Whump Enjoyer

"I think I should go now," Reyvren said, standing up and stretching his wings. "I don’t want to leave my grandmother alone preparing dinner."

"Alright, say hello to her for me," Teklómenes replied in turn.

The other boy’s cheeks flushed. His pale face always took on a warmer color when he was with the young avian.

"Okay. Goodbye, see you later!"

The friends said their goodbyes, glad for having each other’s company. Meanwhile, far from that place, someone with darker intentions watched through a spyglass as the two youths separated. A malevolent smile crept across a face.

It was time to act.

~🪶🔥🪶🔥~

Reyvren was walking calmly through the village when he accidentally bumped into someone else.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, embarrassed. The things that happened to him for walking around lost in thought…

"Don’t apologize," a rough voice replied.

When he looked up, Reyvren found a drakón smiling at him with malice, much taller and broader than him. Discreetly, the stranger held a knife in his hand, the tip level with Reyvren’s navel. "Why don’t we go for a walk?"

The boy felt his stomach drop. He glanced to the sides. The wide street was almost empty; no one was paying attention to him. Nothing in his attacker’s relaxed posture raised suspicion, who, leaning forward, gave the impression of engaging him in an intimate conversation. The tip of the knife pressed into Reyvren’s abdomen, not enough to break skin, but enough to send a chill through him at the clear threat.

"Shall we?"

With trembling legs, the young man let himself be guided through several streets until they left the village, heading into the wide fields along the slope. The sun had already finished setting behind the mountain when they stopped in front of an old, enormous barn. Two other drakones were waiting there, accompanied by a shepherd warg.

"Looks like it was easy," one of them commented, not taking his mocking, predatory gaze off Reyvren before he was thrown inside the barn.

"Who are you?! What do you want from me?!" the boy exclaimed, facing his captors. Even though inside he was dying of fear, he tried to appear brave.

The three drakones exchanged looks and laughed.

"The less you resist," one of them said, pulling out several coils of rope, "the less it’ll hurt."

What followed happened very quickly. The three strangers lunged at Reyvren, who, without training and unable even to use the power of fire to protect himself, could do very little to defend himself. Cornered and outmatched in both number and size, his enemies subdued him in no time, pinning him against the ground while rough hands yanked his arms behind his back. Coarse rope bound his wrists, legs, and wings, tightened painfully to the point of agony.

Once he was tightly bound, they dragged him to the back of the barn and threw him onto a pile of hay. Reyvren struggled, but only managed to hurt himself against the coarse rope.

"Why are you doing this?!" he cried, blinking several times to keep the panic tears that threatened to blur his vision at bay. "Let me go! What do you want from me?"

"What would we want with a filthy half-drakón?" one of his captors mocked, crouching at his level. "We don’t want you, we want your little friend. The prince."

In that moment, Reyvren felt true terror. The reality of the situation struck him like a devastating lightning bolt from the sky.

He was bait.

"What do you want with him?" he asked, but he knew it was useless. They had captured him to lure Teklómenes. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that the avian would come without hesitation if he found out his friend was in danger.

"We’re tired of this life of herding goats," one of the drakones said. "We want easy money. Before the crown can catch us, we’ll already be far away with the ransom."

No, this couldn’t be happening.

"He’ll know it’s a trap!" Reyvren insisted desperately.

The three drakones exchanged looks again and laughed.

"Good thing you won’t be able to tell him anything to warn him."

"No, wait, ple-mnph!"

A cloth with a thick knot in the middle was forced between his teeth and tied behind his head, painfully pulling at several strands of his long black hair. One of his captors began rummaging through the bag they had taken from him and pulled out a small round mirror: the magic mirror Queen Freyra had given him to communicate with Teklómenes.

"Time to call your little friend," one of the drakones said.

The reflective surface of the mirror began to grow increasingly opaque, as if a thick fog lay behind it, before it faded and Teklómenes’ face appeared on the other side.

"Reyvren, are you—?" The prince cut himself off when he saw the image on the other side of the mirror, the feathers at the sides of his head bristling. One of the drakones grabbed Reyvren by one of his horns and lifted his head, while with the other hand he placed the tip of a knife right below his eye.

"We have your friend, Your Highness. If you want him back alive, you’ll have to pay for it."

Bound and gagged, with no way whatsoever to warn his only friend about the trap, Reyvren listened as the criminals gave instructions on how much gold to bring and the location where to leave it.

"You have one hour, Your Highness. Otherwise the damned half-breed will be dead."

"Mmph!"

Reyvren shook his head, but seeing Teklómenes’ terrified and pained face through the mirror only shattered what little strength he had left. He didn’t want his friend to be captured, but he didn’t want to die either.

"I’ll do it," Teklómenes said in a hard voice. "You’d better not touch a single hair on his head before I get there, or you’ll regret it."

"We’ll be waiting, Your Highness."

And with that, the connection between the mirrors vanished. The drakones left the barn, leaving Reyvren alone, with the warg at the door as the only guard. There, alone on a pile of hay, he allowed himself to shed the first tears of helplessness.

~🪶🔥🪶🔥~

Teklómenes felt his mind tearing itself apart between destructive fury and suffocating fear. He had taken the gold he found and flown in the direction the kidnappers had indicated. He told no one, not even Freyra, for he feared for Reyvren’s safety. The kidnappers had made it clear that if he didn’t arrive in time, alone, and with the gold, they would kill his friend.

And he would not allow himself to lose him, not when he was the first and only one he had.

He arrived in front of an old barn, in an area of the kingdom used for raising mountain goats. There he saw three drakones waiting beside a warg. He recognized them from the mirror and knew he had reached the right place.

No sooner had he landed than he threw the sack of gold onto the ground at their feet.

"Here it is," he said sharply. "Now release my friend."

The drakones exchanged knowing looks. One of them took the sack, while another walked to the barn door and removed a huge lock.

"Go get him yourself," they told him.

Without needing to be told twice, Teklómenes pushed the door open and stepped inside. The interior of the structure was empty except for some old wooden crates and tools in a corner. And at the back, on a mattress of hay, a body. Shining red scales stood out faintly in the dimness of dusk.

"Reyvren!"

Teklómenes ran to his friend. The addressed one lifted his head, his pupils blown wide into a tiny point in the middle of his large light-blue eyes.

"Mmm, gmh mph phmm!" Reyvren cried out, his warnings muffled behind the gag, shaking his head frantically.

Teklómenes needed a second to understand, but when he did, it was already too late: the three drakones had him surrounded and lunged at him.

He fought, of course he did, striking noses with his elbows, hitting ribs and stomachs with wings and fists, scratching skin and scales with his claws; but in the end he was still a young avian against three large, seasoned drakones. The battle was doomed to fail.

"You walked right into our trap, little bird," one of the drakones said, while the other two forced Teklómenes to the ground.

"Bastards," the avian growled through his teeth. Coarse rope had already begun binding his wrists, wings, and legs. "What do you want?"

"Simple, we want money. And we’re sure the Queen will pay very well to see her chick safe and sound again."

The knots were secured. Teklómenes struggled, but he was firmly restrained. It would be impossible for him to escape on his own.

"Good, we have the boy. Time to kill the half-breed."

One of the drakones grabbed Reyvren by the horns and began dragging him out of the barn. At his waist he carried a large butchering knife.

"H-hey, wait!" Teklómenes shouted, something tightening painfully in his chest. Reyvren had his eyes squeezed shut, but he could see the tears clinging to his lashes and hear his quick, shaking breaths. "You already caught me! Why do you want to kill him?"

"He’s already served his purpose," one of his captors replied, as if stating the most obvious thing in the world. "We don’t need a useless half-breed. If we let him go, that would ruin our plans. So the easiest thing is to silence him forever."

A broken sob escaped from Reyvren’s throat, and Teklómenes knew he had to do something.

"The Queen will pay for him!" he exclaimed. "Leave him alive, and I know she’ll pay his ransom too. Whatever you planned to ask for me, ask double for both, and I know she’ll agree."

The truth was that Teklómenes had no idea if that would work. He didn’t want Freyra to yield to the demands of these wretched criminals, but he was not going to lose his friend, not now, not like this.

The drakones exchanged looks again and discussed the matter as if their two prisoners were not even there.

"It could work. And we avoid having to get rid of a body."

"Alright. He can live."

"But if we don’t receive that extra money, we’ll kill him and sell his parts."

Having reached a decision, they dragged both young men back to the pile of hay. A piece of cloth with a knot in the middle was shoved into Teklómenes’ mouth and tied behind his head, cutting off any further sound. Once the barn door was closed, the two boys were left alone. Teklómenes twisted on the hay until he managed to sit with his back against the wall. Could there be any way to escape before the ransom was demanded? His thoughts were interrupted by a series of soft, broken sobs, barely audible. He turned his head and saw Reyvren, his body curled tightly in on itself. His shoulders trembled faintly.

The avian boy couldn’t help the sharp ache in his chest. All of this was his fault. Reyvren had been taken just to trap him, used as bait for him. Teklómenes was used to walking a narrow line over danger; but Reyvren didn’t deserve any of this.

He leaned forward and gently bumped his head against Reyvren’s to get his attention. Maybe his captors had taken his voice, and his hands were bound behind his back, but he wanted to do something, anything, to comfort his friend. After a moment, Reyvren lifted his face. His light-blue eyes, heavy with guilt and humiliation, avoided Teklómenes’ yellow ones for a moment, and when he finally dared to meet them, the tears only fell harder. Teklómenes understood that feeling all too well.

As best they could, they shifted on the hay, sitting side by side. They didn’t know if there was any way to escape their fate unharmed, whether the Queen would pay for their freedom or they would find another way out. But if there was anything good in all that darkness, it was that at least they still had each other to hold onto.

Part 2? 👀

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16 @justabitofwhump @writinglittlepains @warmfuzz-ies

Even wrapped in darkness, his hearing guided him through the labyrinthine passages, following the murmur of voices conversing, which grew clearer the deeper he ventured. 

“We must use every part of him; how often do you find a hybrid wandering alone in the forest?” rasped a hoarse voice.

“Careful!” snapped another, high-pitched and eager. “His blood is too precious. Don’t waste a single drop.”

“Mmmph!” A muffled echoed through the cave, followed by broken sobs and squawks.

“Good, good… collect it all. Yes, like that. When he dies, we’ll come back for the eyes, the heart, and we’ll take the horns and wings too.”

Something inside Teklómenes snapped. By the time he reached the end of the tunnel, hot fury had already flooded his veins. The passage opened into a cavernous chamber lit by floating spheres of magic, their sickly glow casting everything in shifting, unnatural hues. He pressed himself against the stone and looked inside.

Two figures in dark robes stood near the far side of the chamber. A cage loomed in front of them. They hadn’t seen him, so Teklómenes didn’t hesitate. He raised his crossbow and fired.

The arrows sliced through the air with swift precision and the first sorcerer collapsed before the sound of impact fully registered, the bolt buried deep in his skull. The body hit the ground with a final thud.

The second one jerked around—black, hollow eyes locking onto Teklómenes. The mouth opened to recite a spell, but the avian was faster. He surged forward, wings flaring wide, using the momentum to launch himself into a brutal kick that sent the sorcerer crashing onto his back. Before he could recover, Teklómenes was already on him. He seized another arrow and drove it down once, twice, multiple times into the sorcerer’s heart until the struggle stopped.

Silence fell. The sorcerers’ corpses bled out across the stone floor, thick black blood pooling beneath them, the stench foul and rotting. It splattered across Teklómenes’ hands and clothes, but another smell cut through it, stronger, metallic and unmistakable. Fresh blood.

His head snapped up. At the far end of the chamber stood a cylindrical cage of iron bars. And inside was a figure: red scales, black feathers.

Reyvren.

The boy’s arms were wrenched upward, shackled to the top of the cage. Chains bound wings and legs, forcing him down onto his knees. A blindfold covered his eyes, and a strip of thick cloth gagged his mouth, muffling his breathing into strained, ragged bursts.

But it was the wound that made Teklómenes’ chest seize: A long, vicious cut carved along the inside of Reyvren’s forearm, deep enough to glisten wetly under the dim light. Blood streamed down in a steady line, slipping over scales, dripping from his elbow onto the stone below.

“Reyvren!” Teklómenes was at the cage in an instant, fingers gripping the bars as he forced one hand through. “It’s me, Teklómenes. I’m going to remove your blindfold.”

He tore the blindfold away. Terrified pale blue eyes snapped into view—wide, glassy, overflowing with tears. Reyvren’s whole body trembled, shaking under the strain of pain, fear, and exhaustion.

For a brief moment, Teklómenes wished the sorcerers were still alive, just so he could kill them again, with more cruelty. How dare they do this to someone innocent? Reyvren was not a drakón warrior, he was a healer. Those who dared to attack them were the lowest scum in the world.

“Hold on,” he said. “I’ll get you out of there.”

He turned, searching quickly through the scattered ritual tools—between blades, bowls, and bones—until he found a key among them. His hands moved fast, almost clumsy with urgency, as he unlocked the cage and then the shackles binding the other boy in place.

“Y-Your Highness…” Reyvren’s voice came out hoarse once the gag was removed. “What are you doing here…? It’s dangerous…”

“They won’t hurt you anymore,” Teklómenes replied in a calm and steady voice. “You’re safe. But we need to leave. Now” 

The wound on Reyvren’s arm was worrying. The skin around it had begun to swell, the color draining into something ashen, threaded with dark, creeping veins.

“They used… a poisoned blade,” Reyvren managed weakly as Teklómenes helped him out of the cage.

“Is there an antidote?” Teklómenes asked immediately.

The other answered with a strained gasp.

“My master… she can make one… I need to get back…”

“I’ll take you.”

Teklómenes slipped an arm around Reyvren’s waist, steadying him as his weight sagged dangerously. Reyvren leaned into him, barely holding himself upright. As they moved past the bodies, the other boy flinched, a disgusted sound escaping him.

“You… killed them?”

“Yes,” Teklómenes answered.

“Have you… done that before?”

“A few times,” he replied. “When I had no choice.”

Reyvren swallowed, his breathing uneven.

“That’s… impressive.”

They made it out of the cave. Reyvren was so weak to fly, so they walked through the forest, back toward the palace. Teklómenes guided them along the path he remembered, forcing himself to stay focused, to ignore the way the other boy’s weight sagged heavier against him with every passing minute. The light was fading, shadows stretching long between the trees, swallowing the path in dimness.

Less than an hour later, they reached the clearing again. The basket still lay where it had fallen, silent evidence of what had happened.

“We’re close,” Teklómenes said.

Reyvren barely responded with a nod. His steps dragged now, uneven and faltering. His breathing came in irregular and labored pulls.

“I’m… sorry, Your Highness…” Reyvren whispered weakly, before his legs gave out.

“Reyvren!” Teklómenes caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him carefully, his pulse spiking as dread surged through him. “Can you hear me?” he urged, shaking him lightly.

No response. Reyvren’s head lolled limply to the side, his body slack in Teklómenes’ arms. The black veins had spread from the wound, crawling along his arm and creeping across his neck. His pale skin had dulled into a sickly gray, his entire body drenched in a cold, clammy sweat. The wound itself looked worse, darker, angrier. It radiated heat, and a thin, acrid scent, like smoke and rot, clung to it.

The poison was spreading too fast.

There was still a long way to the palace, but Reyvren did not have much time left.

What do I do?, Teklómenes thought, anguished. He could fly ahead, call for help, but that would mean leaving Reyvren alone and unprotected. Dying. No, he couldn’t. He had to take him with him.

Gritting his teeth, Teklómenes shifted his grip, sliding his arms beneath the other boy’s body and dragging him forward. They moved like that for several meters, Reyvren’s body leaving a faint trail in the dirt, his head lolling with every jolt. It was too slow. By the time they reached the palace, Reyvren could be dead. There was no choice: they have to fly.

He dragged Reyvren toward a fallen trunk, using it to brace himself as he hoisted the boy up and maneuvered him onto his back, draping his limp body across his shoulders, adjusting his position so the weight wouldn’t pin his wings. He was heavy, but manageable.

Teklómenes spread his wings. For a moment, he hesitated, feeling the strain already settling into his muscles. It was risky flying like that, but there was no other choice.

He pushed off. The first beat of his wings was rough and his ascent unsteady under the added weight. He couldn’t climb properly, couldn’t maneuver with his usual precision. His body was forced into a near-vertical angle, every movement calculated just to stay airborne. He caught the currents where he could, gliding more than flying, letting the wind carry them.

Please… The thought came almost as a prayer. Please, don’t let me be too late.

Usually, whenever Teklómenes stepped into the infirmary, it was as the patient, so standing there now, at someone else’s bedside instead of lying in it, felt strangely unfamiliar.

He had made it back in time. Barely.

He still remembered the way his voice had torn from his throat as he crossed the palace gates, calling for help. Fortunately, the guards had seen him immediately—seen the limp body draped over his back—and rushed to assist him, taking Reyvren from his arms and carrying him to the infirmary.

“I’ve already administered the antidote and stitched the wound,” Eyra explained.

Her voice was calm, but there was a weight beneath it. She glanced toward the bed, her expression softening with something close to grief as she looked at her apprentice, still unconscious.

“It was fortunate you found him. Those sorcerers attacked without warning. If you hadn’t been there…” She paused, exhaling slowly. “He wouldn’t have survived. And we might never have found what was left of him.”

The words settled heavily in the room. Teklómenes said nothing, he just stood beside the bed, watching. Reyvren looked… smaller somehow. The rise and fall of his chest was faint, almost imperceptible, and the bandages wrapped around his arm stood out starkly against his pale skin.

The infirmary doors suddenly burst open and an older drakona entered in haste. Streaks of gray ran through her hair, and her red scales were dulled with age. The moment her eyes landed on the figure in the bed they filled with sorrow.

“How is my grandson?” she asked, her voice tight.

The two drakonas talked about the patient’s condition, and Teklómenes felt that was his cue to leave, not wanting to intrude something that seem private. He rose from the seat beside the bed, intending to give them some privacy, when a voice stopped him.

“Your Highness.”

He turned. The older drakona had turned toward him, her gaze heavy with emotion.

“Because of you, my only grandson is still alive. I don’t have words to thank you. I don’t know how I could ever repay such a debt.”

Teklómenes shook his head gently, offering a faint, almost awkward smile.

“There’s nothing to repay,” he said. “What matters is that Reyvren’s alive.”

The old drakona’s expression softened, gratitude lingering in her eyes as she nodded. Teklómenes inclined his head politely before stepping out of the infirmary. He hadn’t walked far before he encountered Freyra in the hallway, emerging from a meeting, attendants dispersing around her.

“We’ll be increasing patrols in the forest,” she said as soon as she saw him. “If sorcerers are moving that close to the palace, we cannot ignore it. They spread like rot, no matter how many are cut down, more take their place… But that’s not why I came to find you, Teté.” She stepped closer. “I am proud of you. You acted as a prince should, like a true warrior. You didn’t hesitate and protected someone who could not protect himself. You saved an innocent life from death.”

Teklómenes looked away briefly.

“I just… couldn’t leave him,” he said quietly, almost dismissive, though his shoulders lifted in a small shrug. He hadn’t done it for recognition, still, despite himself, he felt something warm blooming in his chest.

The next day, Teklómenes returned to the infirmary. He told himself it was only to check on Reyvren’s condition, but the moment he stepped inside and saw him awake—propped up against the pillows, a book resting in his hands—something in his chest eased. He looked pale still and fragile, but much more alive.

“Good morning,” Teklómenes greeted.

Reyvren startled at the sound. The feathers at the sides of his head fluffed instinctively, and a faint flush spread across his cheeks.

“Y-Your Highness! I, um… good morning.”

“May I sit?”

Reyvren nodded quickly, lowering his gaze as Teklómenes took the chair beside the bed. For a moment, silence lingered between them.

“Your Highness… thank you,” Reyvren began. “For saving me. Truly. I was captured because I wasn’t paying attention, and you… you came for me. Even though you didn’t have to.”

“What kind of prince would I be if I didn’t?” Teklómenes replied gently. “I may not be a drakón… but this is still my home. And its people are mine to protect.”

Reyvren’s light-blue eyes lifted, wide with admiration, almost disbelief. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then fell silent again. Teklómenes exhaled softly.

“There’s something else,” he added. “I owe you an apology. When we met in the forest… I wasn’t kind to you. I even hurt you. You were only following orders, and I treated you like a threat.” His voice lowered. “I’m sorry.”

Reyvren’s gaze dropped to his lap. The book rested forgotten there, his fingers curling and gripping the edge of the sheet.

“It’s alright,” he said after a moment, though the words came out faint. “I understand. I’m… used to people not trusting me.”

The curiosity that had been lingering in Teklómenes’s mind finally reached a point where it could no longer be contained, so he spoke somewhat hesitantly:

“You’re… a mestizo, aren’t you?”

Reyvren let out a small, humorless breath.

“I suppose that’s obvious.” His eyes remained fixed downward. “Just a mistake. Something that shouldn’t exist. An abomination that is neither drakón nor avian.”

The words struck harder than Teklómenes expected. He himself had felt like that in the past: an avian living among drakones, nothing more than an intruder in a foreign land.

“I’m sorry,” Reyvren added quickly. “I didn’t mean to burden you with my own personal problems.”

“You’re not,” Teklómenes said. “If anything… I think I understand that feeling.”

Reyvren looked up, startled.

“The truth is… I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time,” he admitted, cheeks coloring again.

“To me?” Teklómenes tilted his head slightly. “Why?”

“Because…” Reyvren hesitated, searching for the words. “You’re an avian living among drakones. And I am half drakón and half avian. I thought maybe… you could help me understand my avian side.”

Teklómenes studied him for a moment.

“What happened to your avian parent?”

Reyvren’s expression tightened, his shoulders stiffening.

“I’m sorry,” Teklómenes said, now feeling embarrassed. “You don’t have to answer that. I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Reyvren interrupted softly. “It’s alright. I don’t like talking about it… but maybe I should. Just… not with my grandmother. She’s already suffered enough.”

He shifted slightly, leaning forward as if the walls themselves might overhear.

“My father was a drakón. A border guard,” he began. “They say it’s a lonely post. Long stretches of isolation, far from everything and everyone. That’s where he met my mother.” His voice faltered. “At first, they say it was fine. They got along well, past the time together. But rumors said the loneliness changed my father. Drove him mad” A pause, and then, barely above a whisper: “He raped my mother.”

His voice broke. It was evident that it was not easy for him to talk about this. Teklómenes could not help but feel shaken by his words as well.

“The Queen found out and arrested my father,” Reyvren continued, his voice unsteady but resolute. “My mother didn’t want me. She abandoned me before I even hatched. My grandma raised me. She’s all I have.” 

“I’m… so sorry,” Teklómenes said quietly, the words feeling painfully insufficient.

Reyvren only nodded, maintaining an expression of sad resignation.

“But that doesn’t make you a mistake,” Teklómenes added after a while, his voice firmer now. “No one chooses how they come into the world. Or who their parents are. But you… you’re here. You survived. You have your grandma who loves you. You’re training to be a healer. And that matters more than anything else.”

Reyvren’s lips trembled into a bittersweet smile.

“Sometimes I wonder… what it would have been like if things had been different. If I had both parents. If I had been… whole. A drakón, or an avian. Not this… thing” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I can’t even use my fire, it burns my throat. I’m not strong enough to be a warrior, I’m too weak.”

“You’re talking to the weakest person in the entire kingdom,” Teklómenes said lightly.

Reyvren frowned.

“Your Highness, don’t say that…”

 “It’s true,” Teklómenes insisted, though there was no bitterness in his tone this time. “I’m not even a real prince, it’s just a title. But this is still my home.” He paused, reflecting. “I don’t know who I would be if I had grown up with other avians, with my biological family. Maybe someone happier. Or maybe someone worse. But even on the days I feel afraid… or useless… I’m still grateful. Because I survived. Because I had someone who cared for me.” His voice softened. “Freyra once told me that we need people who take care of us. Friends.”

Reyvren’s gaze dropped again.

“I’ve never had one,” he murmured sadly.

Teklómenes reached out, taking his hand gently.

“Then let’s change that,” he proposed. “I can’t change where you come from, but I can be your friend. And if you want to understand your avian side… I can help. I’m almost an expert.”

He gave a small, playful wink. For an instant, Reyvren didn’t respond. Then his eyes shimmered, tears spilling over as his expression crumpled.

“It would be an honor… Your Highness.”

“You can call me Teté,” Teklómenes said softly. “Do you… want a hug?”

Reyvren nodded. Carefully, Teklómenes leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him. The contact was gentle, hesitant at first. His hand brushed over the black feathers along Reyvren’s wings, and he paused, surprised by the softness. They caught the light faintly, deep blue glimmers hidden beneath the dark. They were very beautiful.

At that moment, the door opened, and Eyra and Reyvren’s grandmother stepped inside. Teklómenes pulled back, taking it as his cue to leave. He was almost at the door when a voice stopped him.

“Hey, Teté!”

He turned. Reyvren was smiling at him.

“Would you… like to meet again tomorrow?”

Teklómenes felt something in his chest lift. He returned the smile.

“I’d like that very much.”

Teté finally has a friend!!! Everyone, meet Reyvren. He's been on my mind for a while now, and I'm so happy to finally be able to share this story. Thank you so much for reading! 💜✨

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16 @justabitofwhump @writinglittlepains @warmfuzz-ies

He had gone to the forest to train, desperate to stretch his wings again and exercise his body after a long, involuntary recovery from another “incident,” as Freyra had begun to call them. Attacks, kidnappings, accidents… Teklómenes was sick of it—sick of being hunted, of being fragile, of always ending up as the kingdom’s weakest point. The last “incident” had left him confined to bed for days, weighed down by the discouraged certainty that he was nothing but a burden to Freyra, who always had to come to his rescue.  

If I train and become stronger, maybe I won’t need saving, he told himself, clinging to the thought with a naive hope. He was aware that, biologically, he would never rival a drakón’s raw strength, but perhaps with enough effort and persistence, he might be able to win a battle.

He continued practicing with the crossbow until he ran out of arrows. With a beat of his wings, he lifted into the air to retrieve the arrows lodged in the hanging targets, and that was when something shifted in the corner of his vision. A still figure, hidden deeper among the branches of a tree.  

The truth was that, for several days now, Teklómenes had suspected that someone was watching him. He had not yet been able to catch the identity of the stranger, but he could notice their presence at the edge of sight, following him during the day, always distant and out of reach. Sometimes he could glimpse their shadow moving in the darkness or hear the faint scrape of claws against polished stone within the palace halls.  

What was it? Teklómenes had no idea, but it was not a drakón. Not large enough, and its steps did not sound like one either. Freyra had assured him no other creatures roamed the palace, and yet this stranger entity was there.

Now it was here again, the same mysterious presence. It didn’t feel hostile, it never had, but that did nothing to ease the unease coiling in his chest. After all his bad experiences, he was not about to let his guard down, not here and not alone. If something happened in the depths of the forest, there would be no one to hear him, no one to come to his rescue. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw it again: the faint movement between branches. Teklómenes forced himself to remain still, pretending ignorance as he gathered his arrows, waiting to identify his stalker’s motives before fleeing or attacking. The breeze stirred the canopy above, parting leaves just enough for sunlight to slip through in thin beams… and there it was. A flash of red. Red scales.

His body moved before thought could catch up. He loaded the crossbow, aimed, and fired. The arrow became a streak of silver before it struck, sinking deep into the membrane of a wing and pinning it brutally against the tree trunk. A cry split the air, choked with pain, followed by a muffled, panicked gasp.

Teklómenes surged forward and flew quickly in that direction, weapon still raised, eager to discover the identity of his stalker, now trapped, vulnerable and exposed. But nothing prepared him for what he found.

“You…!”

The figure before him was a young man. A drakón, but not quite. Scarlet scales gleamed across his body, with membranous wings and small twisted horns curling from his forehead. However, from the sides of his head spilled long black feathers, dark as his hair, and his eyes, wide and glassy with surprise, were not red but a crystalline light blue, like the waters of a stream.

“You… you’re the healer’s apprentice, aren’t you?” 

Recognition hit. Teklómenes had seen this boy before, always lingering in the palace infirmary, but they had never spoken. The strange boy had always kept to the shadows, absent from gatherings, from the village social events, from everything.

“Y-Your Highness, forgive me—” the boy stammered, voice trembling. Color flooded his face, his gaze darting everywhere but toward Teklómenes. “I didn’t mean to spy—I mean, I did, but not like that—I mean, I don’t usually spy, I don’t like spying, I just— I was told to— I didn’t—”

The boy was a complete mess, his words tangled and frantic. Even through the tension, Teklómenes felt a flicker of pity at the attempt at an explanation. That was when the avian noticed the blood slipping down the boy’s wing where the arrow had pierced it, still pinning him in place to the trunk.

“Wait” Teklómenes stepped closer, lowering his weapon. “Let me help you.”

He pulled the arrow free with a swift motion. The boy flinched sharply, folding his wing in against himself, revealing a series of black feathers along the upper edge of the wing, unnatural against the red scales.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” the boy answered too quickly, breath uneven. “It’ a serious wound. I can still fly back.”

“Good,” Teklómenes said, his voice quieter now, though still edged. “Then tell me, why have you been following me?”

The boy flushed even deeper, shrinking in on himself.

“My Master ordered me to spy on Your Highness,” he admitted. “I was only following instructions…”

The embarrassment was too genuine to doubt.

“What for?” Teklómenes pressed.

“I don’t know,” the other said softly. “She said they were orders from the Queen.”

From Freyra?

“…I see,” said Teklómenes, thoughtful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you, I just reacted. Tell me, what is your name?”

“My name is Rey… Reyvren.”

“Well, Reyvren, in that case you may return to your daily activities. You no longer have to follow me in secret. I will speak with the Queen.”

Reyvren nodded, somewhat uncertain.

“Alright,” he said shyly. “Thank you, Your Highness. In that case… I think I’ll return to my Master.”

The boy spread his wings and took off, his flight uneven, faltering slightly as he disappeared between the trees. Teklómenes remained perched on the branch long after he was gone, unmoving, processing what had just happened, before deciding to return to the palace as well.

As soon as he arrived, he immediately headed to Freyra’s study and knocked on the door with his knuckles.

“Come in,” the drakona answered.

She was sitting behind her desk, surrounded by a disorderly pile of scrolls. Endless royal bureaucracy.

“Freyra,” Teklómenes said as he stepped inside, stopping in front of her desk. “Did you order that young drakón to spy on me?”

She looked up, meeting his gaze with a faint, amused smile that immediately unsettled him.

“You’re only noticing now, little one?”

“I noticed before,” he replied, jaw tightening. “I just wasn’t certain. And… he never felt dangerous.”

“Then what troubles you?” she asked lightly, as if the matter were trivial.

Teklómenes frowned, something sharper flickering beneath the surface.

“Why him?” he pressed. “If you truly wanted me watched, you would have sent a royal guard. Someone capable.”

“I didn’t send someone to watch you,” Freyra said, calmly setting aside her scrolls, giving him her full, undivided attention. “I sent someone for you to find.”

Teklómenes blinked, caught off guard.

“…Why?”

“Well,” she said, leaning back, studying him with quiet intent, “after the last time you ended up confined to bed, the royal healer and I had a long discussion. And we thought that perhaps, if we wanted to keep you out of harm’s way…”

“You thought I needed a babysitter?” Teklómenes snapped, the words coming out harsher than intended. Heat flared in his chest, defensive. Did Freyra think he was a fragile little dove that needed 24/7 supervision? Did she truly see him like that now? A useless bird, a helpless chick?  

Freyra did not react to his complaint and continued:

“You need a friend.”

The avian’s yellow eyes widened, startled.

“What?”

“Teté,” she said softly now, her tone shifting into a gentler tone. “I know you are a solitary boy, and you enjoy your personal space and your time. But you are no longer a child… and you have never had a friend.”

“You know why,” he muttered, the words scraping past clenched teeth as he dropped his gaze. Sad memories of his childhood resurfaced in his mind like arrows, wounding him. Of course he had tried to have friends in the past, but all he got was mockery, mistreatment, and isolation from the drakón children who had never seen him as one of them.

“I know,” she said quietly. “And that is exactly why Eyra and I believe you might get along with Reyvren. He has no friends either. And from what Eyra has told me, he has wanted to meet you for quite some time.”

“Me?” Teklómenes echoed, disbelief threading through his voice. “Why?”

“Because Reyvren is a mestizo,” Freyra explained. “Half drakón, half avian.”

The words settled heavily. Teklómenes had never met a mestizo before. In fact, it had never even crossed his mind that someone like that could exist. And yet, it all made sense: the feathers threading through scales, the unnatural color of his eyes, the smaller horns, the slight frame, the talons that were definitely those of an avian.

“I didn’t know mestizos could exist,” Teklómenes admitted.

“They are rare,” Freyra said. “And rarely accepted. In the past, radical groups like the Taksmenn Clan hunted them without mercy, calling them abominations and “mistakes” that should never have lived. Even now, few survive. Drakones and avians barely cross paths. Besides, most of the time the eggs don’t even survive, and if they do, they are more likely to get sick during childhood and die. I had never heard of a case that managed to live past coming of age, not until now”

Every word made Teklómenes feel more conflicted. Reyvren’s face rose unbidden in his mind, followed by the image of the arrow buried in his wing. He swallowed. The truth was that Teklómenes had always wanted friends. Avians were social and gregarious, it was something instinctive, deeply rooted. But over time rejection had worn him down, until he convinced himself that perhaps his destiny was to be a solitary bird.

Not a drakón and no avians left to belong to.

Maybe… Reyvren stood in that same empty space.

“I… apologize for my behavior,” Teklómenes said at last, bowing his head slightly. “When I see him again, I will try to speak with him properly.”

“That is all I ask,” Freyra said, giving him a kind smile. “I want you safe, Teté. And happy. And I want someone to be there for you when I cannot. Strength is not only found in claws or wings. Sometimes… it is found in those who carry us when we can no longer stand on our own.”  

Teklómenes gave a small nod before excusing himself, retreating to his chambers. That night, sleep did not come easily. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, Freyra’s words circling endlessly in his mind. Perhaps it was worth trying to have a friend again and giving this strange boy a chance. Just once more.

It won’t be the same as before, he told himself. It can’t be the same.

A few days later, Teklómenes returned to the forest to train. This time he noticed that no one followed him, and a faint hit of guilt pricked his heart as the memory resurfaced—his voice telling Reyvren to stop, the arrow striking, the way he had flinched.

I hope his wing healed properly, he thought.

The day unfolded with normalcy, and Teklómenes trained until the last arrow left his crossbow. The final shot went wide, veering off course before vanishing into a natural pond near a cultivation area. With a frustrated breath, he beat his wings and rose above the treetops, angling toward the water to retrieve it, when something caught his eye: A flicker of red.

As he passed over a small clearing, the afternoon sun struck against something below, a sharp glint that pulled his gaze downward. There, half-hidden among the brush, someone moved, gathering mushrooms and flowers into a large woven basket.

The wings gave him away immediately: red scales, black feathers.

Reyvren, surely gathering medicinal herbs for the infirmary.

Good, Teklómenes thought. I’ll retrieve the arrow and then come back to talk to him. I owe him an apology.

He sped up and descended toward the pond. The water was cold when he stepped in, rising to his thighs, the surface rippling outward in soft, widening circles. He searched blindly with his feet, toes dragging across the sandy bottom until they brushed against something hard and rigid, but it was not the arrow.

Frowning, he bent and retrieved it, lifting it into the light. A long, slender bone. Had it been a normal bone, he could have ignored it, but this one was etched with runes, blackened and charred as if it had been burned.

Sorcerers, Teklómenes told himself, feeling a knot in his stomach. He already had a bad experience with sorcerers that had nearly cost him his life. They were not very tough enemies, but their magic made them extremely dangerous. They were a plague that never seemed to leave drakonic lands. I must be very careful not to run into any of them.

He dropped the bone back into the water and resumed searching. When he finally found the missing arrow, he snatched it up, secured it, and wasted no time taking flight again, back to the clearing. However, upon arriving, he knew something was wrong.

The clearing stood empty. The basket lay on its side, half its contents scattered across the ground—mushrooms crushed into the dirt, delicate flowers trampled, herbs torn loose and abandoned.

Reyvren was gone.

A sharp pulse of alarm shot through Teklómenes. He landed immediately, scanning the area, senses straining. It didn’t take long before he discovered two sets of footprints, still fresh on the ground. And beside them a third trail, dragged, as if something—or someone—had been pulled away, deeper into the thickness of the forest.

Teklómenes’ stomach dropped.

Sorcerers.

And they had taken Reyvren.

Teklómenes didn’t hesitate. He launched himself forward, following the tracks without another thought, his mind racing ahead of him, assembling a plan with frantic precision. As long as he stayed out of the reach of the sorcerers’ magic it would be easy to defeat them. His crossbow would be enough. He only prayed he wasn’t already too late, because sorcerers were known for not keeping prisoners, not for long, as they used them as sacrifices for their demonic rituals.

If Reyvren died before he could apologize… Teklómenes didn’t want to imagine it, to face the crushing weight of losing—again—the one chance he had been given to make a friend.

Next

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16 @justabitofwhump @writinglittlepains @warmfuzz-ies

Teklómenes woke choking on a breath. He panicked, as if even breathing could be taken from him again in any moment. Then he noticed a familiar texture, something wrapped around his body as if it had been shaped for him. Softness. Warmth. Safety. His nest.

A broken sob left him before he even opened his eyes, his body curling tightly into the sheets and pillows, clinging to them as if they were the only thing keeping him from falling back into the darkness of the coffin. A hand touched his head and he flinched violently until he recognized a familiar voice, soft as a lullaby.

“Everything will be alright, you are safe.”

Safe. The word felt unreal after so many days in the cold palace. Still trembling, he forced himself not to pull away as the hand stroked his hair. Slowly, he let that warmth seep in. He felt like a small child indeed, clinging to it until the shaking eased.

Teklómenes opened his eyes. He was back in his nest, in his room. Freyra sat beside him, offering a careful, exhausted smile. Deep, dark circles shadowed her eyes.

“How do you feel, treasure?” she asked.

Teklómenes pushed himself up with effort, a sharp hiss slipping through his teeth. Pain flared everywhere, as if he had been beaten violently. It did not take long for him to notice that, beneath the pajamas, he was wrapped in bandages, the most noticeable being the ones wrapped around his neck.

His breath hitched. The memories of last month crashed into him, a tangled flood of fragmented images and piercing sounds. The vampires. Silas. Lady Winter. The coffin. Darkness pressing in. No air. No escape.

He folded in on himself, wings snapping closed around his body. He could feel the phantom hands roaming over his skin, possessive and restraining. Fangs sinking into his flesh, again and again, feeding, draining, leaving behind a hollow, gnawing agony.

Tears spilled over before he noticed, silent at first, then breaking into uneven sobs that scraped against his ruined throat. Freyra moved to hold him. He recoiled at first, then recognition flickered in. This was Freyra, not her, he was safe, not there.

He let her, and without a word, she gathered him carefully into her arms, holding him carefully as if he might shatter, letting him fall apart.

“I am sorry…” Teklómenes choked out. The words felt automatic and desperate. It had been his fault—for sneaking out that night, for wanting to see the festival up close. For not being careful.

“It is not your fault,” Freyra comforted him, as if she had read his mind.

It took long minutes for the sobbing to subside into trembling breaths. When he finally pulled away, his hands were still shaking.

“How did you find me?” he asked, his voice barely steady.

Freyra pressed her lips together, her brows lifting in that familiar expression that say “I do not want to talk about that.”

“It is a long story,” she said gently. “I will tell you later. For now, the most important thing is that you recover your strength. I will call Rozelva so she can bring you something to eat, now that you are awake.”

A few minutes later, Teklómenes sat with a large plate of livers before him. He ate without questioning. His body needed nutrients, he could feel the weakness in every limb, the heaviness dragging at him and the lingering dizziness from blood loss. Though questions still crowded his mind (How did Freyra find him? What happened to the vampires?), he knew the best he could do now was obey the drakona’s instructions and focus on healing.

It did not take long for him to fall asleep again.

The next day Teklómenes realized he felt much better, enough to preen his feathers. The feeling of being clean again, of reclaiming even a fragment of himself, was priceless. Eyra, the royal healer, arrived mid-morning with Freyra to examine him and leave strict instructions: iron-rich meals, absolute rest, and no physical overexertion—no flying beyond the castle and absolutely no training.

Once the healer left, Freyra sat beside the nest again, watching him with a grave, searching expression.

“What do you remember?” she asked. It was not necessary for her to specify—Teklómenes knew what she meant.  

“Everything… Well, more or less. My memories are a bit blurry, but I have a general understanding of what happened. Up until the coffin. After that… nothing.” His voice faltered slightly. “Then I only remember waking up here.” He raised his head, big yellow eyes locking onto hers. “You still haven’t told me how you found me.”

Freyra did not answer immediately.

“When you disappeared…” she began. The words came slow and measured. She drew a breath before continuing, “I was extremely worried. No one saw you leave. No one knew where you had gone. There was nothing, no trace, no clue that could help us find your whereabouts.”

At that, the feathers on Teklómenes’ head flattened against his skull. Shame and guilt burned beneath his skin.

“I feared the worst. But then,” Freyra went on, “a young vampire came to the palace. He called himself Silas.”

Teklómenes froze. His eyes widened, round and bright as twin moons. A vague memory stirred—Silas’ voice, low and urgent, promising escape, telling him that he would help him find someone who could get him out of there. Had he truly gone to find Freyra?

He parted his lips to speak, but Freyra continued first.

“He told us everything. Led us to the castle and explained to us how to break the magical barrier. He was the one who found you in that coffin and carried you back.”

Confusion and conflicting feelings clashed in the avian’s chest. The memory of cold hands, of betrayal, clashed violently with this new truth. Silas had deceived him, kidnapped him, delivered him to that nest of bloodsuckers—delivered him to her—yet… he had also been the one to bring him home.

“What happened to the vampires?” he asked quietly.

“We killed them all,” Freyra replied, her tone flat as if she had been asked the time.

The words settled heavily in his stomach, coiling into a knot.

“And Silas?”

Freyra’s expression was unreadable.

“He told me that if I wished to kill him, I should do so. I would have, without hesitation.” Her voice did not waver. “But I chose to leave that decision to you.”

“Me?” Teklómenes felt more and more unsettled. “But I have no place in the tribunal…”

“No,” Freyra said firmly. “But you have authority over yourself. If you decide he should die, or rot in the dungeon, or earn forgiveness, whatever you choose, I’ll make sure it is done. He accepted that. He placed his fate in your hands.”

The knot inside Teklómenes’s gut tightened painfully. Days ago, he would have killed Silas without a second thought if he had had the chance. He was still anger—of being used and tricked and violated—but now all those feelings were tangled with something else. What did he owe to someone who had both destroyed and saved him?

“What should I do?” he asked in a faint voice.

Freyra did not answer. She stood unmoving and unreadable, like a golden statue. In that stillness, Teklómenes was reminded that she was not only the one who had sheltered him, but a queen who had slaughtered without mercy. His jaw tightened.

“Where is he?”

“In the dungeon.”

“Can I see him?”

“If you are ready.”

Teklómenes hesitated, the memory of the fangs, the blood and the coffin pressing in at the edges of his mind.

“…Alright.”

Teklómenes did not dare go until three days had passed. By then, his body had regained its healthy color, and part of his energy had returned. The bite marks had begun to fade under layers of healing ointments.

He could not keep delaying the inevitable.

The path to the dungeon was deeply unpleasant. It lay within a network of underground caves carved beneath the mountain. Some cells had narrow openings above—thin shafts of light that barely reached the floor—but the section they approached had none of those.

The guard stopped before a heavy metal door. The air there was damp, stale and cold. Beyond the barred slit, the interior of the cell was swallowed in thick darkness.  

“At the first sign of aggression, call out and I will remove you immediately, Your Highness,” the guard said. Teklómenes nodded.

The key turned with a dull scrape, and the door creaked open. Darkness held for a moment longer, until the guard lit the wall brazier with a breath of flame. Light flickered weakly across the stone and revealed the prisoner within, small and diminished in a cell meant for something far larger.

Silas was chained to the back wall, wrists bound behind him, the chain fixed to a heavy ring embedded in stone. He sat on the floor with his knees drawn to his chest. He did not react to the door, nor to the sudden light, but he did when his name was spoken.

“Silas.”

The door shut behind the avian. A tense silence stretched before the vampire slowly raised his head. His eyes were black again, bottomless and starved, the same as the night of the festival. A muzzle covered his mouth, a cruel cage of metal strapped tight around his skull to keep him from biting.

The sight of him—restrained, almost pitiful—sent a sharp, conflicted ache through Teklómenes’ chest. He stepped a little closer, every instinct alert, and sat cross-legged at a cautious distance.

“Before anything else,” he began, his voice quieter than he intended, “I want to thank you. If it had not been for you, I… I would have died that night.”

Silas did not answer. His gaze dropped to the floor.

“Why did you do it?” Teklómenes asked.

No response came. Teklómenes exhaled slowly.

“If you do not wish to speak, I will return another day.”

He started to rise when…

“Wait.”

The word came rough and strained. Silas leaned forward as far as the chains allowed, something torn and uncertain in his expression.

“I… If I am honest, I do not fully know why I did it,” he admitted. “Maybe… I saw something of myself in you. More than I wanted to.”

Teklómenes hesitated, then sat again, this time a little closer, curiosity flickering despite the unease coiled in his gut. Now it was Silas’ turn to let out a sigh.

“I lived in that village once. Very long, long ago. It was just my father and me. My mother died when I was young, and my older siblings had already married and left, so it was always just us. He was a tailor, and I was learning the trade. I liked it.” His gaze unfocused, drifting somewhere far beyond the cell. “We did not have much, but we had enough. We had each other and we were happy.”

He paused.

“Until one night…”

~🪶🔥🪶🔥~

Silas could barely sleep, his mind would not settle. Was it because of that woman? For days, he had been haunted by a strange female presence. Sometimes he glimpsed her from the corner of his eye, watching from the end of a street, vanishing the moment he tried to approach. Other times he caught sight of her in the crowd, a pale face among many, fixed on him, following him like a shadow. That afternoon, before extinguishing the candles, he thought he saw her silhouette beyond the window.

The strangest part was that she only ever appeared at night, and Silas began to wonder if she might truly be something not of this world.

“Father, I think a woman’s ghost is following me,” he said once at breakfast, trying to explain the origin of his unease.

“Could it be your late mother?” the man asked, who had always been a firm believer in tales of specters.

“Impossible,” Silas replied. “This woman is pale as wax, with long, straight black hair, so long it nearly touches the ground.”

Fearing something darker, his father took him to the church the next day, but to Silas’ misfortune, nothing drove the mysterious presence away.

That night, he shifted restlessly in bed, chasing sleep that would not come. When he turned to face the window, he froze. It stood wide open. The night air stirred the thin curtains and moonlight spilled into the room, illuminating a tall figure standing beside his bed.

By the time he tried to react, it was already too late.

“FA—mnph!”

A hand, cold as death, clamped over his mouth. Another seized his throat and squeezed.

“Hush, beautiful creature,” a voice purred, ice breath against his ear.

The pressure on his throat increased, and Silas lost consciousness.

That was how Silas’ life as Lady Winter’s bloodbag began. Each night he was dragged from his small stone cell and taken before the leader of the vampires who inhabited the ruins of an old palace.

“Do not be afraid, pretty thing, it will be over quickly,” she would murmur before sinking her fangs into his neck.

It never was. Silas screamed, his body arching helplessly, pinned in her grasp, his limbs heavy and unresponsive under the venom flooding his veins. He could feel everything—the puncture, the pull, the slow draining that left him cold and hollow. When she was finished, she discarded him back into his cell, only to repeat it again the next night.

Weeks blurred into months of that endless nightmare, until one night, it all changed. Lady Winter brought him to her chamber. After feeding of him, she tore open her own wrist.

“Open wide,” she said, mocking, and forced it into his mouth.

Silas struggled, but inside the narrow coffin, with her weight pressing him down, there was nowhere to go. The blood flooded his mouth—bitter, burning, wrong. It slid down his throat like swallowing molten iron. Pain exploded through him, far worse than anything before. His body convulsed violently, every nerve screaming, until the agony took everything away from him and he passed out.

When he woke up, his heart no longer beat.

And the thirst was unbearable.

Lady Winter took him back to the village. The world swayed around him, blurred and distant, his throat dry as ash.  Yet, when he recognized the familiar houses and streets that had seen him grow up, bathed in dim moonlight, something like relief broke through the haze: Home.

He found it almost by instinct. The moment he saw it in the distance he ran at great speed, pounding on the door with shaking hands. Shortly after, it opened. His father stood there, lantern in hand, his eyes sunken with sleepless nights.

“Father…”

At the sight of him, the man’s eyes filled with tears.

“My boy!” he cried, pulling him close, hands cupping his face, his hair, as if afraid he might vanish again.

Silas wanted to cry, but no tears came. Still, he clung to him, burying his face against his father’s neck, losing himself in his warmth, feeling the steady pulse of his veins, the scent of blood beneath his skin…

The next thing Silas knew, his father’s dead body lay limp in his arms.

The thirst was gone.

~🪶🔥🪶🔥~

The vampire fell silent. Teklómenes said nothing either, absorbing the weight of that story. For a long moment, only the faint crackle of the brazier filled the space. Then he spoke:

“I am very sorry.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you for telling me your story. I think… it is time for me to go.”

Silas stood as well, the chain at his back pulling taut with a dull metallic clink.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked. His tone was almost desperate. “I hurt you. I harmed you. Do you not hate me? As you can see, I am completely alone. There is no one left who would mourn me. If you kill me… it would not matter.”

“Do you want to die?” Teklómenes asked, calm, crossing his arms.

Silas frowned and lowered his gaze.

“Of course not,” he admitted, lowering his head. “I am afraid of dying. But I do not want to rot in this dungeon until thirst kills me either. I can smell your blood even from here… it is driving me mad. I do not want to become that—a mindless monster, something that exists only to feed. I don’t want to be that again…”

He lifted his head again, pleading with his dark eyes.

“The drakona queen said my life is in your hands. And I accept that. Since I first died, my life has never been mine. First was Lady Winter, now you…” His voice faltered, then steadied. “It is fitting. I know this is my punishment for all the sins I have committed—for what I have done, for those I have killed. At first, she forced me… but later, I chose it. And attacking you, kidnapping you—that was my doing. No one ordered it. I did that.”

His gaze dropped again.

“I understand if you hate me. I would, in your place…”

“I do not hate you, Silas.”

Teklómenes’ voice was quiet, but firm. His expression softened, looking sad. Silas stared, confused, unable to reconcile the words with what he expected.

“What will you do with me?” he asked.

The avian averted his gaze, lost in thought.

“If I am being honest…” he said at last, “I do not want you to die, Silas. Not like this. Despite everything you have done, I cannot deny that I am alive thanks to you.” Teklómenes’ yellow eyes locked onto Silas’ deep black ones. “You will live and leave this place. I only need to decide what punishment fits what you have done. That is my judgment.”

And with those words, he turned and walked toward the door.

“Teklómenes, wait!” Silas called, making him stop. The vampire offered him a small smile, a fragile but real one. “I know we did not meet under the best circumstances, and I know my feelings were not genuine that night, but… I want you to know that… I am truly glad I met you.”

Teklómenes’ face did not change.

“I am sorry,” he replied. “But I do not think I can say the same.”

He turned away again and knocked on the door. The guard led him out, and the brazier was extinguished, leaving Silas once again in complete darkness.

After several days of thought and inquiry, Teklómenes found a solution that ensured peace for his own heart (and he hoped for Silas’ as well). When he presented it to Freyra she was reluctant at first, but his insistence wore her down. In the end, she agreed.

That was how they came to stand at the western docks, the vast ocean stretching endlessly before them, the moon casting a pale path across the waves. An anchored ship waited there, from which a group of people disembarked, all dressed elegantly. If not for their red eyes and long fangs, they would have looked like ordinary humans.

“Thank you for contacting us,” one of them said, bowing respectfully before Freyra and Teklómenes. “My name is Augustus, I am the one in charge of the rehabilitation project. I assure you that Silas will be treated with care on our island.”

His gaze shifted to the young vampire, still bound and muzzled, surrounded by guards.

“I believe in second chances,” Teklómenes said. “When I learned of this program, I knew it was what I was looking for.”

He did not say it out loud, but he was truly glad to have found this place: a small city of vampires on an island, dedicated to trade and craftsmanship, where they survived on animal blood and donated offerings given by towns and kingdoms that supported the cause: that vampires were not monsters, that they could control their thirst for blood and coexist peacefully with others without resorting to violence.

Thanks to Teklómenes, the drakones had agreed to support the effort, sending blood to feed the island’s residents every semester. Drakonic blood, it had been proven, was rich in nutrients and could sustain a vampire for weeks with only a small amount.

Once the agreements were signed and everything was settled, the guards escorted Silas to the boarding ramp. There, two vampire women received him, speaking gentle words to calm him while removing his chains and muzzle. By instinct, Silas turned back to look at Teklómenes. And Teklómenes smile at him, a sweet, sincere smile.

Despite the gnawing hunger clawing at his insides, Silas felt a warm, pleasant sensation spread through his chest. He returned the smile, grateful, before boarding.

Freyra and Teklómenes did not leave the dock until the ship was nothing more than a small dot on the horizon.

“I am impressed by what you did, Teté,” Freyra said. Her golden eyes shone with pride. “You would make a remarkable king.”

Teklómenes only shrugged.

“I only did what I thought was right.”

And with that, the group of drakones and the avian took to the sky and flew back home.

Thank you so much to everyone who read this far! I honestly think this has been one of my favorite Feathers and Flames stories, I really enjoyed writing it! And I hope you enjoyed reading it too ^^

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16 @justabitofwhump @writinglittlepains @warmfuzz-ies

Freyra stood before the empty nest, a knot tightening in her chest. Teklómenes’s room was just as it had been a month ago, as though time itself had frozen: the books still lined the shelves, the feathers lay scattered across the floor, the weapons rested untouched in the wooden box... Yet the question remained.

Where was her little one?

He had vanished overnight, without leaving a note, without leaving so much as a trace.

Some malicious rumors claimed the avian had finally grown tired of living among drakones and had fled to reunite with "his own." Others whispered he had been taken, yet no ransom or threat had come in an entire month. Others said he was dead.

There were no answers, no comfort to be found.

At night, Freyra could not keep herself from weeping. It felt as though something vital had been torn from her heart, and what enraged her even more was not knowing how or why. Was she truly meant to accept it, accept his absence, so easily? To go on living as though he had never existed?

"Your Majesty." A guard’s voice broke through her turmoil. "There is... someone requesting an audience with you. He claims it is urgent."

They made their way to the Audience Chamber. There, encircled by guards with crossbows trained on his heart, stood a stranger—a young man in a cloak, human in appearance. When he lowered the hood and raised his face, red eyes gleamed, catching the firelight of the braziers.

A vampire.

"Are you Queen Freyra?" he asked, his voice unsteady.

The drakona arched a brow. Never before had vampires caused trouble in the kingdom, nor dared they provoke the drakones. For one to appear alone, unannounced, was… unusual.

"Yes. I am," she said.

The vampire pressed his lips together. He shifted his weight, fists tightening in the fabric of his cloak.

"M-my name is Silas, Your Majesty," he said. "And... I know where Teklómenes is."

Freyra’s expression hardened, her wings tensing behind her. Even the guards exchanged uneasy glances.

"How do you know him?" the drakona asked, her voice sharp.

The guilt on Silas’s face was unmistakable.

"Because I... I was the one who kidnapped him."

~

Silas walked down the corridor, carrying a plate of warm food and a glass of water. With practiced ease, he slid aside the stone slab and stepped into the cramped cell. The orb of light that always hovered at his side revealed the avian curled in a corner, his half-naked body hidden beneath his wings. His feathers had already begun to lose their sheen, no matter how many times they washed him, and now they lay dull, messy, and uncared for.

"Hey, I brought your food," the vampire said.

There was no response, not even a flicker of hatred or a muttered insult. It was as if the avian had not registered his presence at all, lying motionless as a statue. With a weary sigh, Silas set the plate on the ground and crouched beside him.

"Hey, Teklómenes," he called softly.

He was alive, that much was clear from the faint, metallic scent of blood still moving through his veins. His body was mottled with bruises, the marks of repeated, merciless bites. His eyes were hollow, his skin deathly pale, untouched by the sun.

Silas kept his thoughts to himself, but over the past month he had watched the avian steadily waste away under the constant abuse. It was not just his blood the vampires were taking—they were eroding his body, unraveling his mind, hollowing out his spirit.

When the other did not react, Silas lifted him and propped him against the wall, like a limp ragdoll that could not hold itself upright.

"You have to eat, remember?" he said, though the certainty in his voice had faded. "If you don’t eat, you die… and if you die…"

And if he died, then what? Lady Winter would simply find another bloodbag, just as she always had.

Just as she had done with Silas.

He shut his eyes, trying to bury those distant, bitter memories. Then, with careful patience, he brought spoonful after spoonful of food to the avian’s lips, waiting for him to chew and swallow, pausing now and then to offer small sips of water. When was the last time he had heard him speak—truly speak—and not just scream or sob in pain?

"Hey... who is Freyra?" he asked.

That seemed to stir Teklómenes from his haze, his gaze sharpening just enough to focus on Silas’s face.

"I ask because… you’ve been saying her name in your sleep," Silas explained.

Teklómenes’s expression twisted for a brief instant, but he forced it down, swallowing whatever threatened to break free, and steadied himself.

"She’s my mother," he whispered, his voice barely there.

Why was Silas asking this? What had driven him to care enough to ask at all? Was it because, over time, he had begun to see himself reflected in Teklómenes—as he once was, nothing more than another of Lady Winter’s victims, torn from his family, his dreams, his life? Or was it his cursed gift—the way feeding let him glimpse fragments of his victims’ minds, their memories, their longings and fears?

Why am I doing this?, he thought.

Once the plate and glass were empty, Silas set them aside. And instead of leaving, as he always did, he stayed.

"The only way you escape," he said quietly, "is one of three: dead, or Lady Winter lets you go—which I doubt—or someone kills her and breaks the barrier. She’s the strongest in this castle, not just because of the power she’s gathered over three centuries, but because of her magic. Is there anyone out there you think could come in and kill her safely? It has to be someone who can do it in a single strike… or they’ll be trapped here too. Do you know anyone like that?"

Teklómenes remained absent for a moment, before nodding his head.

"Good. I’ll go find that person," Silas said. If his heart still beat, it would have been racing. This was treason. "Who are they? How do I find them?"

The avian parted his lips, but no sound came out. With his neck covered in bites and bruises, speaking must have hurt as much as breathing.

"I have an idea," Silas said. "Let me bite you, just enough to see your memories, to learn how to find them. I swear I won’t take more than I need."

Teklómenes looked exhausted beyond words. To compare him to the young man Silas had met in the village’s festival was to speak of two entirely different beings. Without answering, he tilted his head slightly, exposing his battered neck.

"No," Silas murmured, gently taking his arm. "Here. I’ll try not to hurt you."

He sank his fangs in. Teklómenes let out a soft whimper. And then Silas’s mind flooded with images—towering mountains, endless forests, a palace, a golden drakona.

He pulled back, a shudder running down his spine.

This avian was no ordinary one.

He was the adopted son of the drakona queen.

~

Teklómenes was tired. He was so, so cold. His feathers, damp from the forced baths and the constant loss of blood, made it nearly impossible to retain any warmth in that freezing stone prison of a castle. He achingly missed the soft comfort of his nest, the steady, living heat of the drakones. How long had he been trapped here? Months? Years? After the tenth day, he had stopped counting. Each sunrise brought a fragile reprieve from the night’s torment, when, if he failed to obey every command Lady Winter gave, he was thrown to her subjects like a bone tossed to a starving pack.  

He did not know how much longer he could endure that level of abuse—if his body could survive the endless bites that littered his skin, if his mind could withstand the dissociation that came more and more often. His limbs answered him less each day, his thoughts slipping further out of reach. He was slowly becoming a shell. He barely registered when Silas came to feed him, responding only to the dull, instinctive need for food before sinking back into that suffocating stupor.

He was tired.

But night had come, and his mistress needed to feed.

Two vampires entered his cell. Too weak to stand, he was seized by the arms and dragged through the castle, his body scraping uselessly against the cold stone. Lady Winter usually fed in the throne room, but if Teklómenes behaved, she chose her private chamber instead, sparing him the ravenous stares of the others. And lately, Teklómenes had behaved very well.

They reached a vast and lavish bedroom, lit by floating orbs of magic that mimicked distant stars. Thick velvet curtains smothered every window but one, allowing a blade of moonlight to spill across the open coffin at the room’s center. Its exterior was polished black wood, studded with gold, its interior plush and lined with delicate lace.

"Beautiful creature," Lady Winter greeted, waiting beside it.

After Teklómenes pressed a trembling kiss to her hand, the other vampires lifted him and lowered him into the coffin. He barely fit, his wings crushed tightly against his body, feathers bending and spilling over the edges. Once alone, Lady Winter climbed in after him. With no space to lie side by side, she settled atop him, forcing his legs apart to make room.

Her ritual began as always: with scent. She leaned down, pressing her nose to his throat, tracing the fragile paths of his veins, breathing in the soap and the copper pulse beneath his skin.

"I do not know what you have," she purred, "that you taste unlike any avian I have tried."

Teklómenes turned his head away, ignoring her provocations. He only wanted it to end—quickly, please, quickly—so he could return to his cell and forget everything. But Lady Winter took her time, always patient, cruelly patient, like someone savoring the anticipation of dessert, delaying the first bite so it would not end too soon. Instead, she dragged her fangs along his collarbones, sank her fingers into his feathers, stroked his face in a parody of tenderness that felt more like ownership, like being claimed and consumed.

Teklómenes swallowed, trying to force down the knot strangling his throat. And after all of it—after being reduced to nothing, but an appetizer—came the bite. Fangs piercing flesh. Blood drawn and stolen. It never hurt less, but after a month, he had learned how to cry without making a sound.

Then the chamber door burst open.

"Milady!" someone cried. "We have been invaded!"

Lady Winter pulled back from her victim, irritation sharpening her features as she turned to the intruder with a frown.

"Who dares interrupt me?"

From where Teklómenes lay, flat on his back, he could not see the vampire’s face, but he heard the fear in his voice.

"Drakones. A group has entered the castle."

Something sparked deep inside him, something that had long been buried beneath pain and exhaustion. Hope. And it flared brighter at the next words:

"They are led by a golden drakona. She is searching for the avian."

Freyra.

The name burned through him like fire. Every nerve jolted awake, every instinct screaming, urging him to fight, to go home.

"FREYRA!" he cried, forcing his wings to move, struggling to rise from the coffin. "FREY-mnh!"

An icy hand clamped over his mouth, slamming him back down. Lady Winter’s face had gone rigid, brittle as cracking ice.

"I will not let them find him," she said. She tried to keep calm, but her tone trembled at the edges. "Bring me something to bind him. And gag him. He must be hidden."

"Mmmn!"

Teklómenes thrashed weakly, but he was no match for two well-fed vampires. Strips of cloth bit into his wrists, arms, ankles, legs—above and below the knee—pinning him down until he could not move at all. A handkerchief and scarf were forced between and around his lips, smothering his cries into broken, useless sounds. His wings did not need binding; they were already trapped by the coffin’s narrow confines.

"I will come back for you later," Lady Winter said, before slamming the lid shut.

Darkness swallowed him whole. Panic surged instantly. He struggled, but the coffin held him tight, a claustrophobic prison closing in on all sides. I am going to run out of air, the thought clawed through him. Even in his distressed, he forced himself to breathe slower, or the oxygen would vanish too quickly. Struggling was useless, he was bound too tightly. The coffin gave him no room to wiggle. Screaming was worse than useless, the gag choked every sound and breath.

If no one came soon… this would truly be his last night.

~

If looks could kill, the long black-haired woman vampire would have already been reduced to ash beneath Freyra’s gaze.

Following Silas’s directions, the golden drakona had brought a unit of royal guards to storm that nest of bloodsuckers. Her objective was absolute: she would not leave until she found her little one… and that on the throne bitch was dead.

"Where is he?" Freyra demanded, her voice edged with steel.

"Where is what?" the vampire replied, her fanged smile painted with false innocence. "I have no idea what a group of drakones is doing in my castle—but know this: you are not welcome. Why don’t you leave and return to your own affairs?"

"You have an avian in your possession," Freyra said. "He is mine, and I am not leaving without him."

The vampire’s mask finally cracked, twisting into open irritation.

"He is mine. You have made a grave mistake. None of you will leave this place alive."

"I will—once I kill you," Freyra replied, a dangerous and confident smile curving her lips. "A magical barrier? Please. I just need to tear your head off and it all comes down."

The vampire’s eyes widened.

"H-how did you—?"

That was when Lady Winter saw him. Hidden among the tall, vivid forms of the drakones stood a young man with dark skin, black curls and eyes like twin rubies.

"You!" she snarled, pointing at the traitor. "After everything I gave yout… his is how you repay me?!"

Silas almost shrank back, tempted to hide again, but forced himself forward instead. The moonlight poured through the great window illuminated him like a spotlight. Emotions he had buried for decades surged violently to the surface.

"I won’t let you keep abusing Teklómenes!" he shouted. "He has a family to go back to!"

Lady Winter’s laughter rang out, sharp and cruel, echoing through the hall.

"How hypocritical and pathetic," she sneered. "Coming from the one who delivered him to me."   

"I know," Silas said through clenched teeth. "And I regret it. I won’t keep doing this. I won’t let you use him anymore."

"And what inspired this sudden change of heart?" she mocked, placing a hand to her chest. 

"Because…" Silas faltered, searching for courage, for the right words. Freyra’s gaze held his, steady and unyielding. He clenched his fists and fixed on the vampire again. "I’m not innocent. I’m a murderer—you made me one—but I won’t keep being this! I won’t let you control me anymore! You made me into this… or have you forgotten after eighty years? How you kidnapped me, used me as a bloodbag, then turned me and forced me to kill my own father?!"

His voice broke into a raw, accusing shout. Blood tears streaked freely now down his face. Lady Winter only pouted.

"If you miss him so much, then go join him!"

She moved, too fast to follow, lunging straight for him, claws outstretched for his throat. She would have reached him if Freyra had not intercepted, unleashing a blast of fire that forced the vampire to veer away with a hiss.

"Kill them!" Lady Winter’s command rang like a spell. From the shadows, dozens of armed vampires surged forward, crashing into the drakones. The throne room erupted into chaos.

"Find Teklómenes!" Freyra ordered.

"Y-yes!" Silas ran, one drakón at his back, shielding him from the onslaught. Traitor to his kind or not, he knew what that meant. Death would come for him eventually.

He reached the stone cell, shoved aside the slab, and froze. It was empty. Had they come too late? Had they moved him? Hidden him? Panic clawed up his throat as he spun and bolted for the stairs. The corridors narrowed, forcing the drakón companion to fall behind. Silas kept running alone until he reached the Lady’s chamber. He burst inside and was again greeted by an empty room.

"Teklómenes, where are you?!"

He got no response.

Trying to ignore the dread that had taken over his whole body, he searched the wardrobe and behind the curtains, but returned empty-handed. Then his gaze fell on the coffin.

If his heart still beat, it would have been breaking his ribs. He stepped closer and lifted the lid. And choked.

Teklómenes lay inside—bound, gagged and unmoving. His skin was pale, too pale. His chest wasn’t moving.

"No!" Silas cried, dragging him out with shaking hands. "Hey, can you hear me?" His voice cracked as he tore the gag away. There was no reaction. The body in his arms was cold and limp.

Silas pressed his ear to Teklómenes’s chest and found a breath—faint, fragile, barely there. And a heartbeat—weak, but alive.

Relief hit him like a blow. It wasn’t too late. He didn’t waste another second. Gathering the broken avian in his arms, Silas ran out of the room.

~

The ground was slick with blood. The vampires moved like shadows, fast and nearly invisible, hurling themselves at the drakones, aiming for throats and wings; but they were no match for experienced warriors, who answered with silver-tipped arrows and clean, brutal strikes, severing heads and ending the bloodsucking scourge. Bodies began to pile, one over another.  

Lady Winter wielded her magic with precision, wrenching chunks of stone from the crumbling walls and launching them across the hall to crush her enemies. Freyra answered with fire, forcing her back, pressing the attack, blade flashing as she drove her toward a corner. This had to end now. She needed to know Silas had not betrayed her. She needed to know her child still lived.

The vampire twisted her hand, and shards of broken glass ripped free from a shattered corner, lifting into the air before flying straight for Freyra’s face. Freyra raised her arm just in time to shield her eyes, but several shards bit into her skin, drawing thin, burning lines of blood.

"You know?" The vampire’s voice sounded beside her right ear.

Freyra struck in that direction, but met only empty air.

"They say drakonic blood is among the finest."

Now the voice came from the left. Freyra turned again, but nothing. Suddenly, she felt cold fingers at her throat, a warm tongue dragging over her wounds, tasting. Freyra’s wings snapped open, beating the air with violent force. The vampire slipped away laughing, retreating with a slow lick of her lips.

"Exquisite," she murmured. "Not so different from the avian… Perhaps I’ll decide to keep you too."

Freyra bared her teeth with a low, furious growl.

"Freyra!"

The shout cut through the chaos, making her turn. Silas stood at the far end of the hall, signaling desperately. Beside him, the drakón guard, and in his arms…

Teté.

The world fell away. Sound, battle, blood, all gone. There was only him. Only the still, broken body of his son in someone else’s arms.

And Lady Winter saw him too.

"He’s mine!" she shrieked, launching forward like a bolt of lightning, hunger and fury twisting her features.

Freyra was faster. Her blade flashed with one clean arc and cut. The pale neck parted. Lady Winter’s body collapsed, lifeless, crumpling into a spreading pool of crimson across the polished floor.

The battle ended quickly after that. One by one, the remaining vampires fell, until none were left standing. None, except Silas.

Silence reclaimed the throne room, returning the old castle to its true nature: to be a tomb.

While the drakones dragged the bodies outside to burn, Freyra crossed the distance and gathered Teté into her arms. Her breath caught at the sight of him—bruised, bitten, broken. Alive, but barely. He needed urgent medical attention.

"I am very sorry," Silas said, dropping to his knees before her. "This is my fault. All of it. If you wish to kill me… do it. I have no family nor home to return to, anyway."

His fists clenched against his thighs. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, baring his throat in surrender.

Freyra said nothing at first, reflecting.

"If not for you, I would have lost my son forever. You are not without guilt, but your fate is not mine to decide."

She lowered her gaze to Teté, still unconscious between her arms. Then turned to the guards.

"Bind him. He comes with us."

Later, the drakones rose from the ruins, wings cutting through the air as they flew toward their kingdom.

Behind them remained the burning pyre that consumed the dead, the palace of shadows collapsing into ash, the scent of blood fading with the past.

Ahead, the sun broke over the horizon.

Next

Thanks for reading!!! Next chapter will be the recovery ⭐

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16 @justabitofwhump @writinglittlepains @warmfuzz-ies

"You're in the wrong place for that -- this is the PC department. Follow me and I'll show you where the Playstations are."

Lex's relief that this human was willing to help was squelched when he realized that the video game department was loud, colorful, and irritating. Brian unlocked a case, handing a large box to Lex.

"Here's your Playstation! Will you be purchasing any games for it?"

"Yes."

They stood there in silence, facing each other, until Lex realized that he was probably meant to elaborate on that statement.

"Do you have any idea of what games your…"

"Husband."

Brian looked a bit surprised, but took that in stride. "Do you have any idea of what games he likes?"

"Loud games, that make tinny noises."

Even Lex could realize that he was being patronized as Brian smiled and nodded. Lex had a fleeting thought of putting him under, of seeing what he would look like when he was rendered obedient…

No, he couldn't do that. He was here for Fitz's birthday present.

…And wouldn't a brand new and appealing thrall make an even better birthday present than a Play-whatever?

"I might need a little bit more information to go on than that," said Brian.

"Do you like video games?"

"Oh, yes, that's why I took this job in the first place. I get an employee discount on all games and software."

Lex smiled. Finally, something in this place that was worth acquiring. This Brian was an enticing meal, he had an obviously subservient nature, and he could play games with Fitz, so that Fitz stopped badgering Lex to try them.

"What games do you like playing, Brian?"

"I can show you my favorite game at the moment," said Brian, perking up at the request. He led Lex over to a display of flat cases. "It's called Final Fantasy VII, and it's an incredibly immersive adventure. Some people are even calling it the greatest game ever made. The music is incredible, and the story and characters really pull me in. If your husband knows anything about video games, he's probably wanted to play this one."

"I'll take it," said Lex, who had zoned out through most of that explanation. "Is there anything else I should get?"

"Oh, you'll definitely need a memory card. Maybe two. And a second controller is always a good idea. Let me show you…"

Brian eagerly piled Lex high with a stack of items. He clearly saw Lex as someone with money to spend and no idea of what he was doing, which was both accurate and fine with Lex. Fitz would love being spoiled with a mountain of games, and he was definitely going to love having Brian entranced and kneeling at his feet.

"Would you mind helping me carry these out?" asked Lex, feigning trouble with all of the bags. "They're a bit heavy."

"Oh, of course!" Brian already seemed willing to do anything for Lex, probably because he was going to get a nice commission from everything he'd just sold. He took the bags from Lex and walked out of the store into the dimly lit parking lot. "Where is your car?"

"I think I parked over here," said Lex, leading Brian away from the store and into a lonely corner of the lot. Lex didn't have a car, of course -- he'd never felt comfortable with them, and Fitz would drive him if he really needed it. Brian, of course, had no way of knowing that. Just as the two walked into the shadow under a broken street lamp, and Lex was preparing to seal the lad's fate…

Lex was sure he felt eyes on him, as if he were the one being stalked.

"Is everything okay?" asked Brian, looking back at Lex, who had stopped dead, trying to figure out what he was sensing.

"Everything's fine," said Lex -- or at least everything would be fine in a moment. Even if it was a hunter, hunters had posed little threat to Lex in decades, falling easily under his sway. He began to hum.

Something sharp and painful hit him in the neck.

Lex pulled it out -- a dart with a red feather on its tail. A tranquilizer dart? That sort of thing usually took an inordinately high dose to work on a vampire. Did his assailant even realize that Lex was a vampire? If they didn't, why would they be trying to capture him? All of these thoughts ran through Lex's head rapid-fire. He certainly didn't feel tranquilized, not yet.

"What the hell?" Brian dropped the bags, hiding behind a parked car.

Well, the time for pretense was over now. Lex began to sing more forcefully, a song of sleep and submission, one guaranteed to subdue whoever was listening.

It only took one note for him to realize that his voice didn't sound right. It lacked the timbre it usually had, less deep and melodic, devoid of its power. He tried again, louder this time, which only made his voice sound strained. There was no hypnosis in it. Whatever was in the dart had altered his voice, robbed him of his weapon and his shield.

Someone not only knew who he was, but exactly how to counter him. Lex felt a cold pit of dread forming inside him, something he hadn't had to feel in a very long time.

Before he could make the decision to run or stand and fight, a handful of people emerged from the shadows. They were dressed entirely in black, with equipment strapped to their waists and backs. Modern hunters, he supposed.

Lex's strength and speed, while much greater than that of the average human, was substandard for a vampire. He'd have no issue escaping from a single hunter, but five humans with special training? He didn't like his odds, not without his voice.

Was he going to die here?

It had been so long since he'd genuinely wished for death. He thought of Fitz and his thralls at home. He hadn't told anyone where he was going, since it was meant to be a birthday surprise for Fitz. If he were reduced to dust in the parking lot of an electronics store, no one would ever know what became of him. How long would they hope that he was coming home? No, he didn't want to die here.

If only he had his voice, he could put them all to sleep with a few choice notes, and be free of this place!

The only sensible option he had, given the odds, was to run, and he knew he had to try it soon, before the hunters made their next move. He steeled himself and dashed towards the most promising gap in their lineup, only for the hunters to close in on him and tackle him to the ground. One of them blew something in his face, a strange powder that felt thick and heavy and smelled sharp. He didn't need to breathe, so he could avoid breathing any of it, but it was still on his skin, in his eyes -- his eyes, which now felt strange and heavy.

He struggled against the hunters' grasp, the gloomy parking lot spinning around him as a deep weakness settled into his bones. Whatever the hunter had just used on him, it was potent, like an inescapable fog settling into his mind.

One of the hunters grabbed his chin and forced him to look into her face. "Vampire," she said with a grin. "How are you feeling now?"

"I -- um --" He searched for his words, some defiant retort or threat, but his thoughts were submerged, slipping through his grasp as he tried to hold onto them.

"Do you like that? A taste of your own medicine."

A taste of his own…? What did that mean? It was bad, he knew that, but that was as far as his mind could go. He couldn't escape, couldn't pull free of the hunters.

"I don't -- I don't want to die," he said, voicing the only thought that was clear in his head. He must have sounded pathetic, but it was far too late to worry about that. "Please don't kill me. I don't want to die."

"You're already dead," one of the other hunters scoffed. "How many people have you killed or enthralled that were begging for their lives just like you are? You deserve this."

Alexander shuddered. Maybe he did. He couldn't articulate a rebuttal.

"We're not going to kill you. That would be too easy for something like you," said the first hunter, yanking Alexander's hair to force his face closer. "How does it feel to be helpless and at someone else's mercy? Do you like it?"

There was a brief flash of a memory from long, long ago, back when he was human and defenseless, back when his days were nothing but suffering and misery. He couldn't think of exactly what that was, but he knew that he didn't want to go back there. He'd rather die. A whimper escaped his lips. "No, I don't like it."

Her hand twisted in his hair. "Say 'no, sir'."

"No, sir!"

"There you go. Was that so hard?" she said. "I have good news for you, bloodsucker: we're not going to kill you. An old vampire like you, rendered helpless? You're worth a lot to the right buyer."

"No -- no, please -- "

"Quiet," she said, pressing a finger against his lips. He nodded, unable to do anything but obey.

"That's some kind of miracle potion," said a voice behind Alexander. "Look at him, doing everything you say."

"Isn't it great?" she said, her grin spreading wider. "You're going to be quiet and docile, just like the thralls you vampires love to make, and you're going to come with us, where we have a special cage just for you." She pulled his face even closer. "And you're never going to enthrall a human or drink blood ever again."

Alexander could do nothing but quail at her remarks. The nightmare he thought he'd escaped was coming back for him again, and there was nothing he could do about it, his mind nothing but terror and forced subservience. What kind of person would want a chained vampire? Surely no one who intended to treat him well.

"Follow," she said, snapping her fingers, as the rest of the hunters hauled Alexander to his feet and began to half-drag, half-lead him towards a black van parked in the shadows. He could feel it deep in his bones, the conviction that once he entered that van, he would never return to his familiar life. He tried to dig in his heels, but it was a feeble effort at best, drugged as he was. The hunters only redoubled their efforts, practically tossing him into the back, where his head hit the cold metal.

"Careful, don't damage him," said one of the hunters.

"He's a vampire, he's not going to get damaged from that," scoffed another. "Let's make sure he behaves for the ride." A hunter loomed above him, pressing his hand down on Lex's chest and stabbing another dart into his neck. The world began to fade away as the hunters laughed.

Without opening his eyes, Elafi turned in bed and hugged his deer plush. His body felt numb and heavy. He swallowed and felt a sharp pain at the back of his throat. His head throbbed, clouded as if stuffed with damp cotton. In short, he felt unwell. Could it be because winter was getting closer? The first rains had already begun, and the early mornings were growing colder and colder.

"Feeling bad can’t be an excuse not to help around the house," he thought, forcing himself to gather strength and get up.

He bathed and dressed slowly. He felt like a zombie, like he was in some kind of trance. His stomach growled, hollow and insistent after the long night, but the idea of eating made his insides churn. He sniffed, feeling congested. Why did his body ache so much? Why was he so cold, even now?

In the kitchen, he found Warrick making breakfast.

"Good morning," the man greeted, briefly lifting his gaze from the pan with eggs and ham.

"Good morning," Elafi replied. His throat burned when he spoke, so he stood to pour himself a glass of water before sitting down in a chair at the table.

"Are you okay?" Warrick asked him.

"I think I feel tired," Elafi said, downplaying it.

"Couldn’t you sleep or did you have a nightmare?" the man insisted, serving the plates with food and two steaming cups, one of black coffee and the other of hot chocolate.

"No," the boy murmured, suddenly feeling ashamed. What was he complaining about so much? He was fine, just tired. "Maybe I’m still tired from yesterday’s training."

Warrick chewed a bit of breakfast and swallowed.

"Well, you’ll have to get used to it, because today we’re continuing."

As part of the routine Warrick had imposed on Elafi was exercising and practicing a bit of self-defense. Elafi had not shown any talent for either of the two so far, but the man insisted it would bring him good results, physically and mentally, over time.

After breakfast they worked all morning in the garden and the orchard. Even when that was Elafi’s favorite part of the day, the deer boy felt he couldn’t enjoy it fully, since he was getting tired too quickly and his throat hurt more and more. He coughed, the sound rough, which only made the pain spike sharper.

"Are you sure you’re okay?" Warrick asked, while throwing him that suspicious look.

"Yes, I’ll just go get some water," Elafi replied, standing up and hurrying to the kitchen. He drank more water and stayed there for a while, leaning on the wooden counter to catch his breath. A violent chill ran through his entire body, making him shiver.

Elafi was aware that he wasn’t well, but the mere idea of worrying Warrick stopped him from speaking. How many problems had he already caused the poor man in the past just to worry him because he didn’t feel well? He was supposed to have promised to strive to become stronger, to survive, to stop being the prey. He took a deep breath, ignoring the growing discomfort, and went back outside.

Around ten in the morning they took a break.

"Ready to train?" Warrick asked.

Elafi nodded, without saying a word. The truth was that he wasn’t ready and didn’t want to do it, but he didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

The first thing they did, as was already the routine, were stretches and a basic warm-up. Elafi was panting after a few minutes, his breath shallow and uneven, but he attributed it to the sun and his lack of physical endurance.

That day it was weights. Warrick had bought at the supermarket a pair of five-pound dumbbells for Elafi, who had to do three sets of twelve each. He hadn’t even reached halfway through the first set when the deer boy felt he couldn’t go on. His body trembled uncontrollably, he didn’t know if from overexertion or from the relentless chills. Nausea twisted his stomach and his vision wavered.

The weights slipped from his weak fingers and hit the ground with a loud crash. His hooves barely stayed firm, making him stagger. He thought he heard Warrick’s voice calling him, distant and distorted, his blurred silhouette rushing toward him. He was freezing, and even breathing scraped painfully against his throat. His head pounded, as if something were striking him again and again in the same spot between his brows.

He didn’t realize when his knees gave out and he collapsed downward, nor when he hit the ground. His vision was swallowed by complete darkness, and then there was nothing.

~~~

Warrick suspected something was wrong with Elafi from the moment he saw him having breakfast. He was too quiet and still, his ears drooping at the sides of his head, his movements slow and off. When he asked, he didn’t get any satisfactory answer, but he also knew that pressing the boy was pointless: he would shut himself like an airtight chest. So he let it go.

The rest of the morning passed with relative normality. When it was time for training, Warrick handed Elafi the dumbbells and instructed him on how to properly perform the exercise and how many repetitions to do. Usually, when it came to basic exercises like this one, the man left the boy on his own while he took the opportunity to do other chores. However, this time he had barely turned halfway when he heard the dumbbells hitting the ground. He turned around quickly and saw Elafi panting and staggering, his whole body shaking. He called him, worried, without getting a response. He hadn’t even reached him when the boy’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed.

"Elafi!" Warrick shouted, dropping to his knees beside him.

That was when he noticed it: the heat radiating from the boy’s body. He placed a hand on his sweaty forehead. He was burning up.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, as he picked him up in his arms and carried him inside, feeling how limp he was.

He moved aside the sheets and plushies and laid Elafi on his bed, making sure to raise his legs a little to improve blood flow. By then, the deer boy already seemed to be starting to regain consciousness, as he let out a weak groan.

"W-what...?"

"Stay lying down," Warrick instructed, before running to the kitchen for a damp cloth. When he returned, he carefully placed it on Elafi’s forehead, who was shivering despite the fever. He let out a tired sigh. "What happened now?"

Elafi’s lower lip trembled. Warrick no longer knew if it was due to embarrassment, the fever, or both.

"I’m sorry... I don’t feel very..."

He was interrupted by a sneeze, followed by a fit of dry coughing that bent his body slightly.

"No, you’re definitely not okay," Warrick said, getting up to grab the pickup keys. "Get ready, we’re going to town."

But Elafi could barely move. Warrick helped him put on his boots, a mask for his nose and mouth, and wrapped him in a clean sheet, before guiding him to the vehicle parked in front of the cabin. Unfortunately, today he wouldn’t be able to do anything to hide those sharp antlers.

They drove in silence. They parked and then hurried to the nearest health unit. The looks in the Emergency room never disappeared—looks of disgust, discomfort, or simple curiosity at best—but Warrick ignored them all. Elafi wouldn’t stop coughing and sneezing, his breaths uneven.

They saw the doctor on duty, and after an examination and a bit more waiting, the diagnosis was given.

"It’s the flu."

Warrick let out a sigh, tension leaving his shoulders. At least it wasn’t something worse.

Just a week ago Warrick had come down with the flu. Lupita and Elafi had been taking care of him during that time; but even so, his symptoms hadn’t been as severe as the boy’s, who looked like he might pass out again at any moment, pale and glassy-eyed.

They returned home. Warrick gave Elafi a glass of water and a paracetamol tablet.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were coming down with something?" Warrick asked, helping him settle into his bed, more gently than his tone suggested. He wouldn’t deny that he felt a bit guilty for being partly the reason the boy had ended up sick, but he was also going to play the scolding father card when something as serious as that was hidden from him.

"I didn’t know," Elafi replied in a thin voice, wrapping himself in the blanket. "I just knew I felt bad, but I didn’t think it was something this serious... I had never had the flu before."

Warrick wanted to say something, but held it back. Sometimes he forgot that Elafi had lived eighteen years inside a bubble, metaphorical, but sometimes it almost seemed literal.

"Well, I’ll go prepare something for lunch," he said, choosing instead to let him rest for a while. Elafi responded with a tired nod. He was trying to fall asleep when Warrick returned, holding a deer plush. "I put your plushies and bedding to wash. But I brought you this one. I already sprayed it with disinfectant."

Elafi’s watery eyes lit up for a moment as he took the plush and hugged it weakly against his chest.

"Thank you," he said with a faint smile.

Warrick ruffled his hair.

"So grown and still with plushies," he commented, trying to lighten the mood.

"They were the only friends I had before I met Fidi and Tigri," the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper as he closed his eyes.

Warrick said nothing else. He ran his hand once more through Elafi’s hair and went back to the kitchen. Many memories flooded his mind at that moment. When Devin used to get sick, he could rarely be by his side, except at night after work. Now it wouldn’t be like that. He prepared chicken soup and helped Elafi get to the dining table. He told him to drink plenty of water and to call him if he needed anything. After helping him lie down again, he continued doing the chores, and once he was free, he returned to the boy’s room.

Even if it was just to keep him company while he slept, Warrick felt a quiet sense of purpose. He knew Elafi would get better soon with proper care, and he was more than willing to be the one to fulfill that role.

Taglist: @scoundrelwithboba @morning-star-whump @lancedoncrimsonwings @3-2-whump @whumped-by-glitter

@string-of-broken-hearts @oddsconvert @what-if-i-just-did @bacillusinfection

@writinglittlepains @washing---machine @enasolos @inhurtandincomfort @cepheusgalaxy

Her tone was light, almost amused, contrasted with the harshness of her words. It made Tigri’s stomach twist. He went still. The metal handle of the fork dug painfully into his palm as his fingers tightened around it, the pressure sharp enough to sting. He raised his gaze in fear and his eyes met Fidi’s. Her panic was unmistakable.

“I want you at reception at eleven,” the woman said, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee, as if nothing at all were wrong.

“Ma’am, no…” Fidi’s voice shook as she spoke, barely above a whisper.

“Quiet, Little Snake”, the woman interrupted her. “Today I have no interest in you. Stay in your room, or I’ll have you shut inside a box.”

The snake girl’s lips trembled before she bit down on them, folding in on herself as if trying to disappear. Tigri’s pulse began to pound fast, each beat pressing against his ribs. The smell of food turned sour in his nose, and the thought of swallowing anything made his throat tighten.

“What does playing pets mean?” he forced out, the words scraped on the way up. Not knowing clawed at him, but knowing might be worse.

“You’ll find out soon,” was the only answer he got.

The morning dragged slowly as the clock crept forward second by second. Fidi warned Tigri that Madame Lavenza’s games were never harmless, her voice low as she described what it had been like to “play dolls” with that woman. It did nothing but make the tight coil in Tigri’s chest twist further, feeding the anxiety already building in his mind: imagined scenarios took shape, each one worse than the last.

When eleven finally came, neither of them moved. They both saw the trap for what it was, bait laid out in plain sight, yet neither had the courage to refuse it, knowing they would be dragged into it sooner or later.

A violent pounding rattled the bedroom door. A voice barked for them to come out, or they would come in by force. Tigri knew that if he didn’t go, it would only be worse for him. He stepped into the hallway. Fidi followed instantly, her hand clamping around his arm, holding him back. She said nothing, but her face said everything, the anguish evident in her gaze. For a moment, Tigri wondered if she was thinking of the others chimera children who had been there before him, the ones who were gone now, that no one talked about. He knew she was afraid of losing him too.

The servants tore her away. She struggled, hissing, clawing, but they were stronger. They dragged her down the hall as she screamed his name, her voice breaking into sobs. As she disappeared around the corner, Tigri heard the sharp, sickening rip of adhesive tape. Then silence.

The tiger boy bit down hard on his tongue, grounding himself in the sting and forcing the image of his friend out of his mind. He couldn’t afford to hesitate, so he moved. Step by step, he made his way down to the foyer, where that blonde woman with empty, crystal-clear eyes—the one who called herself his owner—was waiting.

“Good,” Madame Lavenza said. “Today we’ll play pets, so you will follow a few special rules. If you obey, you’ll be rewarded. If you don’t… you will be punished. Understood?”

Tigri’s fists clenched at his sides, claws biting into his palms. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there; but he already knew there was nowhere to go.

“Understood… Ma’am.”

The woman clapped, pleased.

“Excellent! First rule: pets don’t wear clothes. Take them off.”

It felt like something sharp drove straight through his stomach.

“W-What…?” His body refused to move. She couldn’t be serious, right? She wasn’t…

“Take them off,” she repeated, her tone hardening, “or I’ll have someone do it for you.”

Tigri felt something inside him gave way. All this time, he had clung to the fragile belief that he was still being treated like a person—like a prisoner, yes, but not… this. Not an animal. Not a thing.

But this… this stripped that illusion away. So this is playing pets…

His jaw trembled as he bent down, pulling off his shoes, then his socks. His fingers felt numb as he reached for his shirt, dragging it slowly over his head, exposing with shame his skin marked with black stripes. His hands hesitated at his pants. The button. The zipper. Even touching them felt wrong, like his skin was burning under his own fingers. When he was left in nothing but his underwear, the woman raised a hand.

“That’s enough. Disgusting. I don’t need to see more. You’re fine like that.”

Tigri let out a shaky breath, his chest tight. At least… that was something.

“Second rule: pets don’t walk on two legs.”

Of course. Of course they didn’t. Heat flooded his face as he slowly lowered himself, knees hitting the floor first, then his hands. The position felt wrong immediately, too exposed. His tail curled in behind him, betraying his discomfort.

Madame Lavenza called the servants. From a box on the table, she handed them something. They crouched in front of Tigri, who offered no resistance, he didn’t see the point. They took his arms and forced mittens over his hands, the thick fabric swallowing his fingers whole. Tape wrapped tight around his wrists and forearms, binding them in place against his body, too secure to slip free, even with his teeth.

“Third rule,” the woman announced, spreading her fingers in front of her face, “pets don’t have hands. And they certainly don’t use them. Now, come here.”

She patted her thigh. Tigri’s stomach turned, but still he obeyed. Awkwardly, he began to crawl forward on padded hands and bare knees, every movement clumsy and humiliating.

“What a good kitten!” she cooed, leaning down to grab his face, squeezing his cheeks hard enough to hurt.

Before he could stop himself, Tigri lashed out, knocking her hand away. His ears flattened against his skull. He opened his mouth and let out a threatening growl, showing his long fangs.  She wanted an animal? Fine, he could be an animal. Even so, the slap that followed surprised him, echoing through the foyer.

“You’re a bad kitten,” Madame Lavenza said coldly, already turning away. “No matter. Fourth rule: pets don’t talk. And definitely don’t bite”.

Between her fingers, something black and heavy hung. Leather straps. A solid plate.

A muzzle.

“N-No—!” Panic surged through him. He scrambled back, heart slamming against his ribs; but it was already too late. Hands grabbed him, holding him in place. The leather pressed hard over his mouth, forcing his jaw shut. A strap tightened over his nose, others buckled behind his head, locking it in place.

Tigri thrashed, bringing his hands up, trying to rip it off, but the mittens rendered him useless, his fingers trapped and his claws unreachable. He shook his head violently. Nothing worked. He couldn’t even open his mouth.

He was helpless, completely defenseless.

He heard the servants laugh behind him. Tigri turned, glaring at them with fury burning hot in his chest. What the hell were they laughing at?… And then it hit him. The image of himself: On all fours; bare, except for his boxers; hands swallowed by soft, ridiculous pink mittens; a muzzle strapped over his face.

He froze. Heat rushed to his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision as tears of total humiliation gathered.

“You look so silly like that,” Madame Lavenza said softly, almost fond, lifting his chin and idly twirling one of his curls between her fingers. “Don’t be sad, kitten. You’re still pretty.”

Her touch made his skin crawl.

“We’ll go for a walk. That should cheer you up.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. The leash clicked onto his collar and a sharp tug pulled him forward.

“Come.”

With no choice but to obey, Tigri followed, crawling after her across the floor, each movement dragging at his pride, his body, his sense of self.

Like a fucking animal.

They walked the garden for what felt like forever, circling the same stone paths again and again, passing perfectly trimmed spherical bushes and carefully arranged flowers that Tigri barely saw. At some point, a maid approached and whispered something into Madame Lavenza’s ear.

“Oh! That’s right. Kitten, you’ll come with me to my meeting.”

Tigri’s stomach dropped. He was tired, hungry, his knees raw and reddened from crawling over stone and gravel—but worse than the physical discomfort was the deep, gnawing sense of degradation. Crawling half-naked through the mansion had already felt unbearable, but being seen like this by strangers… That would be worse than death.

He struggled the moment they tried to pull him toward the car, digging his mittened hands into the ground, resisting with everything he had. The leash went taut as servants yanked him forward. Then a sharp electric shock tore through his body. Tigri gasped against the muzzle, his muscles locking as pain shot through him from the collar. His resistance shattered instantly and he went still. They dragged him the rest of the way.

Inside the car, he was forced onto the floor, crammed into the narrow space between the front and back seats. Every bump in the road jolted through his already aching knees and wrists. He kept his head down the entire ride, breathing shallowly through the leather pressed to his face.

After what felt like too long, the car stopped. They had arrived at a large house, elegant, and pristine, similar to Lavenza’s own. From the moment they stepped inside, the attention hit him. Even before being kidnapped, Tigri had always drawn attention. But like this, there was no escape from the eyes, all turned on him. Some people smiled. Some laughed quietly. Others didn’t bother hiding their disgust. Tigri kept his gaze fixed on the floor, ears pinned flat against his head, wishing desperately that he could disappear.

“Oh, was today bring-your-pet day? Shame. I would’ve brought mine too. Dog loves these gatherings.”

The familiar voice sent ice down his spine. Polished shoes entered his field of vision. He didn’t need to look up to imagine the tall figure leaning in front of him. He could already feel the weight of that blue gaze, sharp and invasive.

Graus. Lavenza’s brother.

“I decided to take the opportunity to take the kitten out for a walk,” Lavenza replied lightly. “It’s a little game we play.”

Fortunately, she didn’t stay to talk with the obnoxious man, and instead kept moving deeper into the property, until they reached a garden. Under a gazebo sat four women around a metal table, adorned in heavy makeup, glittering jewelry, long acrylic nails, and bright, expensive fabrics. They looked like copies of Lavenza. That alone made Tigri’s stomach twist.

“Lav, where have you been?” one of her friends asked, feigning annoyance as she sipped from a margarita glass.

“Oh, you know, busy as always,” Lavenza replied, sitting gracefully on the empty chair. She tugged on Tigri’s leash, pulling him closer, her nails sliding through his hair.

“What did you bring this time?” another woman said, eyeing the tiger boy up and down. “Didn’t you bring your doll today?”

“She stayed home. Today I brought the kitten out for some air. Isn’t he adorable?”

Her fingers hooked under his chin, forcing his head up. Her thumb brushed over the leather of the muzzle, right where his lips were trapped beneath it. He jerked his head away instinctively, but stayed kneeling beside her chair, rigid and silent. He wasn’t about to risk another electric shock.

“He looks angry,” one woman commented.

“But he’s cute,” said another, with dyed red hair, biting the tip of one of her long nails in a flirtatious gesture. Her gaze lingered too long on the muscles of his chest and abdomen. “Does he let people touch him?”

“Of course he does.”

The heel of Lavenza’s shoe pressed suddenly against his chest, shoving him backward. Tigri hit the ground when he fell onto his back. Before he could even think of getting up, her gaze cut down at him, as if saying “Move and you’ll regret it”.

He froze.

The red-haired woman knelt beside him, her hand sliding over his abdomen, stroking him as one would a pet. Tigri’s entire body tensed, a shudder running from his shoulders down to the tip of his tail.

“He’s so warm,” she murmured.

“I want to try!” another said, moving in, fingers digging into his hair, tugging at his ears too roughly.

Then more hands. Too many hands. Within seconds, all four women crowded around him, touching, pressing, grabbing—like he was something to be examined and consumed. Tigri didn’t know how he held still. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to twist away, to bite, to run—But the memory of the shock collar stopped him. Maybe the conditioning was already starting to take effect. And he hated that it worked.

When does this damn game end?, he thought desperately. He tried to sink into his thoughts, to detach from his body to ignore the touches, caresses, and dehumanizing comments—

Then a hand slid lower. Too low.

Tigri jolted upright, a strangled sound trapped behind the muzzle as he scrambled back, the leash snapping taut. His breathing broke into ragged gasps as he curled in on himself, knees pulled tight to his chest, arms wrapped around them.

“Don’t touch that, it’s disgusting!” Lavenza snapped sharply. “You scared him.”

The women withdrew, some pouting, others merely bored, and returned to their seats. Lavenza turned back to him.

“Come,” she said sweetly, giving the leash a gentle tug. “I won’t let them touch you again.”

Tigri’s heart hammered violently in his chest. His vision blurred at the edges.

“Come here, kitten,” she coaxed in that same sweet tone.

And he did. He moved without thinking, like pulled by an invisible thread, crawling back toward her.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” she murmured, wiping away a tear he hadn’t noticed falling.

He didn’t understand how it happened, but suddenly his face was pressed against her stomach, crying, his body shaking as quiet, broken sobs slipped past the muzzle. Her arms wrapped around him, her nails running soothingly through his hair as she whispered soft, gentle words. She smelled like perfume and powder. It made him nauseous. And yet, he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. The ghost of strange hands still lingered on his skin, making him feel dirty, used and small.

They stayed like that until his breathing steadied.

The gathering went on as if nothing had happened. Laughter, gossip, clinking glasses. Tigri remained at Lavenza’s side, quiet and obedient. Sometimes, without thinking, he leaned into her touch, resting his head against her thigh as her fingers stroked his ears. And he hated that part of him liked it.

Later in the afternoon, waiters brought food: desserts, liquor, pastries and small savory dishes. Tigri’s stomach twisted painfully. It growled, loud. His throat was dry, his head pounding faintly. He hadn’t eaten since morning. Was he going to stay like this until they return to the mansion who knew when?

Madame Lavenza didn’t seem close to leaving, far too entertained and absorbed in conversation with her friends. That’s when the thought came. What’s one more humiliation?, he thought bitterly. Just one more stripe for the tiger.

He reached out with one mittened hand, pawing lightly at her leg to get her attention.

“What is it, kitten?”, she asked.

“Mmm!” He gestured toward the table with his head, insistence growing in his eyes. “Mmm—mmn!”

Lavenza could be very cruel and childish at times, but she wasn’t stupid.

“Aww… are you hungry?” she cooed, tapping the tip of his nose. He nodded quickly. “Why didn’t you say so?”

She called a waiter with a gesture and whispered some instructions. Moments later, a tray was set down: two silver bowls placed directly on the ground. One with water. The other with a slice of chocolate cake.

“Behave,” she said, unfastening the muzzle.

The moment it came off, Tigri sucked in a shaky breath, lips dry, face aching. He didn’t hesitate. He lowered himself and drank straight from the bowl, desperate, water spilling slightly as he swallowed too fast. The liquid was cool and refreshing in his throat. Once satisfied, he moved to the next bowl, devouring the piece in two bites, barely tasting it beyond sweetness and soft texture, gone too quickly.

When he finished, Lavenza cupped his face, gently wiping the chocolate from his mouth with a napkin.

“You are so beautiful,” she murmured. “Beautiful… and mine.”

Tigri didn’t know how to respond, or if he even should. Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and licked her thumb, catching the last bit of sweetness left there. His tongue wasn’t wet, but rough like a cat’s; but she didn’t seem to mind—in fact, she smiled as if taking it as a sign of affection.

“Cute kitten.”

A couple of hours later, they were back at the mansion.

“Congratulations, kitten. The game isn’t over yet, but you may return to your room and rest for a while.”

With the woman’s gaze still burning into his back, Tigri crawled toward the stairs and climbed them slowly, each step dragging against his sore knees, heading for the pets’ hallway. He paused in front of his own door, then hesitated. He turned instead and went to Fidi’s. He needed to see her.

The mittens made the doorknob impossible to grasp, so he knocked instead. The sound came out dull, swallowed by the thick fabric. The muzzle strapped over his mouth silenced him completely, he couldn’t even call her name.

He heard footsteps nearby and caught sight of a maid carrying clean towels to another room.

“Mmmn!” Tigri tried, forcing the sound through the leather, trying to get her attention.

She turned, her expression twisting into something between confusion and distaste.

“Mmmn!” he insisted, scratching at the door with clumsy, muffled movements.

The maid seemed to understand, as she approached and opened the door for him. Tigri stepped inside immediately, and what he saw on the other side made his blood run cold.

Fidi lay on the floor. No, collapsed. Her limbs were bent at unnatural angles, like a puppet dropped mid-performance, strings cut without warning. A strip of adhesive tape sealed her lips shut. Her eyes opened at the sound of him entering. For a brief second, relief lit her face before it shifted into heavy sadness.

Tigri rushed to her side, heart lurching. Was she hurt? Sick? Why wasn’t she moving? She wasn’t restrained, nothing was holding her down. So why couldn’t she get up? Why couldn’t she take the gag off? He nudged her gently with his head. No response, only her eyes, following him.

That’s when he remembered the story the snake girl had told him that morning. The dolls. The game. The drug.

Even this—this small thing—the ability to speak, to move, to reach for his friend—taken away. Why? Why take even that?

He couldn’t hold it in anymore. Everything he had forced down all day—the fear, the humiliation, the anger, the helplessness—rose up all at once, tearing through him. Tears spilled freely down his cheeks, hot and relentless, his sobs breaking uselessly against the muzzle.

Across from him, Fidi let out a faint, strangled sound beneath the tape. She was crying too. In her eyes, he saw the same pain, the same helpless grief. She wanted to comfort him and she couldn’t.

Tigri dropped to his knees beside her, searching blindly until he found her limp hand. Carefully, he adjusted himself, pressing closer, positioning her arm so that it rested against his head, as if she were the one holding him. A broken, pitiful whimper slipped from her throat when she noticed. Tigri curled in beside her, folding into himself as much as he could, pressing close like proximity alone could keep them from falling apart completely.

Life in the mansion was a nightmare, a place designed to wear them down piece by piece, to strip them of everything until there was nothing left but something pretty and easy to control. Something to possess. Every day was worse than the last, and there was no end in sight. Tigri missed his family, his freedom, his humanity. With no power, no escape and no one coming for them, they only had each other, only these fragile, stolen moments of presence in a place that denied them even that.

After all that was all they were allowed to be.

A doll.

And a pet.

Poor Tigri and Fidi

Taglist: @scoundrelwithboba @morning-star-whump @lancedoncrimsonwings @3-2-whump @whumped-by-glitter

@string-of-broken-hearts @oddsconvert @what-if-i-just-did @bacillusinfection

@writinglittlepains @washing---machine @enasolos @inhurtandincomfort @cepheusgalaxy

This whole thing stung extra hard for Nym (my drow) bc he'd suggested we try to get the drop on our captor and the bugbear we'd heard her talking too, before she took the NPC and map we'd come for, and, uh.... That really didn't work out. (And this was after he'd lectured our druid, Tia (moon elf), on her impatience and rushing after people multiple times!)

He and Allanann really got the worst of it on the way in (being men and all....) but poor Allanann (our ranger) really got the brunt of it- what with being a half-elf and all. He was already angsty about his heritage and feeling left out with some stuff we'd found, and now he was getting brushed off as trash! (Being incredibly earnest and good hearted did not help his case....) Nym, at least, is from a minor drow House and knows what's expected...

We barely had time to do more than work our gags off and try to come up with any kind of plan (And Nym picked one singular lock for Tia because she still had some spells left, where he could use Subtle metamagic on his cantrips, if anything) before our captor, Lady Vyerith, returned with another drow. And he was wearing the damn legendary stuff we'd found!

They rubbed it in our faces for a bit- big cat with cornered prey energy, and then.... It was time to start interrogations~ Just for ease of the game (and juicy drama), we just got dragged over towards a big brazier in the corner of the room, one by one, and questioned in front of the others~ To sow distrust? To see who was the weak link? To see who knew what?

Tia got pulled up first, and she was SO SCARED- stammering and deferential and willing to give whatever answers she could! (But.... as a pretty young noble on her first adventure, it wasn't too much off the bat...) They got her name and loyalties, and why was she here? Just looking to help a family friend, honest! She got some pushback, but not too much, and managed to plead her case with some decent persuasion rolls before getting dragged out of the room.

(This did not go over well with Allanann) He got pulled up next- same deal, but he only gave his first name, and said his only allegiance is to his Lady (Tia). But he was bullish and curt, did the whole "I'll never give in to you!" thing.... and that pissed Lady Vyerith and Nezznar off,,, Mannnnn he almost got burned for that one,,,, (maybe did get slapped, though) OOC we were SCARED for him but IC, Tia didn't know what he was saying, and Nym was mostly gritting his teeth and trying not to cringe bc WHAT are you DOING, idiot?? Allanann truly doesn't know much, though- he's a simple, young half elf who's served the same family all his life, but he's not privy to their secrets. So, fine. He was pulled from the room.

.....And then it was Nym's turn. He got pulled up last (our lil kobold bard's player wasn't there last week, so he couldn't be questioned, but he COULD be left in the corner to hear everything~) and ofc he's on edge. Out of spell slots with two other drow of unknown capabilities was not an ideal situation, like,,,, When asked, Nym gave them his actual name- "Nymhriir Arkhenneld", hoping the fact that he HAD a last name would tip them off to the fact that he belonged to a minor House. (It did not) When asked for his purpose in the area and allegiances, he told them that his allegiances are to magic and the study of the arcane- he was here seeking knowledge.

Dear reader, they did not like that answer. The fire ROARED to life and he got yanked towards it, while the other male drow snarled about underestimating surface drow which UHHHHHH (Everyone OOC was freaking out and IC, Nym was caught off-guard because that WAS true [it just wasn't the WHOLE truth]) Nym DID clarify before they could hurt him and admitted that FINE! Yes, there was more! He has allegiances to his family. ....And the cult! He came to the area seeking the Cult of the Dragon. But he hasn't made contact. He hasn't been active in quite some time. There- was that satisfactory? (Nezznar clearly thought he was seeking the dragon mask they'd confiscated after hearing that, but didn't say much)

They seemed satisfied with that, yes, but how long ago did he leave the Underdark? Was he even a century old? (Being surface drow seems to have given them a height advantage- Nym is on the short side for a drow, but he's still within the average range for a man! [4'10]) Nym deffo took a bit of offense to that and told them that he was 165 years old when he left the Underdark, thank you, and he left Sshamath in the 7th century. (It is, roughly, the 15th century right now)

That took them by surprise (and I fucked up my persuasion roll), but before they could try and burn him again, Nym revealed that he's undead. He left the Underdark to further his studies under Sammaster and was there when the Cult began. Some time after that.... The cult made him undead. He kinda forgot the 'surface' thing since Lady Vyerith still has a spider motif going on, and spat out (to Nezznar) that his Lady should ask her Goddess if they have doubts. It worked, though, and Lady Vyerith told him that Sammaster was dead- did he know? (he did not)

He got a few more questions, then.... They offered a deal. A longer leash, of sorts, as we had gotten rid of their 'security' in the nearby town. Nym was wary, but Lady Vyerith proposed he take over deterring people from Phandelver. His undying loyalty would be very valuable to her.... Would he like that? Nym was tempted (he REALLY wants to keep his freedom, but at this point...) and they offered the dragon mask as a way to keep the town from expanding too far. With a green dragon on his side- keeping one backwater town in line should be easy, no? (Nym has a bit of hesitation around the green dragon, but... It's better than being, what? Here? Dead?) So, he agreed, and told them that he could get the others to fall in line.

Lady Vyerith loved that answer, gave him a condescending pat on the cheek, and told him to "be a good boy and sit on the bed for now", and once Nym had obeyed, she told Nezznar to bring the others back in.

.....At which point Lady Vyerith revealed that there were two dragon cult members in the party- did they know that? A follower of Sammaster, AND a follower of Severin! Poor Allanann knew about NEITHER and just got so blindsided (after already recently getting blindsided by Tia being able to wildshape into a dragon wyrmling a few days prior....) but neither Nym, nor Tia, knew about the other- or even knew WHO the other followed sdfghjkl,,,, (Nym was a bit better prepared- he's seen a few schisms in the cult before over doctrine, but he doesn't know who this Severin is) Tia tried to protest- he's friends with her family, sure, but they're not, like SUUUPER involved! He helps them with research!

....And then Lady Vyerith grabbed her, and pulled off one of the gloves she's worn constantly since we all met up, revealing a twisting tattoo of a red dragon spiraling from her middle finger. (Something Allanann has seen on many a family member, but not something Nym recognises as practice from when he was active)

Allanann did NOT want to swear fealty to these drow, though- he's ONLY loyal to Tia! ...So, she needs to be persuaded, yes? Time to grab her and pull out a knife~! ....He wouldn't want his charge hurt, would he? Tensions SPIKED again! Allanann and Tia are FREAKING OUT while Nym stayed quiet, just sort of.... assessing the situation. (making himself SO suspicious) Eventually he told Allanann it would be in his best interest to accept the "generous offer" of work. (He also doesn't want to work for THEM, but... his loyalty overrode his desire to do good) (Eventually.)

Once he agreed, though, the drow went and grabbed "something" and stuck it in the fire.... Because we got branded, babey!!! Nym got to choose where his would be placed, because he "was a good boy" while Allanann did NOT (and really did not want to be branded, either) ...Not that it made a difference, because as soon as they'd branded Nym (right above his shoulder blades, where he politely asked for it), Nezznar grabbed Allanann and slammed him up against the wall and pressed that red hot spider brand into the back of his hand. Loud and proud! And to their credit, neither one passed out from it, but Tia was panicking bc she did NOT want to get BRANDED! She's a noble! (even though Nym is too lmao) She got backed into a corner, blathering and begging and trying to talk her way out of it under Lady Vyerith grabbed her by the jaw lmaooooo~ She teased Tia a few times about placement, insisting she needed to brand her, and Tia pleaded and pleaded, until she finally gave up and agreed to the branding. But Lady Vyerith kept hold of her chin, and said she could never "ruin" an elf whose beauty is her social credit! But.... How long can she can be a dragon? An hour or two? ....Would she be Lady Vyerith's dragon? Ask for the privilege.

....And, voice still wavering, Tia did. ....Lady Vyerith won't get the others killed, right? If they go and recruit the green dragon... They could trade! And then Tia could go back out with the others! (Her instinct told her that the others were going to keep getting increasingly taxing orders until they outlived their usefulness, though...)

With that, the others were bundled up, blindfolded, and dropped off with MOST of our stuff a little bit outside of town. Dirty, exhausted, and incredibly sore after spending a damn TENDAYS (week) in chains!! Nym had to talk down Allanann from trying to turn right back around and told him he needed to learn how to kiss more ass before we went to lick our wounds in town,,, (Leading to "....But I've only ever kissed one ass my whole life!" "...Well, diversify.")