"I'm sorry, Mister… The tests are conclusive. Your wife… she is not infertile. You are. I am very sorry this happened to you."
Even in his new life, Drakovitch could still hear the doctor's voice echoing in his ears. A truth he had tried to bury by pouring his self loathing onto his poor wife, Maddy.
He had beaten her, convincing her she was the one who had failed. He had tried everything, seeking other women to bear his seed, hoping the doctor had been wrong. Each failure only made things worse for Maddy.
When she discovered his betrayal, his cheating, she snapped one night, driving a scalpel into his chest and carving a curse that would follow him even through the gates of death.
"You do not know the feeling… the feeling of F*CKING hundreds of women only to leave every one of them with no child."
His pain was raw in his words, but his tone shifted.
"But now… I have hundreds in my hands."
Drakovitch stood atop a high platform, a white blooded infant cradled in his pale hands. With a swift motion, he thrust the child toward the throngs below. His people cheering wildly for the spectacle of his Great Harvest.
"The Great Harvest!"
The crowd erupted in praise. Voices shouted in unison:
"All hail the king!"
"Long live Drakovitch!"
"Blessed be the Dragonborn!"
"May his bloodline rule forever!"
The air trembled with their fervor, their cries swelling like a storm, feeding the dark pride in his heart. Yet as he looked into the infant's face, something inside him finally broke. A single tear traced down his cheek.
"Finally… finally, a child of my own."
Percival, standing at his side, also wept.
"I understand, Sire! I understand! To see the future of our race in your arms… after all you have sacrificed! To bed a hundred women, to let your own health wither under the weight of that cursed scar… you are the true hero of the Dragonborn!"
Seven days had passed, and the kingdom's capital had never been livelier. The entire nation seemed to have gathered in the city to witness the birth of seven hundred white-blooded infants.
Drums, horns, and every imaginable musical instrument echoed through the streets. Even atop the mountain where Tiamat nested, the sounds of celebration carried through the air.
Drakovitch handed the baby towards Percieval. He look down across his people, nobles, normal, poor were all gathered. He adresses them with vigorous.
"Long ago, white blooded humans were seen as the lowest form of life. Their growth was unlike any other: while a normal human carries a child for nine months, a white blooded child could emerge in a mere one week. Their life cycles were so swift that ordinary humans regarded them as tools, slaves to be used and discarded. They were beaten, killed, and defined by the color of their skin, stripped of status, stripped of dignity."
The citizens grew sentimental, their faces heavy with guilt and sorrow as they listened to Drakovitch's words. They felt the weight of history and injustice, sensing the pain he had carried in his past life—how he had been overlooked, scorned, and despised by coworkers, family, and friends simply because he could not have a child.
"But a miracle came. One white-blooded slave accidentally drank Tiamat's blood meant for his master and in an instant, he became the first Dragonborn. From that moment, white-blooded humans ascended to godhood and became your saviors—a hybrid bearing the strength of a primordial dragon."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd.
"Now, a new chapter begins: the Great Seeding. Seven hundred women answered the call of the gods and bore white-blooded children. And today… the Great Harvest. The Dragon has granted us seven hundred healthy white blooded infants—your future… your HEROES!"
The citizens wiped their tears as they shouted, cheering wildly, waving miniature flags adorned with the eleven-headed dragon.
Drakovitch felt every cheer, every call of his name. A king with seven hundred heirs but to him, that number was still far too small. The crowd fell silent as he spread his arms wide.
"I, your king, Drakovitch Drakarian, shall flood this kingdom with thousands more white-blooded infants. To all who can bear life, widowed or unmarried—the royal doors stand open. We shall raise a generation of Dragonborn unlike anything this kingdom has ever known!"
The applause was deafening. Married women in the crowd sighed with regret.
"I wish I were single again…"
"To carry a god? I'd give anything."
As Drakovitch exited the platform, Percival stepped forward.
"Remember! Registration is to the left! Only three children per woman—so make sure each birth produces a healthy, strong baby worthy of becoming a Dragonborn! Only unmarried, widowed, and healthy women are eligible!"
A frenzy broke out.
"Move! I was here first!"
A woman from a far village shouted, elbowing her way to the desk.
"My family needs this nobility! I'll bear the strongest one yet!"
In a grand hall nearby, the first seven hundred mothers were being treated like royalty. They sat at long tables laden with roasted meats and sweet fruits, wearing clean linens provided by the palace.
One woman whispered, stroking her sleeve.
"I can't believe this silk and the food... I've never eaten until I was full before."
"I'm betting my boy is the one."
Another said, breastfeeding her silver haired infant.
"He's already twice the size of yours. We'll have that manor in the upper district by next month."
But at the far end of the table, a woman slammed her cup down, bread still in her mouth, and shouted at a passing servant.
"Why can't we go home? We've been here for two weeks! I popped out a healthy white-blooded baby for you—that should be enough! I don't care how fancy the food is here, I want to go home and drink my fill of ALE! We're not prisoners, so stop treating us like we are!"
The servant stopped, bowing low.
"The decree was clear, mistress. For the health of the child and the safety of the bloodline, you must remain under royal care until the first rite."
"I have pigs at home! I have a life! And what if this baby isn't a Dragonborn? What if Tiamat burns him to ash because he's a bastard? I've wasted my time for nothing!"
A murmur of fear rippled through the room.
"She's right… They say the half bloods usually die in the fire."
Suddenly, a beautiful young mother at the center of the table looked up, her expression calm as she adjusted her baby.
"The King was a half breed."
She said firmly. The room went dead silent. Her eyes shining with hope as she continued.
"He was a bastard slave. And look at him now. He is the strongest, most handsome Dragonborn to ever live. If he could do it, why can't our sons?"
The mothers looked at their white haired children, the fear in the room vanishing, replaced by a fierce, desperate pride.