The Dragon King's Prophecy

Eight-year-old Prince Ikkar walked beside his father, his small hand clasped in the massive, calloused one of Dragon King Alaric. Despite the grandeur of the palace—the towering arches, the gilded ceilings, and the silent ranks of ancestors immortalized in stone—Ikkar’s attention was fixed firmly on the here and now.

Ikkar pulled gently on his father’s hand, slowing their pace before a colossal obsidian statue of a grim, middle-aged king.

“Papa,” Ikkar said, looking up at his father’s strong face, “will I be the Dragon King someday?”

Alaric paused, the movement of his flowing dark robes hushed by the marble floor. “Yes, my son. That is the way of it. When the gods call me home and I die, the Crown and the Throne will pass to you. And you shall be King.”

Ikkar’s bright eyes, so like his mother’s, clouded with immediate distress. He wrinkled his nose in genuine confusion. “Then I don’t want it. I don’t want to be King.”

Alaric suppressed a smile, kneeling slightly so his gaze was level with his son’s. “What is it you don’t want?”

“I don’t want you to die,” Ikkar stated plainly, the logic unassailable in his childish mind. “If I can only be King when you die, then I wish to never be King!”

A familiar wave of tenderness washed over Alaric. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Ikkar’s forehead. “Every man dies, my son. It is the law of the world, no matter how strongly he reigns.”

“Even you?”

“Even me,” Alaric confirmed, his voice soft but firm.

Ikkar fell silent, contemplating this devastating truth. After a moment, a new, earnest thought brightened his expression. “I wish I could be King before you die, then! So you can see me wearing your crown. You could also help me with the things I don’t know about being king...”

Alaric laughed, a deep, warm sound that filled the cavernous hall. “I’m sure I’ll live long enough to teach you many, many things before the day I die. And wherever I am, know that I will always be watching over you, Ikkar. Don’t worry.”

The boy nodded, somewhat mollified. He began to trace the engraved name on the plinth of the statue they stood beside, his mind already shifting to a new, deeper question of lineage.

“Papa, if your father—my grandfather—was the Dragon King, and his father before him was also the Dragon King, and his father before him…” Ikkar began, looking around at the silent rows of ancestors, “who was the very first Dragon King?”

The question was so sudden, so perfectly placed in the historical silence of the Hall, that it gave Alaric pause. He stood, gazing down the long line of sculpted monarchs, thinking of a history more myth than record.

“That is an interesting question,” Alaric murmured. “We don’t actually know his name. He was born over one thousand years ago.”

“Where?”

“Here, actually. Not in this castle, it didn’t exist back then. Somewhere around here. All of this land, from here to Dragonspire, until the southern lands and halfway through Allendor, all of this was once called the Land of Askaris,” Alaric explained, pointing vaguely at the floor beneath their feet. “All we know about the first Dragon King nowadays is that he came from one of the many Askari tribes. They called him The Alirak.”

Ikkar’s eyes widened, a flicker of comprehension catching the vastness of the name. “The Alirak? Sounds like… Alaric?”

“Perhaps,” Alaric conceded, feeling a pull of pride. “It’s very likely my name derives from his title. It’s an ancient Askari word, and it means Warrior King.”

“And that’s what you are,” Ikkar finished with absolute certainty.

Alaric smiled, letting the innocent stroke of his ego warm him. “That’s right. Now, did you know that your name is also Askari?”

“Really?”

“Yes. Your name, in the ancient tongue, means ‘strong.’ It can even mean ‘the strongest.’”

Ikkar looked at his father with eyes suddenly bright with ambition. “Will I be the strongest Dragon King of all?”

“I hope so,” Alaric said, trying to contain his amusement.

“Stronger than you?”

Alaric gave a deep, rich laugh. “Maybe. But you have a long way until then, young boy. You must have patience.”

“Right! I’ll have all the patience,” Ikkar declared, standing taller. “What do I have to do to grow strong like you, Papa?”

Alaric looked at him, his demeanor instantly serious. “You must practice with your sword every day. You must listen to your tutors. And right now, you must go wash yourself and be ready for dinner in time so you don’t upset your mother.”

Ikkar frowned. “If I upset Mama, I won’t grow strong?”

“Absolutely not,” Alaric replied, trying to hold his stern expression. “In fact, I’ll tell you a secret: if I, the Dragon King himself, upsets the Queen, I get very weak. You must never tell anyone about this.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” Ikkar nodded decisively. “I’ll get ready for dinner.”

He stormed off down the long hall, a small blur of furious purpose. But halfway down, he stopped, turned back to his father, and yelled the question that completed his logic.

“Wait! You said the first Dragon King was an Askari man.”

Alaric called back, “Yes!”

“And… Ikkar is an Askari name.”

“Correct!”

Ikkar’s small face broke into a victorious, eight-year-old grin.

“Maybe the first Dragon King’s name was Ikkar!”