Chapter Five – The Hunt Begins
1298 Words
The silence beneath the palace had a weight to it — thick, unspoken, crawling across the stone like old regrets.
Daghan didn’t look up when the door opened. He didn’t have to.
“I thought dragons didn’t sulk,” came Meydar’s voice, calm and dry.
Daghan exhaled slowly. The chains clinked as he shifted on the bench. “I’m not sulking. I’m thinking about who I’ll burn first.”
Meydar stepped into the cell, the torchlight catching in the seams of his ash-streaked robe. “The Council has agreed to release you. Under supervision.”
Daghan scoffed. “They want a leash.”
“No. They want a muzzle.”
A pause.
“And I’ve chosen one for you.”
The second door opened.
Heavy steps. Stone creaked.
The figure who entered had to duck to avoid the lintel. Broad-shouldered, towering, with muddy skin and a scar split clean across his forehead. His eyes, though — wide, honest, almost… childlike.
“This is Grön,” Meydar said. “Half-giant. Loyal. Not terribly quick, but terribly strong. You lose control again, he’s meant to stop you.”
Grön bowed — stiff, awkward, but sincere. “I serve.”
Daghan finally stood. The chains scraped the floor. He looked the creature up and down. “You’re my handler?”
“No,” Meydar said. “He’s your shadow.”
Grön didn’t flinch under Daghan’s gaze. “Shadow is good. I follow. I stop… when needed.”
Daghan studied him for another breath, then turned to Meydar. “I don’t need protection.”
“No,” Meydar said. “But the kingdom does.”
Silence hung between them like smoke.
Then Daghan lifted his hands. “Unchain me.”
Meydar gave a nod. The keys clicked.
Daghan stepped out from the dark, his movements slow, measured — as if reclaiming the rhythm of a body too long restrained.
“They can try to control me,” he muttered. “But they won’t choose the path I burn.”
He glanced at Grön. “Let’s hunt.”
…
The city of Veyrun pulsed like a wounded heart.
Stalls spilled over with rotting fruit and copper trinkets. Crowds moved like fog — slow, dense, unaware they were being watched.
Daghan stood at the edge of the market square, cloaked in the same black he wore when his brother died.
“She’s here,” he muttered.
Grön loomed beside him, eyes scanning the crowd without blinking.
“You smell her?” the half-giant asked, almost hopeful.
Daghan didn’t answer. He didn’t need scent. He had memory.
The way she moved — sharp, like a blade kept too long in the dark. The rhythm of her footfalls. The shadow she cast before she turned corners. And yes… maybe the scent too. Cinnamon and blood and defiance.
“There,” he said.
A flash of rust-colored cloth slipped behind the alley near the old tavern — a ghost with too much purpose to be accidental.
They moved.
Daghan pushed through the crowd, fast but measured. Grön followed, clearing space with the mere threat of his size. Daghan wasn’t alone this time; he brought clay guards as well.
Children scattered. Merchants cursed. Down the first alley, then left past the butcher’s gate, over crates still wet with morning ice.
Daghan shouted to his men, “Circle her!”
Aksanaa was faster.
She vaulted a fence. Spun over a cart. Kicked a bucket behind her just to make someone fall in their path.
But Daghan wasn’t losing. He was hunting.
They were everywhere; every alley, every street was blocked by the clay guards. This wasn’t the first time Aksanaa had run from them, but it was definitely the first time she had this kind of powerful hound behind her chase.
She ducked into a ruined bathhouse — columns cracked, roof half gone. He was two breaths behind her.
Then — he saw her. Half-shadow, half-light. Back to the wall. Chest heaving. Dagger in hand.
His dagger.
…
The ruined bathhouse groaned under the weight of time — pillars cracked, dust curling in shafts of gray light.
Aksanaa stood at the center, breath sharp, dagger raised. Her face was a smear of sweat, dirt, and blood, but her spine held like tempered steel.
Surrounding her, clay guards formed a perfect circle. Grön blocked one exit with a quiet massiveness that needed no words.
Then Daghan entered.
Not rushed. Not raging. Just… watching.
“You made quite a mess, little thief,” he said, his voice low and almost bored.
Aksanaa turned slightly, trying to understand who she was talking to. A nobleman for sure — a baron, maybe? Keeping her back from no one, she replied, “Better a thief than a tyrant.”
Daghan smiled. “You keep calling me names like you think it changes what I am.”
“And what are you?” Aksanaa asked, still curious.
He stepped inside the circle.
No one followed. “Your doom.”
A flicker of something passed through Aksanaa’s eyes — not fear. Calculation.
“So now you bring dogs to bark in your shadow? Last time, you were the one running from them.”
“Like I said last time — I didn’t need to be saved. Not now. Not then. They’re here to keep me from killing you too quickly,” he replied, pulling off his cloak. “And to witness what’s left when I’m done.”
She struck first. The blade sliced in a perfect arc. He dodged, countered.
She ducked low — tried to sweep his leg. He pivoted, caught her wrist mid-motion, spun her, slammed her back-first into a broken column.
She grunted but didn’t cry out. He pinned her — one arm across her throat, the other twisting her dagger hand behind her back.
Breath met breath.
Too close.
Aksanaa struggled, teeth clenched.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she hissed.
“You should be.”
Daghan leaned in — not for dominance, but something worse. Something he couldn’t name.
Her scent — rain-soaked ash, raw and feral, threaded with that damn cinnamon again — filled his lungs before he could stop it.
“What are you?” he whispered.
And without a second thought — just instinct — he dragged his tongue up the side of her neck, slow, deliberate, from collarbone to the soft skin behind her ear.
She gasped. Not from fear. From violation. From rage.
Daghan recoiled the moment it ended. Took a shaky breath. Then — tensed his jaw, spat on the ground beside her like purging venom from his mouth.
“Human…” he hissed. Disgusted.
But not with her. With himself.
Aksanaa didn’t see the war inside his eyes. She only saw what he showed her — cruelty. Disgust. Discrimination.
And she hated it.
She bent her knee up — hard and fast — straight into his groin.
He staggered back with a sharp exhale, fury crumpling into breathless pain.
She twisted free. The guards moved — but hesitated.
Daghan raised a solid hand. “No one touches her! She is mine…”
As the words left his mouth, something stirred in his chest — not fury, not pride. Something older. The same heat he felt when standing before his hoard.
Then — a c***k of smoke erupted in the center of the courtyard.
Through the swirling veil, a figure stepped forward — tall, silent, his cloak trailing like a second shadow. Only as the smoke shifted did a glimpse of one sharply pointed ear catch the light.
Saelwyn.
He grabbed Aksanaa’s arm. “Move.”
They disappeared into the smoke together.
Daghan doubled over, chest heaving — not just from pain. From something far more dangerous.
Something that only a dragon can feel.
- Writer
