Chapter 5 - The Birth Record
The following day, Antonius paid a visit to Ioanis Phokas, commander of the Nikēphoroi Knights.
Armed with a flimsy excuse and an abundance of royal authority, he successfully bullied his way into a leave of absence.
Ioanis made no effort to hide his displeasure, but once the crown prince invoked his prerogatives, refusal ceased to be an option.
The moment Antonius returned to the royal palace, he offered his father only the briefest of greetings before heading straight for the archives.
Naturally, Theodoros was dragged along.
Bundle after bundle of parchment vanished from the shelves.
Royal chronicles.
Genealogies.
Birth records.
Census rolls.
For days, Antonius searched.
At last, he reached a conclusion.
"...It's gone."
The words came out through clenched teeth.
Queen Irina's death was recorded.
That much remained.
But there was no mention of a second child.
No birth record.
No trace whatsoever.
Officially, the monster had never been born.
Antonius clicked his tongue.
"For all his wisdom, Father can be remarkably shortsighted."
Irritation seeped into his voice.
"Destroying records simply because they are inconvenient. That's a crime no less serious than forging state records."
Theodoros shrugged.
"It is hardly uncommon, Your Highness. There are such things as facts the world has no use for."
Antonius let out a dry laugh.
"Then the law is little more than decoration."
A faint smirk crossed his face.
"I'll keep that lesson in mind."
He sat at a desk and spread a fresh sheet of parchment before him.
Then he thrust a reed pen into Theodoros's hand.
"Write."
Theodoros blinked.
"...What would you like me to write, Your Highness?"
"A birth record."
Theodoros sighed.
Then, with the resignation of a man surrendering to an inevitable disaster, he set pen to parchment.
The date from five years earlier.
Mother: Queen Irina.
He paused.
"The child's name?"
For a moment, Antonius did not answer.
He remembered Mother's voice.
A name spoken only once.
Andronicus.
The name she had given him.
But not the name that belonged on this document.
"Andri."
One of Theodoros's eyebrows twitched.
He said nothing and wrote it down.
A moment later, his pen stopped again.
"The father's name?"
Antonius shrugged.
"Unknown."
"I suppose that would be the only answer."
Theodoros offered no objection.
The truth was that nobody knew.
Nobody knew how Queen Irina had conceived her second child.
Nor who the father had been.
Silence settled over the archive.
When the document was finished, Antonius took it and reviewed its contents.
Then he frowned.
"Still..."
Theodoros looked up.
"Excuse me, Your Highness?"
"Those scales."
The disgust in Antonius's voice was unmistakable.
"The tail as well."
He stared down at the parchment.
"What kind of creature could father such a child?"
Theodoros fell silent.
For several moments he seemed to weigh his words.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"Your Highness... are you familiar with the legend of the Dragon of Doom?"
Antonius scoffed.
"A bedtime story."
A century ago, according to legend, a terrible calamity had nearly reduced the continent to ashes.
Every child on the continent knew the tale.
Theodoros chose his next words carefully.
"The stories may be exaggerated, but the dragons themselves are real."
One of Antonius's eyebrows rose.
"What?"
"I have heard that at the southernmost edge of the continent lies a nation inhabited by a people covered entirely in scales and possessed of tails."
For the first time in several minutes, genuine surprise crossed Antonius's face.
"And?"
"They say every one of them can assume the form of a dragon."
A long silence followed.
Then Antonius folded his arms.
"You're telling me Mother was fooled by one of these dragons?"
"I’m afraid not, Your Highness."
Theodoros denied it immediately.
"I mean only that the child's physical traits match the descriptions associated with dragons."
Antonius tried to make sense of it.
A nation of scaled people.
Shapeshifting dragons.
The entire notion sounded absurd.
And yet Theodoros was not a man given to wild fantasies.
Which somehow made the story even more unsettling.
At length, Antonius settled on the only practical conclusion he could think of.
"Then we'll simply beat the truth out of them."
Theodoros slowly shook his head.
"Your Highness, there is no army on this continent capable of defeating dragons."
Antonius immediately bristled.
"You believe the armies of Imresia would lose?"
Theodoros remained perfectly serious.
"I believe every nation on the continent could unite beneath a single banner and still fail."
"Ridiculous."
"Especially against the Emperor."
Antonius paused.
That title was unfamiliar.
"The Emperor?"
"The ruler of the Dragon Realm."
Theodoros lowered his voice slightly.
"I have heard the current Dragon Emperor has lived for more than three centuries and commands thunderclouds and storms."
Silence filled the archive.
"There is no force in this world capable of standing against the dragons while such a being leads them."
For a long while, Antonius said nothing.
Truthfully, he found the entire thing difficult to believe.
An emperor who commanded storms.
A nation of dragon-shifters.
It sounded no more credible than a tavern tale.
Yet Theodoros was not joking.
That was what bothered him most.
In the end, no answers emerged.
Theodoros eventually broke the silence and glanced back down at the forged document.
"If this is to pass as an official record, it will require His Majesty's signature."
"Give me that."
Antonius held out his hand.
Theodoros surrendered the pen.
Without the slightest hesitation, Antonius signed King Alexios's name.
The result was flawless.
Even Theodoros stared for a moment.
Then he released a long sigh.
"I believe I have just become an accomplice to high treason."
"Nonsense."
Antonius handed the pen back.
"If unnecessary truths exist, then necessary lies must exist as well."
He flicked the parchment with a finger.
"Leave it somewhere no one will notice."
A sly smile spread across his face.
"Let time do the rest. Once it looks old enough, roll it up and slip it back onto the shelf."
Theodoros pressed a hand against his forehead.
The grin on Antonius's face was far too cunning for a fourteen-year-old boy.
Carefully, Theodoros rolled up the forged birth record and tucked it inside his coat.
Then the two of them left the archive.
By sunset, they had returned to the Nikēphoroi Knights as though nothing more significant than an ordinary day of leave had occurred.
