During the day, Rossweise possessed almost no free time. As Anna, the head maid, had explained, the Queen's hours were consumed by the intricate governance of the Silver Dragon Clan—meetings, reports, strategic planning—a relentless tide of duty that often swept her away until seven or eight in the evening. With the Queen's schedule overflowing, the responsibility of caring for Muen fell, by default, to Leon.
But Leon did not merely play with Muen. He made certain she learned.
His approach was simple and stubborn, a philosophy carved into him by his old master:
"Good daughter," Leon would tell Muen, his voice a low, steady murmur, "we live under another's roof now. We live where that mother dragon watches our every move. But one day, I will take you away from here. It's okay to be a mixed-blood little dragon girl. Just make sure you are cultured."
The phrasing was his own adaptation. His master's original lesson had been rougher, blunter—"It's okay to be an orphan, but be a cultured orphan." Leon had nearly knocked the old man's false teeth out the first time he'd heard it. Still, the core of the lesson had stuck, reshaped now for his daughter's unique circumstances.
The memory of his master sent a familiar, tight ache through Leon's chest. He had been with the Silver Dragon Clan for two years now. To the Empire, he was likely listed among the dead, a martyr whose story had already been written and closed. It was a strange, bitter kind of freedom: no one was expecting his return.
His master had once called Leon the most promising child he had ever trained, a boy destined to become a great dragon slayer. Leon had fulfilled that expectation—too perfectly. He had soared to fame, only to be captured and thrust into a life he never could have imagined, forced into an intimacy with the Silver Dragon Queen that made him want to both gag and laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.
He endured the humiliation. He told himself it was a necessary part of the mission: to get close, to ensure Muen's safety, and to prepare for their eventual flight. But before they could run, he needed to accomplish two things: fully heal his broken body and completely win Muen's heart.
Muen sat in his lap, the familiar tome, Dragon Hatchling's Enlightening Stories, resting between them. Leon paused, then deliberately set the book aside.
"Sweetie," he said softly, "how about I tell you stories from other peoples? Stories from humans?"
Muen's eyes lit up with immediate curiosity. "Yes! Daddy, tell me!"
Leon smiled inwardly. This was his new strategy. If Muen was only ever exposed to one narrative—Rossweise's draconian perspective—then it was his duty to provide a counterpoint. Not through direct confrontation, but through gentle, subtle examples.
"Humans are not all the same," he began, choosing his words with care. "There are good humans and bad humans. Sometimes people do incredibly brave things. Sometimes they make terrible mistakes. That's why it's important to try and look at things from more than one side."
Muen considered this, her little tail flicking back and forth like a slow, thoughtful pendulum. "But Muen has never seen other humans. How can Muen know?"
Leon breathed an internal sigh of relief. The opening was there. "The man holding you is a human, Muen. A full human." He even managed a small, wry joke to soften the lesson. "One hundred percent real."
She giggled, the sound light and trusting, and settled back comfortably against him. They spent the rest of the morning with Leon weaving tales from the human world. He kept them simple: stories of farmers who shared their last loaf of bread, children who helped rebuild a neighbor's home after a storm, soldiers who lay down their weapons, haunted by the cost of battle. His words were soft, the lessons gentle. He was carefully introducing the concept of "duality"—the idea that any person, any race, any situation could be seen from multiple, valid perspectives.
Muen listened with rapt attention. Leon was planting seeds—small, fragile things that might, with time and care, grow into a broader, more compassionate understanding as she matured. He never explicitly said Rossweise was wrong; he merely offered another way to see the world.
At one point, Muen looked up, her expression unusually serious. "Daddy… the dragon clan. You said strength is what dragons respect most, right? Mother said dragons begin striving for power from the moment they are born. They might pay any price to become stronger. Even… their life."
Leon's face tightened imperceptibly. He recognized that phrasing—it was pure Rossweise, a way of dressing the clan's inherent harshness in the robes of necessity. He did not respond with anger. Instead, he leaned down and gently stroked her hair.
"Some dragons are like that," he conceded calmly. "But not every dragon. Some just want to live a quiet life. Some find joy in music. Others in drawing or storytelling. Strength is only one path. It is not the only way to live."
Muen's tail swayed gently as she turned the thought over in her mind. "So… maybe there are many dragons who don't like fighting to get stronger. They just want a peaceful life."
Leon's smile was genuine this time. "Maybe so. Never assume that everyone in a group thinks or feels the same way."
A soft knock interrupted them. Anna entered. "Your Highness, it is lunchtime. Please hand the princess over to me for a while."
"Okay," Leon said. He carefully lifted Muen and passed her to Anna. Muen wrapped her small arms around his neck in a brief, tight hug before pulling back.
"Daddy, will you still be with me in the afternoon?" she asked, a hint of a pout in her voice.
"Of course," Leon promised.
"Promise?" she insisted, playing it up.
"Promise," he affirmed, his voice steady.
Anna led Muen away. Leon watched the small figure disappear through the door, feeling a familiar mix of pride and heaviness. The weight of his responsibility was a constant presence, but the promise he had made—to her, to himself—lit a small, steady flame in his chest.
He walked out onto the balcony and looked down into the courtyard. Rossweise was there, speaking quietly with one of her guards. She stood tall and composed, the kind of ruler whose authority required no shouting, only her unwavering presence. As if sensing his gaze, she turned and looked up, her eyes meeting his.
Leon did not look away. He lifted his chin slightly, holding her stare. For a long moment, it was a silent duel: the former dragon slayer and the proud Silver Dragon Queen, locked in a quiet contest of wills, each waiting for the other to yield.
A soft breeze rustled the leaves in the garden. The midday sun draped the courtyard in a golden, honeyed light, warm and gentle as a hand on the shoulder. Leon felt a strange calm settle over him, intertwined with a latent sense of danger. He thought of his long-term plan—the patient, day-by-day endurance until the moment for escape finally arrived. He thought of Muen and the subtle seeds of thought he was nurturing within her. And he thought of Rossweise—fierce, harsh, and yet, undeniably, capable of being flustered in ways he had never anticipated.
There was no grand drama, no shouted words. Just two people, separated by a short distance, each holding their secrets close, leaning into the same quiet air.
.
.
.
The afternoon passed without incident. Leon used the time to prepare small, discreet lessons and to practice a few practical skills—quiet, useful things for a future escape. He practiced tying knots that could be undone with a single pull, identified hiding spots for small items within their room, and even taught Muen a simple, secret hand signal. None of it was heroic in the traditional sense. It was the patient, unglamorous work of survival.
When evening fell, Leon walked to his bed and retrieved the small, empty photo frame he had discovered tucked away among Rossweise's belongings. The idea, once a fleeting thought, now felt like a firm promise. One day, he would take a real family photo with Muen—not a staged image to maintain a queen's facade, but a genuine picture of the two of them, free and safe. He could almost see it: Muen's tail wagging happily in the sunlight, her smile unburdened.
He traced the cool, smooth edge of the frame, then carefully tucked it back into its drawer. The promise to Muen hummed within him, a low, persistent engine of purpose. He would keep teaching her. He would regain his strength. And when the time was right, he would take her away from this gilded cage.
For now, he stood once more on the balcony, watching as Rossweise below turned back to her duties. He did not know what she felt when her gaze lifted to meet his. He only knew what burned within himself: a patient, stubborn hope, and a plan woven from small, careful, deliberate threads.