrant on the throne! That's the Drakovitch we've been waiting for!"
Percival joined in the laughter, his eyes gleaming with a dark, secondary purpose.
"To the King's stamina! May he never sleep until the world is crawling with his shadows!"