Chapter Four – The Hunt Begins
963 Words
The palace gates rose like stone fangs against the dying light.
Daghan didn’t flinch. He stormed through, steps heavy with fury he refused to name.
Who was she?
That tiny girl—how could she fight like that?
And that scent... Not an elf, not a dwarf, not a hippogriff. Something unfamiliar. Almost... sweet.
Cinnamon.
Daghan shook his head sharply.
A creature like that didn’t deserve more than two seconds of his thought.
"I should have killed her where she stood," he muttered. "She’s already cost me more than she’s worth."
He had no idea what she had cost, yet.
…
The palace interior loomed around him — high arches clawing at ceilings painted in fading constellations,
The walls were covered with silk banners bearing dragon crests in tarnished gold thread. The floor, a chessboard of obsidian and moonstone, echoed his steps with reluctant reverence.
Between marble columns, silver-armored guards stiffened at his approach, some bowing, others pretending not to look.
He passed through the throne hall, it was smelling faintly of oil and parchment — old magic, old rules.
Meydar met him at the foot of the northern stairs, eyes narrowing beneath heavy lids. His voice low, probing.
“You’re late,” the steward said. “And you smell like shit.”
Daghan brushed past him. “Don’t start.”
"There’s a reason you came back wearing fury like a second skin. Shall I guess, or will you speak?"
Daghan didn’t stop walking. His eyes narrowed.
"An old man like you should be careful where his curiosity leads. One day, it might take you somewhere you won’t return from."
Meydar matched his pace now, quieter.
"There’s a calculation behind your silence. So I’ll ask again — what truth are you hiding in that flame?"
"When I know how to wield it, I’ll decide who gets to hear it," Daghan replied without looking back.
“You disappeared without notice. The council is already whispering.”
Daghan ignored him, reaching into his cloak, hand closing around—
Nothing.
His breath hitched.
He reached again.
Still nothing.
The world stilled. Air drained from his lungs.
She didn’t—
“She dared...” he whispered.
“What?” Meydar asked, stepping forward.
Daghan turned — eyes aflame, voice breaking.
“She dared—she dared to steal from a dragon!”
---
The first shockwave tore through the hallway like thunder wrapped in rage.
Flames erupted from his back. His body cracked, shifted, expanded. Bones broke and rebuilt. Flesh burned into scale.
Wings burst free with a deafening shriek. His scream became a roar — not human, not even beast. Something worse.
The windows shattered. Statues collapsed. Pillars crumbled.
---
The northern wing exploded under the force of his turn.
Debris rained down like ash.
Flames rolled up the walls.
A servant trying to run was crushed beneath falling stone.
A guard was flung from the balcony like a toy.
---
Meydar shifted fast, his old form snapping into something smaller compared to Daghan’s dragon form — a gray-scaled dragon, but still a dragon.
“Contain him!” he roared. “Now!”
Guards in silver armor transformed mid-run — wings, talons, beaks. Hippogriffs dove through the chaos, chains glowing with runes.
But none of it mattered.
Daghan burned.
He burned and broke and lashed out at everything — and everyone.
---
Until —
“The prince has lost control again! Call for reinforcements!”
The words sliced through the noise.
Again.
Again.
Daghan froze.
Amidst the ash and ruin, amidst the screams and chains, he heard what they really meant.
He saw the bodies. The fire. The fear.
You promised control. You swore you’d be more than this.
He had rules. Standards. A vision.
To be a king this world deserved — not like his father, but better. Fairer. Controlled.
And I failed. Again.
Daghan’s wings folded. He let his claws sink into the floor.
The chains came — silver, searing, biting into scale.
And this time —
he let them.
---
They dragged him down, past shattered halls and scorched marble, through the bowels of the palace.
The silence down there was different. Heavy. Expectant.
He passed old cells, relic chambers long sealed. Rooms even he didn’t have names for.
Meydar followed behind, silent and smoke-stained.
When they reached the black-iron door of the deep cell, Daghan didn’t resist.
The lock clicked shut behind him like a judgment.
He sat in the dark. Chest heaving. Muzzle scorched.
And for the first time since he was a boy,
Daghan was afraid.
Not of death. Not of the council.
Of himself.
I couldn’t even keep my own promise.
How can I lead a kingdom if I can’t even protect it from myself?
Meydar lingered beyond the door. His voice, when it came, was a whisper through the iron.
“I warned you once: the fire within is not your enemy. It’s your reflection.”
Daghan didn’t reply.
He stared at the chains on his wrists — still glowing faintly — and saw past them.
He saw a boy clutching a burned doll.
A brother he couldn’t save.
A kingdom that cheered his blood more than his name.
“You always told me control was a crown,” Daghan murmured.
“It is,” Meydar said.
Daghan closed his eyes. “Then why does it feel like a cage?”
Silence.
Then footsteps, fading.
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
He would earn back control.
He would become the kind of king they whispered about — not because of fear,
but because he bent fire to his will.
But first…
He would take back what was his.
Even if he had to burn her world to the ground to do it.
- Writer
