First Meeting
1069 Words
The mahogany clock on the mantle struck two.
Xalvador twisted in his sheets, his skin burning. Underneath his collar, the black veins on his neck throbbed with a rhythmic, agonizing heat. It felt like a vacuum was hollowed out inside his chest, desperate to pull anything—any life force, any magical energy—into his core.
He threw off the velvet blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. "I need to go to her," he muttered, his breath ragged. "If I mate with her tonight, this hunger will finally stop. The bond will sate the vacuum."
*L“No,” Yves’s heavy, lizard-like voice vibrated through his skull, frantic and sharp. “Do not go near the human. The hunger is unstable tonight, Xalvador. If you touch her in this state, you will not mate with her, you will drain her until she is a lifeless shell. She will die.”
"She is my mate," Xalvador growled aloud, clutching his head as the dragon's warning tore through his thoughts. "I can control it."
“You cannot,” the beast hissed back. “Look at your hands. You are starving. Send someone else to watch her, but stay away.”
Xalvador stood up, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth clicked. He grabbed a dark silk robe, throwing it over his bare shoulders. He couldn't shake the sudden, tightening knot of anxiety in his stomach. Something was wrong. He could feel a strange shift in the palace air.
He strode to the massive double doors of his chamber and pulled one open.
A tall warrior clad in midnight-blue armor stood at absolute attention. His silver hair was cropped close, and a long scar ran from his left temple down to his jawline.
"Your Majesty," Cain said, bowing his head instantly.
"Cain," Xalvador said, his voice dropping into a low baritone. "Go to the western pavilion. Check on Lyra."
Cain raised his eyes slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his disciplined features. "Is there an intruder alert, sire?"
"No," Xalvador muttered, tracing his gloved hand along the doorframe. "Just go. Be my eyes. Ensure she is asleep in her bed. Do not disturb her, but do not leave the pavilion until I give the command."
"Understood, Your Majesty." Cain saluted, his fist slamming against his chest plate, before turning on his heel and striding down the dim corridor.
---
The stone floor was freezing against Lyra’s bare soles.
She moved like a ghost along the edge of the corridor, her wooden walking stick tapping softly against the masonry. Tap. Tap. Tap.
In her head, the vision from Xalvador’s touch played on a loop. Left at the iron torch. Twelve paces forward. A spiral staircase leading down. She counted the steps meticulously in her mind.
Suddenly, the heavy, synchronized thud of armored boots echoed from the cross-corridor ahead.
Lyra froze, her breath catching in her throat. She pressed her back against the damp wall, her fingers gripping the wooden stick so tightly her knuckles turned white. The night guard. She had no eyes to see them, but the vibrations through the stone told her they were less than ten feet away.
“Who goes there?” a guard’s voice boomed through the corridor.
Lyra squeezed her eyes shut behind her silk blindfold. She braced herself for the rough hands on her shoulders, for the shout of treason.
But nothing happened.
A sudden, unnatural chill swept over her skin. The air around her grew heavy, smelling faintly of old leaves and damp earth. The footsteps of the guards didn't stop; they passed right in front of her face, their metal armor clanking, completely oblivious to her presence.
"Must have been the wind from the lower grates," one guard muttered, his voice fading as they walked away.
Lyra blinked beneath her blindfold, her heart hammering against her ribs. She reached out her hand. The air around her felt thick, almost like an invisible silk cloak wrapping around her shoulders, masking her heat and sound. She didn't know what it was, but she couldn't stop now.
She hurried forward, descending the cold spiral stairs. The air grew progressively foul, thick with the scent of rusted iron and stagnant water.
The dungeon, her mind whispered.
She reached the bottom of the steps, her stick tapping against rougher, uneven ground. She paused, tilting her head to listen. She expected the coarse laughter of jailers, the clinking of keys, or the heavy breathing of sentries at the gate.
Silence. Absolute, dead silence.
"Why is there nobody here?" Lyra whispered to herself.
She felt a wave of unease. A royal dungeon shouldn't be completely abandoned. But the map in her head was screaming at her to keep going. She extended her stick, feeling her way past empty iron cells that smelled of old rot.
Finally, her stick struck a solid obstacle.
She reached out with her left hand, her palms brushing against smooth, heavy obsidian brickwork. According to the vision, there should be an iron-reinforced door here leading to the deepest subterranean level. But under her fingertips, there was only a seamless, freezing wall.
"No, it was right here," she murmured, her voice laced with frustration. "I saw it. The woman is behind this."
She pressed both hands against the stone, searching for a latch, a groove, or a hidden lever. The moment her palms applied pressure, the solid wall beneath her hands simply ceased to exist. It didn't swing open; it didn't slide. It became like thick smoke.
Lyra gasped as her balance tripped forward. She stumbled through the gap, her bare feet landing on slippery, wet stone on the other side.
Thud.
A sharp, grinding sound echoed behind her. Lyra spun around instantly, extending her walking stick. She tapped the space she had just occupied.
Solid stone.
She reached out with her hands, panicking as her fingers met the rough, unyielding surface of the masonry. The door, the opening, the smoke, everything was gone. The wall had sealed itself completely, leaving no seams, no cracks, and no way out.
She was trapped in the pitch black.
"Hello?" Lyra called out, her voice trembling as it bounced off the narrow walls. "Is anyone there?"
A soft, scraping sound drifted from the deep darkness ahead, followed by the heavy rattle of a chain.
"You actually came," a raspy, hollow voice whispered from the dark.
- Writer
