Lux rode in silence, a stillness that was not calm, but profound. The carriage, a heavy box of polished wood and worn leather, creaked and swayed with every rut in the road. Across from her, the tax collector, Thomas, sat rigidly, flanked by two armed guards. The air inside the confined space was thick, not with the dust of the road or the oppressive heat of the day, but with a palpable tension. It clung to the skin like an unseen film, heavy on the breath, a pressure that promised to snap. You could almost feel its sharp edge, as though it could be cut with a knife—and the unspoken truth was, someone probably would, if the fragile illusion of control shattered.
Thomas coughed, a dry, awkward sound in the oppressive quiet, clearing his throat in a clumsy attempt to spark conversation.
No reply came. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment from Lux, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the carriage wall.
He visibly wilted slightly in his seat, the subtle slump of his shoulders betraying a flicker of apprehension. Yet, the thought of the glittering gold reward, the Duke's lavish promises for information about the missing young dragon, kept his spirits buoyed. Whispers in the taverns had solidified into firm directives, solidifying promises from the Duke's own mouth. Enough coin to set a man up for life, to ensure generations of comfort. And prestige too—imagine being the one, the fortunate soul, who delivered a living dragon, a creature of legend, into the cold, demanding lap of the court?
Thomas and his guards weren't idiots. They held suspicions, sharp and persistent as thorns. And those suspicions, born of her unnerving composure, kept them meticulously polite, excessively cautious, and unnervingly quiet. Lux didn't overtly act dangerous—no snarling, no thrashing. But she didn't act normal, either. Her stillness was the quiet of a coiled spring.
She spoke only when absolutely necessary, her voice a low, almost reluctant murmur. She ate when meager food was offered, her movements economical, devoid of enthusiasm. She slept when allowed, closing her eyes without protest or complaint. There was no warmth in her demeanor, no childlike vulnerability. Just… watching. A profound, unsettling observation that seemed to pierce through their pretense.
They camped at measured intervals on the long journey back, the nights cold and damp. The remote village where she'd stayed was a significant distance from the Baron's sprawling castle, and the road stretched, long and arduous. Too long for mistakes, too many opportunities for an unexpected turn.
On the final night before their arrival, nerves were strung taut, stretched to their breaking point. One wrong word, one unguarded glance, might shatter the carefully maintained illusion. If she was truly the dragon girl, if the whispers held any truth, there were no shackles, no cages strong enough to hold her if she chose to act. If she decided to unleash the rumored power that simmered beneath her silent exterior.
But Lux said nothing. Just stared into the flickering amber heart of the campfire, her blood-red eyes reflecting the dancing flames, as if the inferno held the answers she sought, or perhaps, the secrets she guarded.
By morning, the air was crisp, tasting of distant woodsmoke, as they reached the towering, ornate gates of the Baron's sprawling estate.
More soldiers had gathered here, their numbers forming a formidable display. Their swords were polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the rising sun in blinding flashes of coldsilver. Their armor, burnished and gleaming, seemed to hum with contained power. No one spoke it aloud, but every subtle glance, every stiff movement, every hushed whisper among the guards conveyed the same truth: She wasn't merely another prisoner. She was a prize. A catch beyond measure.
"With us, miss," said one of the guards, likely the captain, his voice a low, respectful tone that surprised Lux. He didn't bark it like an order, didn't demand obedience. He said it like a man offering a queen a deferential hand down from her throne, a gesture steeped in uneasy reverence.
She was escorted—no, she was paraded—into the massive stone manor, its halls echoing with their footsteps, and led to a room. It was not a dungeon, not quite. The air was dry, not damp with the stench of stone and despair. It had plush cushions on a window seat, a clean, gleaming basin for washing, and even a small, unlit hearth. Yet, guards, their faces impassive, were posted at every carved wooden exit, their presence a silent, undeniable assertion of control.
A gilded cage, Lux thought, the phrase echoing with bitter irony. Fit for a royal with too many enemies, or a beast deemed too valuable to simply imprison.
Meanwhile, Thomas, the tax collector, made haste, his heart thrumming with a mixture of fear and triumph, directly to the Baron's private study within the mansion.
Baron Paul Andrell, the calculating ruler of this strategic land, was a lean man in his late forties, with distinguished streaks of grey crawling through his neatly oiled black hair. His merchant roots, though obscured by layers of noble trappings, had clearly not been forgotten—he still moved with the subtle, assessing grace of a shrewd trader sniffing out the best deal in a crowded bazaar, his eyes constantly weighing unseen values.
He listened to Thomas' breathless report, a torrent of hurried words and nervous gestures, with the unperturbed calm of a man meticulously examining his newly acquired goods. After all, to men like the Baron, everything was goods—people, whispers, rumors, and especially, creatures of legend. All had a price, a use.
"Promising," he said after a long, assessing pause, his voice low and smooth as polished stone. "Very promising indeed. Good work, Matthew."
"Thomas, your Grace," the man corrected, a nervous tremor in his voice.
"Mm. Of course." The Baron waved a dismissive hand, his gaze already shifting, the name of the deliverer less important than the delivery itself.
The Baron turned to his impeccably dressed butler, a ghost-like figure who moved with silent efficiency, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. In his eyes, a distinct glint of anticipatorygold shimmered.
"Let's see," he murmured, his voice a chilling blend of avarice and patience, "how much milk we can extract from this particular cow before we hand her over for the slaughter." He paused, then added, almost to himself, "They'll want the meat and hide, no doubt. So a few buckets won't be missed in the interim."
Back in the gilded holding room, Lux sat utterly stone still on a plush cushion, her back straight, as the first round of questioning began.
Three men entered: one with a soft, almost sympathetic voice; one with a perpetually smiling, unsettling demeanor; and one utterly silent, his eyes watchful and unblinking.
They asked about her past, picking at the edges of her fabricated story. Her name. Her parents. Her reason for being in the village. Why she didn't show up on any census. Why she didn't blink, didn't flinch, didn't even show a flicker of recognition or fear when they subtly, casually, mentioned dragons, mentioning them almost as an aside.
Lux gave the answers they wanted. Mostly. Enough to satisfy, enough to maintain her carefully constructed disguise.
But when the smiling man leaned in closer, his face uncomfortably near, his eyes attempting to bore into her own, and asked, with a chilling softness, "Do you believe in dragons, little girl?"—
She looked up for the first time, her blood-red eyes, previously downcast, now meeting his gaze directly.
And she smiled back.
Not kindly.
Not sweetly.
But like someone humouring a very young, very foolish child before they finally, inevitably, bared their fangs. A cold, ancient, utterly terrifying promise of retribution.