──────────────⋆˖☽ ​𝑨 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 ☾˖⋆──────────────

The corridor was a monument to oppressive wealth. We moved through a sterile white silence, the walls veined with a gaudy gold trim that felt more like a cage’s bars than decoration. My eyes snagged on a section of wall textured to resemble the overlapping scales of a dragon, each scale the color of drying blood. A chill, sharp and invasive, snaked its way down my spine. This place wasn’t just built; it was crafted to intimidate.

Around a corner, a grand staircase swept upward into shadow. The steps were polished white marble, so bright they hurt to look at. The railings were not merely plated but forged from solid gold, with intricately carved dragons coiling at the base of each post, their mouths agape in silent roars. Dominating the landing was a massive oil painting: a crimson dragon, its chest a delicate latticework of gold filigree, stood beside a human. The painted man was an uncanny effigy of him—the one with the fire-bright hair and molten gold eyes. The artist, however, had given the irises a strange, cold undertone of blue. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach, and I tore my gaze away.

My bound hands clenched into useless fists, the rough rope biting into my wrists. Every opulent detail was a fresh insult.

We passed through several more halls before stopping before a set of immense, double oak doors. Muffled voices bled through the heavy wood.

“That woman has no place here!” a man’s voice boomed, thick with a rage that seemed to vibrate through the floor. “How could you be so foolish as to bring her here?”

Another voice, sharp and unsettlingly familiar, sliced through the fury. “I had no choice. Don’t for a second think I relish this any more than you do.”

“She is a threat,” the first voice snarled. A deafening slam, like a gauntleted fist striking timber, echoed through the door. I flinched, my muscles coiling tight. “And if you won’t deal with her, I will.”

I risked a glance at Mira. Her expression was a mask of placid indifference. She lifted a hand to knock, just as the second voice began, “Calm yourself, I—”

Mira’s knock cut him off, three sharp raps that sounded like cracking bone. The voices inside ceased instantly. Heavy, hurried footsteps thudded toward the door, and it was wrenched open. A tall, broad-shouldered man stormed out, his face a thundercloud. He slammed into me without a word or a glance, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in his wake before disappearing down the corridor. Before the door could swing shut, another man appeared in the frame. The man from the painting. Crimson hair like spun embers and piercing gold eyes.

“Please,” he said, his voice a silken balm after the storm of the argument. He paused, his gaze sweeping over me, lingering for a fraction of a second too long. “Come in.”

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I ground my teeth, my eyes locked on his back as he turned to lead us into the room. I strained against my bindings—a familiar, futile gesture that was less an attempt at freedom and more a silent promise. If I wasn’t bound…

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to a high-backed velvet armchair.

My eyes never left his as I lowered myself into the plush seat. The world around me dissolved. The opulent room, the suffocating chair, the storm that must be raging outside—it was all meaningless noise. There was only him: the man who had poisoned me and dragged me to this place.

“You may leave us, Mira,” he said, his voice a low command.

My focus finally broke from him to Mira. She gave a single, sharp nod. “I will be just outside the door. Call if you require me.”

She turned, her steps gracefully silent, her long black hair swaying like a silken banner. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, sealing us in a suffocating, absolute silence.

He simply watched me, his golden eyes analytical, studying me as if I were a complex map he was determined to navigate. I straightened my spine, lifting my chin in a small act of defiance. I would not break this silence. I would not give him the satisfaction. My stare hardened into a glare. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and the corner of his lip twitched—not a smirk, but the ghost of one. It was enough.

I tore my gaze from him, forcing myself to take a slow, measured breath. Be calm. Be cold. My eyes roamed, cataloging the room as a tactical distraction. A massive, floor-to-ceiling window dominated one wall, revealing a relentless downpour outside, yet not a single sound penetrated the glass. Before it sat a sprawling mahogany desk, cluttered with official-looking documents and stacks of leather-bound tomes. Bookshelves lined the remaining walls, each one groaning with volumes that looked ancient and meticulously cared for. The air smelled of old paper, beeswax, and rain.

When my attention returned to him, his intense gaze hadn’t wavered. I raised my eyebrows, a silent challenge.

Something in his expression shifted. The analytical hardness dissolved, replaced by a deep, unmistakable melancholy. His shoulders, once squared and tense, seemed to slump with a hidden weight. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet enough to be lost in the nonexistent sound of the storm.

“I am sorry for what happened.”

A dry, bitter laugh rasped in my throat. “Sorry for what, exactly? For the poison, or for the abduction? You’ll have to be more specific.”

He shook his head, his expression unreadable. “I believe you’re misunderstanding the situation.”

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. “Oh, please, enlighten me. What, in all of this, could I possibly be misunderstanding?”

“I didn’t poison you,” he stated, his voice maddeningly even.

My body gave an indignant jerk. “Then what do you call it?”

“You didn’t consume poison,” he clarified, as if speaking to a child. “You were given an herb known as Dream Leaf. Those of us raised in the territories are immune to its soporific effects, but for outsiders… it induces a deep, prolonged sleep.”

An apology on a technicality. The small, cruel smirk that touched my lips was involuntary. He tilted his head, a silent question.

“Its name is rather ironic, isn’t it?” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Considering it plunged me into a nightmare. I’d still call it poisoning, since you knew precisely what it would do.”

He shifted in his chair, a subtle deflection. “Speaking of names, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mikaeus Aurelian. And you are?”

A frustrated sigh tore from my lungs. “I am Alanah.” The name felt foreign, a relic from a life that was no longer mine. It had been an age since I’d said it aloud.

He offered a genuine smile, the first I’d seen, and it was so out of place it felt like a new wound. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Alanah.”

I shot him a look so venomous his gaze faltered, falling to the floor between us.

“I truly am sorry,” he said again, his voice low and, this time, painfully sincere.

“Then what was the point?” I snapped, my patience shredded.

He rubbed his temples, a flicker of profound weariness crossing his face before he met my gaze again. “I’m aware my methods for bringing you here were… unconventional.”

“Unconventional,” I echoed, arching an eyebrow. “That’s one word for it.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that stole the air from my lungs. “Alanah, we need your help.”

“My help?” The words were a disbelieving whisper. My head gave a slight shake, my expression hardening again into a mask of contempt. “And you actually believe, after all this, that I’m going to give it to you?”

“No,” he said, his voice still calm, still even. “I don’t. Not yet. But when you understand the truth of what is happening, you won’t need convincing.”

What truth? What could possibly make me align myself with a man who consorts with monsters—with the very creature that cursed all humans? The argument I’d overheard echoed in my mind. I had no choice. I studied his face, searching for any crack in his composure.

“Do you even want me here?” I demanded, the words sharp.

His jaw tightened, a nearly imperceptible clench of muscle. “It does not matter what I want,” he said, his voice like tempered steel.

Infuriated, I shot to my feet, closing the space between us in three long strides to stand over him. “Then tell me why I am here.”

He looked up, his gaze meeting mine without a hint of intimidation. His expression remained infuriatingly soft, but his tone was absolute. “You will learn in time. For now, you should rest.” His eyes shifted from mine, flicking to the door. “Mira, you may re-enter.”

The door opened instantly. “Please escort Alanah to her chambers.”

I shot him one last, hateful glare and turned toward Mira.

“Wait,” he called out. “One more thing.”

I paused, glancing back over my shoulder. He had risen and moved to his desk. “I wanted to return this.” He held up my bag. “Also…” From the desk, he lifted my mother’s dagger, its familiar silver hilt gleaming in the low light. My breath caught in my throat.

My anger, simmering until now, flashed into rage.

“…you can have this back, along with your bow,” he continued, oblivious or uncaring, “at a later time.”

Mira walked to the desk and took the bag from him. Words failed me. I snapped around and stalked from the room, my entire body rigid, not daring to look back lest I do something I couldn’t undo, bound or not.

I hate him. I hate this place. And from the sounds of it, I am hated in return.

I learned nothing but his name. And I am left with a single, burning question: Why am I here?

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