Chapter 9 – Chains and Smoke
1725 Words
Scene 1 – The Council’s Decision
News of the burning had reached the palace before the ash had even settled.
Six members of the council sat in a half circle, shadows cast long by the flickering light of the braziers. At the center, Consul Vaerum stood with hands clasped, eyes gleaming like a blade just drawn.
The council chamber simmered with restrained fire — not of dragons, but of men too long seated in power. Shadows curled along the high stone walls, flickering with the low hiss of braziers. Ulven Dar’s throne was sitting empty, now cold with silence.
"He did it in broad daylight," Elira, the youngest among them, voice measured. "No regard for witnesses. No concern for balance. He scorched the land not to defend the realm, but to feed his obsession."
An elder councilor Therund cleared his throat, voice gruff and thick as old iron. "It was just a patch of forest—"
Elira frowned,
“He set the forest ablaze in broad daylight. No concern for who saw. No discipline. Just hunger.” She continued…
“That forest bordered farms,” she said, her voice sharper than her years. “Reports say children were injured. Homes damaged. The people are afraid.”
Therund scoffed. “A frightened child is better than a hidden army. Those forests keeping rebels and their associates. Fear reminds the realm who rules its skies.”
A pause followed. Then a cough — not of illness, but of warning.
Meydar stepped forward from the far edge of the room, his cloak stirring with the movement of old authority. His gaze, once mild, held steel now.
“No one wishes to see the prince of these lands frighten his own people,” Meydar said, calm but deliberate. “But Daghan is young — and powerful. Mistakes will come. That is how leaders learn. From their errors.
Not by having us stand beside them… but by standing firm and letting him learn.”
Another councilor turned, lip curling. “You defend him still? After this?”
“I defend what he was meant to be,” Meydar replied. “Not what grief is trying to make him.”
A tense silence fell.
Then Vaerum rose.
He hadn’t spoken yet, but the weight of his stillness had governed the room from the start. Now, as he stepped forward, his voice carried not loudness — but finality.
“Daghan is Ulven Dar’s son,” Vaerum said. “And that blood once ruled not with justice — but with fire.”
He glanced toward the sealed windows, where the distant light of dawn tried to pierce the gloom.
“We’ve waited. We’ve warned. Now he burns forests to chase shadows. This is no longer about mourning.”
“What do you have in mind?” Councilor Therund asked.
“Binding…”
Whole chamber held their breath.
“B…but it is forbidden to bind a dragon. Especially by one other dragon. It is one of the biggest offences a dragon can do.” Meydar objected in horror.
Elira’s voice came again, gentler now. “There must be another way.”
Vaerum turned his gaze to her — not unkind, but unyielding.
“We are not happy to do it to our own kind. To our prince. But if we delay,” he said, “the next blaze may reach the gates of Veyrun. And there will be no forests left to hold it back.”
The chamber was still again. A moment of silence passed — weighted and brittle.
Meydar stood slowly from the shadows. His voice was calm, but laced with warning. "Daghan is not a mad beast. He is Ulven Dar’s son. And the last heir of the blue flame."
"Exactly," Vaerum replied. "And that blood now runs without discipline. If he truly becomes his father’s echo — we will not survive it."
"There must be another way," Meydar said. "Talk to him. Guide him."
"We’ve tried patience. Now we try control."
A younger councilor, until then silent, finally spoke. "If we do this... there is no going back."
Vaerum's voice dropped to a whisper. "There is no forward without it."
He raised his hand.
“Summon the Magisters. The binding must be performed before dawn.”
Scene 2 – The Binding Night
The moon hung low, veiled in thin clouds like a pale eye watching through smoke.
Daghan slept, muscles still twitching from the hunt. Sweat beaded at his brow. His dreams were fevered — fire and laughter, a girl with rust-red cloth, always slipping beyond reach.
Grön sat at the door, legs crossed, humming softly to himself. He carved tiny runes into a flat stone — not real magic, but something to pass the time.
The wind shifted.
Then — a breeze, too cold for summer.
A flicker of runes ignited across the threshold.
The first Magister stepped into the chamber. Cloaked in grey, faceless beneath a mask of ivory. Three more followed.
Grön blinked. "Who are you? This is the prince’s room."
No answer.
He stood up slowly, towering.
"I said—"
A dart hit his shoulder. He winced, tore it out, staggered.
"No," he growled. "You don’t touch him."
He surged forward — like a mountain rising — but the Magisters raised their hands in unison. Glyphs burst into the air like shards of light.
Chains like liquid mercury erupted from the floor — smooth, silent, and cold. They slithered around Grön's arms and legs like serpents made of magic. He roared — not in pain, but fury — and thrashed until the final sigil landed. Then he collapsed, breathing heavy, eyes still open. He wasn’t asleep. Just... bound.
Inside the room, a second circle flared to life beneath Daghan.
Chains slithered forward — not mere metal, but flowing like liquid mercury, woven from moonlight and language. They wrapped around his wrists, ankles, chest, and neck — every anchor point of transformation.
Daghan gasped.
His eyes shot open — white with fire.
But he couldn’t move.
The chains tightened.
He growled, a sound too deep for human throats. His skin shimmered, scales threatening to surface —
And then the binding mark struck.
A sigil — ancient and cruel — seared itself across his collarbone and down his chest. Light dug into flesh. His body arched with pain.
He tried to roar.
Nothing came.
His dragon heart recoiled. Cut off.
One Magister stepped closer, whispering a final word in Old Draconic. The spell cracked through his bones like ice splitting stone.
Daghan screamed — the sound strangled, guttural.
Not in pain.
In loss.
The fire within him flickered... then died.
Smoke curled from his lips.
And then — stillness.
The Magisters vanished into the dark like mist retreating from sun.
Grön, still pinned, groaned through clenched teeth:
"I should’ve stopped them... should’ve been faster."
But he was awake now. And he knew:
They stole my fire.
Scene 3 – The Cold Forge
Far from the palace, in the dim-lit heart of a stone-walled forge, a flame died without warning.
Runi blinked, hammer raised mid-swing.
The forge’s heart — once roaring with heat — had fallen silent.
Not cooled.
Not dimmed.
Extinguished.
She stepped back slowly, eyes narrowing.
Behind her, tools hummed with unsettled energy. Runes etched into the anvil cracked at the corners.
Aksanaa, sitting nearby and binding leather around a dagger hilt, looked up. “Runi?”
Runi didn’t answer. She walked toward the central brazier and touched the rim.
Cold.
She wiped her hands on her apron, voice lower than usual.
“Something’s wrong. Something old. Something I haven’t felt since…”
She didn’t finish.
The silence in the forge was not natural. It throbbed — like a scream held just beneath the stone.
Aksanaa stood now, uneasy. “Is it the council?”
“No,” Runi said flatly. “Worse.”
Her eyes went to the forge’s ancient crest — a dragon’s eye encircled by chains.
She touched it gently.
Her eyes met Saelwyn’s across the forge.
He finished the thought for her.
“A dragon has been bound.”
Scene 4 – The Seventh Flame
The forge was dimmer now, the silence heavier.
Aksanaa sat across from Runi, the faint heat between them barely holding back the chill. Saelwyn stood nearby, arms crossed, leaning against the stone wall like a shadow that refused to leave.
“What does that mean?” Aksanaa asked. “To bind a dragon?”
Runi looked toward the forge’s dead heart.
"It means silencing something that was never meant to be silenced," she said. "Not just the body — the flame, the will, the legacy."
She reached for a charred iron rod, drawing shapes in the ashes between them.
“Binding a dragon is old magic. Forbidden. And nearly impossible to break.”
Aksanaa leaned in. "But not entirely?"
Runi gave a grim smile. “There is a way. But it’s not a spell. It’s a path.”
She tapped the ashes.
“There are seven gates — ancient thresholds once made to hold and release the primal forces. Fire among them. They called them the Seven Gates."
“Seven?” Aksanaa echoed.
“One is buried beneath the volcanic cliffs of Ardrel’s Maw. Another drowned in the Lost City. One hidden in the forest of Nyvanor’s Veil. And one…”
She paused.
“…was sealed long ago. A pool of raw passage. We used to call it Garrad Dum.”
Aksanaa stiffened.
Her voice came out quieter than she meant. “You mean like… The one where I came through?”
For a moment, the forge was completely still.
Saelwyn didn’t move, but something in his eyes shifted — recognition, calculation, and beneath it all, a flicker of concern.
Runi remained silent, watching the exchange with furrowed brows. Her hand had stopped drawing in the ash.
Aksanaa glanced from one to the other.
She felt the weight of their silence pressing down like the cooling forge.
“What do you think this means?” she asked quietly.
Runi’s jaw tightened. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Saelwyn, after a pause, added, “Don’t think too much, Aksanaa. Sometimes a gate is just a gate.”
But neither of them met her eyes.
And in the quiet that followed, the embers truly felt cold.
- Writer
