Dragon King's Harem Chapter 451. Trojan Horse

Dragon King's Harem Chapter 451. Trojan Horse

Outside the grand palace, in the moonlit yard paved with ancient ice tiles and enchanted stone, the drake known as Frosty sat still—unnervingly still.

No wings. Just thick limbs, armored hide, and eyes that looked half-asleep. Most of the guests passing through earlier had gawked or pointed. A drake wasn’t exactly a common sight in the Snow Elf capital. The late king usually kept it outside the capital.

But Frosty wasn’t a decoration.

He was a weapon.

And right now, his job was simple: wait.

Under the polished crescent moons above, his breath frosted in the cold air, slow and steady. Around him, the royal courtyard had emptied for the ceremony. Even the guards stationed by the outer gates had shifted their attention inward. Nothing about the drake looked urgent.

That was the point.

Then… it began.

The rune etched into the underside of his jaw shimmered—once, then cracked like thin glass under pressure. It pulsed, and the moment it did, a low gurgling sound rumbled from the drake’s throat.

Inside his mouth, from between rows of razor-sharp teeth, a glowing stone slowly rolled forward—runed and humming softly.

He opened his maw and gently spat it onto the frost-slick ground.

The moment the rune hit the surface, it cracked.

Light burst in a whisper—not a bang, not a flare, but a veil of smoke and shimmer that faded within seconds.

From that fading light… they emerged.

Fifty elite soldiers. Dragon tribe. Shadowborn.

Each of them clad in flexible dark armor—lightweight, rune-woven, and molded to move like a second skin. The kind that bent with motion and repelled detection magic. As they emerged, their helmets retracted with a soft hiss, revealing focused eyes and calm, unreadable faces. These weren’t ordinary troops. They were bred and trained for one thing: extraction and elimination.

No commands were given.

They didn’t need any.

They already knew the plan.

The unit split like smoke on wind. Twenty peeled off toward the northern wall—toward the prince’s quarters. Their mission was clear: get the boy out, unseen and unharmed.

The rest? Thirty shadows scattered across the palace perimeter and ceremonial sector, slipping into alcoves, scaling walls, weaving through blind spots and enchanted barriers like they’d rehearsed it a thousand times. They moved in silence, their weapons still sheathed but close—hidden under dark cloaks that shimmered faintly when they passed through magic detection zones, muting their presence entirely.

Each step they took brought them closer to their targets.

And every breath they exhaled tightened the noose around the duke’s men.

Inside the prince’s room, the young Kaelen was sitting near the window, legs tucked under himself, staring at the moons.

He wasn’t smiling.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he’d overheard whispers. Or maybe he just felt it, the same way animals did before a storm.

The rune hidden under his shirt still pulsed faintly—silent, cursed, buried in his chest like a time bomb. And he didn’t even know.

A faint creak by the window drew his eyes. But when he looked—there was no one.

Then he blinked.

Five cloaked figures appeared from the shadows like they’d always been part of the room. One by the balcony. Two near the wardrobe. One by the bed. And one standing just feet in front of Kaelen, hand raised gently.

The prince stiffened—but didn’t scream.

The soldier in front knelt and whispered, “Prince. We’re friends of your mother. You need to come with us now.”

Kaelen blinked, unsure. His eyes darted to the door, to the windows, then back to them. His small hands clenched slightly.

He wasn’t running.

But he wasn’t agreeing either.

Then the soldier by the bed raised a smooth, dark crystal—the same one Sela had given him earlier, disguised as a harmless gift. The boy’s eyes widened for a moment. Recognition.

Then suspicion.

“No,” he said softly, taking a step back. “I can’t leave. I… I don’t want to—”

The front soldier moved swiftly. With a flick of his wrist, he uncorked a vial no bigger than a thumbnail. A faint mist hissed out—colorless, scentless, laced with dreamleaf and sleeping dust. The prince gasped once, eyes fluttering.

Then his knees buckled.

A soldier caught him mid-fall, gentle and quick. Kaelen’s body relaxed in his arms, breathing slow and steady—already under.

One of the others nodded silently, then moved to the far wall and pressed against a carved panel. A rune clicked. The stone shifted aside, revealing an old tunnel—narrow, steep, and long-forgotten.

They didn’t run.

They vanished.

Moments later, the prince’s room stood empty.

The pillow on the bed still held the shape of his head.

And no one noticed.

In the meantime, the other five soldiers had already infiltrated the ceremonial ring’s outer defense. These weren’t ordinary guards lounging in polished armor for show—these were hand-picked fighters loyal to the duke. The kind that didn't flinch when given orders to kill quietly.

Too bad for them, they were facing ghosts.

The first elf never saw the blade. He stood near the western colonnade, eyes scanning the hall. A shadow passed. Then a flicker. Then nothing. He dropped without sound. A dagger between the ribs, yanked free before the blood even touched the floor.

Second one made the mistake of yawning behind a pillar.

His body slumped seconds later, already unconscious before his knees hit the ground.

Third and fourth? Corner sentries. A flash of glinting thread wrapped their necks together and yanked them into darkness. A soft crunch of bone, and then—stillness.

Each time, the soldiers moved with practiced steps, mana suppressed, footsteps muted by runes etched into the soles of their boots. Even the scent of blood faded under their enchantments.

In less than six minutes, twelve guards had been silently disabled. Not a cry. Not a scuffle. Just a shifting of the wind and the lightest scent of iron lingering in the corners.

No commotion. No panic.

Just... absence.

Inside the ceremonial hall, everything was still in motion.

The music continued.

The bride had just entered.

Duke Curtis was standing tall, his expression carved from cold marble. The guests watched in breathless awe.

And sitting in the front row it all, the Dragon King, me, leaned slightly in my seat. One eye scanning. One hand resting near my belt.

I said nothing.

But my lips curled just slightly at the corner.

Step one: complete.

The prince was safe.

And step two?

Was about to begin.