Page 10 of Dragon's Captive

GILDED CAGE

The door closeswith the soft click of expensive craftsmanship rather than the clang of prison bars. Still a cage, no matter how they dress it up.

I give myself exactly ten seconds to breathe through the panic threatening to crush my chest. Ten. Nine. Eight. Count each breath, force oxygen into lungs that want to seize with terror. Seven. Six. Survival depends on clear thinking. Five. Four. Assess the situation objectively. Three. Two. Find the weaknesses. One.

Time's up. Survival mode engaged.

I prowl the perimeter of my gilded cage like the captive animal I've become, fingers tracing stone walls that hold the mountain's ancient chill despite the fire crackling in the massive hearth. The walls are solid, no seams or cracks that might indicate hidden passages. Logical. Dragons wouldn't need secret tunnels when they can simply fly between destinations.

The balcony offers the most obvious escape route, if one could call a thousand-foot drop to jagged rocks an "escape." I step through billowing silk curtains onto smooth stone. The view steals what little breath I've managed to recover—mountain ranges stretching to the horizon, valleys shrouded in mist, forestcanopy broken occasionally by rivers that catch the afternoon sunlight like ribbons of quicksilver. Beautiful, in the way deadly things often are.

No railings, I note with morbid amusement. No need when the occupants have wings. The edge simply drops away into empty space, the unforgiving ground so far below it seems almost abstract. Not a viable exit unless my goal is suicide rather than freedom.

Back inside, I test the massive wooden doors through which Kairyx departed. Locked, of course. The mechanism yields slightly to pressure before stopping against what feels like a metal bar on the other side. I could maybe break through with sufficient force and tools, but then what? I'd still be inside a mountain fortress filled with dragons, with nowhere to go.

The bathing chamber Elara mentioned is next. It's obscenely luxurious—a sunken tub large enough to swim in, carved from some iridescent stone that shimmers with hidden colors. Fixtures that appear to be genuine gold deliver water at the turn of a tap. The opulence is jarring—even before the Conquest, I never had access to this kind of luxury. Here, in the aftermath of a world broken and remade, this dragon has created a bathing chamber that would make pre-Conquest billionaires envious.

No windows. No additional exits. Just more beautiful imprisonment.

The dressing room connected to it contains clothing that makes my cheeks burn—silks and satins in rich jewel tones, all cut to display rather than conceal. The fabrics slide like water through my fingers, finer than anything I've worn in my life, certainly finer than the practical cotton and wool that comprised my wardrobe in Ashton Ridge. I drop them as if burned. I won't be their dressed-up doll, their omega pet attired for alpha pleasure.

An hour of systematic exploration yields nothing useful. No secret passages, no weaknesses in the walls, no overlooked exits. Just luxury designed to contain an omega in comfort while she serves her purpose as dragon breeding stock.

The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me, strong enough that I sink onto one of the plush chairs, head between my knees, breathing carefully through my mouth. The double dose of suppressants I took is hitting my system hard, their effects magnified by stress and the high altitude. My vision swims at the edges, black spots dancing when I move too quickly.

A knock at the door interrupts my misery. Before I can respond, it opens to admit Elara, the older woman who'd been assigned as my attendant. She carries a tray with covered dishes that release steam when she sets them on the small dining table.

"You should eat," she says, her tone making it more command than suggestion. "The purging process requires strength."

"I'm not hungry." The words come out sounding petulant even to my own ears, but the thought of food makes my stomach turn.

"Nonetheless." She uncovers the dishes with efficient movements, revealing simple fare—a rich stew featuring chunks of meat and vegetables, fresh bread still steaming from the oven, a small pot of honey. Next to these sits a stone cup containing what looks like tea, but the herbal scent reaching my nose is unfamiliar, medicinal.

"The purging herbs," she explains, following my gaze. "Best taken with food to minimize stomach distress."

I eye the cup warily. "And if I refuse?"

The question hangs between us, revealing far more than I intended about my desperation. Elara's expression softens minutely, the first crack in her professional neutrality.

"Then they will be administered by less pleasant means," she says quietly. "The Commander has ordered your system cleared within three days. One way or another, it will happen."

Of course. My choices aren't really choices at all—just the illusion of agency within parameters already determined by my captor. Drink the herbs willingly or have them forced down my throat, perhaps literally. The outcome remains the same regardless.

"Why are you helping him?" I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "You're human. How can you participate in this?"

Elara's hand moves unconsciously to her neck, where I notice for the first time the faded scar of a claiming bite, the mark nearly silvered with age. "I was claimed seventeen years ago," she says, eyes downcast. "By another dragon lord, not Commander Emberscale. When I failed to conceive after three years, he dismissed me to service rather than breeding facilities." Her voice holds no resentment, only resigned acceptance of her fate. "The Commander's household is... preferable to most alternatives."

Her words strike harder than she likely intends. She's offering me perspective—there are worse fates than being claimed by Kairyx Emberscale. In the post-Conquest world, this counts as a twisted form of good fortune.

"The Commander values your purity," she continues, busying herself with arranging silverware I have no intention of using. "He's particularly pleased to find an omega who has avoided monster contact. It makes your eventual surrender more... satisfying to them."

I swallow bile. "I won't surrender."

Elara's lips press into a thin line, not quite disagreement but close enough. "You should eat," she repeats, ignoring mydeclaration entirely. "And drink the herbs. The process is less severe when done willingly."

Fine. If I'm going to escape, I need strength. I need clarity. I need to understand this place, its routines, its weaknesses.

"Tell me about the fortress," I demand, switching tactics as I reluctantly pull the tray closer. "How many guards? How many exits? What's the routine here?"

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