The Dragon's Claim

Sasha The deep drumming of my heart pounding against my ribs echoes in my ears like war drums urging me forward. My lungs burn, my muscles scream, but I dig deeper, clawing at every scrap of energy left. Move, Sasha. Move or die. I have to keep going. Slowing down isn't an option—hesitation equals death. Every part of me begs for rest, for mercy, but I shove the weakness down. Weakness is a luxury I can't afford. Not anymore. The night closes in, heavy and stifling. But ahead, I see a faint glow—lone fires flickering in the ruins of an abandoned town, about a mile away. A grim sort of hope sparks in my chest. If I can make it there... hide... breathe... I may have a chance. I push harder, tasting blood in my mouth. My legs stumble under me, but I refuse to fall. You fall, you die. Simple. By the time I stagger into the town's outskirts, I slow down, my instincts screaming for caution. Every broken window, every shadowed alley feels like an ambush waiting to happen. They'll catch you if you're careless. You know that. I move with caution now, sliding from shadow to shadow. No lights or sounds, only the soft whisper of wind through the old buildings. A door swings on its hinges and catches my eye. I freeze, heart slamming painfully against my ribs. I wait. I listen. Nothing. Now or never. I sprint across the street and slam against the wall, barely daring to breathe. The door creaks when I push it open, a sharp c***k in the silence that makes my blood run cold. Idiot. Loud. Too loud. I wait again, every muscle tight with fear. Silence. I slip inside. The place is ransacked—shelves empty, floor littered with debris. Abandoned for years, forgotten by everyone. Good. Forgotten means safe. For now. I find a spot in the corner and slide down the wall, hugging my knees to my chest. My body aches, but the cold floor feels almost good against my burning skin. My brain refuses to stop spinning. The reserve. It's my only shot. A hidden sanctuary for shifters, guarded against monsters like him. A place where I may be able to stop running. Where I could maybe breathe again. I think of the hard drive tucked in my pack—everything I stole, everything he'll kill to get back. I clutch it tighter without meaning to, feeling its edges dig into my palm. He'll come after me. Not because he loves me. But because I'm his loose end. I squeeze my eyes shut, but sleep doesn't come easily. Fear crawls through my veins like ice water. How on earth did it come to this? How did I not see what he was? I try to banish the image of him—cold, calculating, smiling while he fed me lies. My stomach twists. I bury my face against my arms, drawing into myself, trying to disappear into the darkness. But no matter how small I make myself, one brutal truth keeps roaring louder than the rest: I'm not only running from the army. I'm running from my own blood. I’m running from my father. And if he finds me... he won't hesitate to kill me. Dorgan I stretch out in my chair, the worn leather creaking beneath me, and take a sip of what used to be hot coffee. It's lukewarm, bitter, stale. Like everything else these days. When was the last time I had a hot cup of coffee? Hell, when was the last time I had anything close to normal? Forget luxury. I grew up running, hiding, bleeding—but even then, I carved out minutes for myself. A hot drink, a quiet breath, a reconnection to something deeper than this endless grind. But now? Now it's all movement. Endless, grinding movement. My office smells like old paper, gun oil, and tired men. Stacks of files, cracked screens, maps with too many red circles, and not enough answers. Every day another report. Another attack. Another list of the missing. No time to breathe. No time to think. We've found more camps with shifters. By the stars, the things they're doing to them are shocking. We also see movement patterns that scream trap but still offer hope. Every second of my life has collapsed into a single, brutal purpose; Train. Strike. Survive. And here, in the rare moment I can sit down, what do I do? Messages. Negotiations. Sucking up to humans who insist on calling our home a "refugee camp." Refugee camp. The words taste like ash. Victims? Might be. Helpless? Not a blasted chance. We are trained. Armed. Deadly. We're not asking for scraps—we're carving our future out of the bones of the old world. Still, politics is a war of a different breed. And in this war, I need allies. I need their money, their technology, their soldiers. I can't afford to lose my temper over a word, no matter how much it burns in my throat. Pick your battles, Dorgan. Choose the right ones to fight. We used to live in hiding. For centuries, we hid in the shadows. Our kind suppressed our true selves to survive and stay unnoticed. It wasn't always this way. We used to roam freely—shifters, dragons, and more—living in harmony with the earth. Our animal spirits were a natural part of us. But then the war came. The First Abyss. The Great Fall. It was an extinction event. The darkness swept across our lands like wildfire, burning everything in its path. Most of us were wiped out by humans using witchcraft, either slaughtered or driven to the edges of the world. Those of us who survived—those of us who were lucky enough to escape the purge—had to learn to hide. To suppress who we were. To blend in. For years, that was our existence. We lived in peace, away from prying eyes and the government's reach. And we thought we could stay hidden forever. But then the discovery happened. The veil of secrecy shattered. Some of us were exposed, and the world came crashing down around us. When the New Nations Army (NNA) took control, it was like the world flipped on its head. The government declared martial law across the country. Our leaders hid behind the General, letting him and his army do whatever they wanted. General Marlee, a symbol of oppression, led the NNA firmly. He crushed anyone who dared to defy his orders. He used fear as his weapon, manipulating the masses, and slowly, the truth about our kind began to be erased. Shifters were labelled as "dangerous." Mutants. Something to be controlled. Something to be feared. The General forced this agenda on us. He rounded us up, broke us down, and tried to destroy us from within. The government backed him but kept their hands clean of the bloodshed. They let the NNA handle the dirty work. Behind their fancy walls, they let the General ruin our lives, families, and futures. Our government, in all its so-called wisdom, didn't only want to "control" us. They wanted to break us. They shoved us into camps. Torture camps. They called them "safe havens," when they were nothing but prisons. They aimed to crush our spirits and erase our identities. But, as always happens when you push people too far, the world fought back. Other countries saw what was happening, and they weren't blind to the injustice. Protests erupted. Calls for intervention rang out. The truth about what was happening in the camps began to spread. Eventually, the world could no longer ignore the atrocities. We were beaten, broken, starved. Forced to suppress our powers, to hide who we were. Females were taken. r***d. Experimented on. Many of us—those who could and had the strength to hide—vanished into the underground. We waited in the shadows, ready to fight back when the time came. Some of us were lucky. We managed to find refuge. But for too many, those days in the camps were a fate worse than death. The horrors we saw are burned into my mind, and I'm haunted by the faces of those we lost along the way. They took so much from us. Our freedom, our families, our future. And then the war started. A world divided. Half the globe stood with the General and his regime. The other half? They stood with us. The "con" side—the side that saw us as less than human, that wanted to bury us with the General's ideology—took control. And we, well, we found ourselves caught in the crossfire. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But the world had already drawn its lines, and now we had to play the game. But not all was lost. As the General's allies consolidated power, some countries and rebels saw the truth. They saw that we were more than what the General said we were. And, slowly but surely, they began to send us help—weapons, food, arms, supplies. They sent us the strength we needed to keep pushing back. Some senators in the government started to speak out against the General's policies. There were underground movements, covert networks, whispers of revolt. It gave us hope, something we hadn't felt in a long time. We may have initially been on the losing side of this war, but there were pockets of resistance out there. And those pockets? They were willing to stand by us. To help us break free. But even with the support, even with the world watching, the General and his NNA were a force to be reckoned with. We had no choice now but to push forward, to fight harder, and to reclaim our freedom, piece by piece. Because the truth is, this isn't solely about survival anymore. It's about our legacy. About proving we deserve to live on our terms. And I'm not about to let the General or anyone else take that away. But now… now it's time to fight. To free the ones that are still trapped in those camps. To show the world that we are not broken. Not anymore. The fight is about freedom. It's about showing the world who we are, and taking back what was stolen from us. We have to be the ones to rise. To end the suppression, the fear, the hate. We can't let the General and the NNA win. Not when we have a chance to reclaim everything. And I'll do whatever it takes, no matter the cost. For me. For my brother, my people. For all of us. We will rise, and we will fight. But today, today we plan, we train, we wait. I stretch my legs out, feeling the tug of old scars across my skin. A moment of peace. Fragile, brittle, like ice under a too-bright sun. And then—Bang. The front door slams. Voices echo down the hall. Loud and chaotic. My muscles tighten instinctively. Enemy? No. The team. The noise of life. Still, I can't shake the tension from my spine. I never can. Not when so much is at stake. Not with so many lives to protect.