AT SOMEWHERE AT DEEP FOREST
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The Golden Cage and the Forest's Whisper —
The world returned to her in a slow, blinding flash. JOLT went the sensation, a spike of consciousness cutting through the fog of a long, dreamless sleep. Her eyelids trembled, heavy with the weight of unfamiliarity, before peeling open to a light that felt too sharp, too golden. Moonlight-colored irises blinked against the sudden warmth, scattered freckles shimmering faintly across high cheekbones that seemed alien in their perfection.
She froze, her gaze catching her own reflection in a tall, ornate mirror, framed by a chaotic explosion of bright yellow wildflowers. A strange, hollow familiarity gnawed at her chest. This was her—or was it? The reflection stared back, a stranger draped in silk and candlelight.
Her hair—the crown of her identity—flowed in unnatural waves of brilliant gold, cascading past her shoulders in a heavy, deliberate sheen. Where once it had been a shock of pure white, signaling innocence, vulnerability, and the memories of shadowed forests, now it radiated a gilded falsehood.
The room around her was fragrant and suffocating. Perfume, wax smoke, and polished wood mingled in a dizzying haze, and the attendants moved like ghosts, silent yet meticulous. One hand after another guided her body, brushed and combed her golden hair, each movement a whisper of control, a claim of ownership.
Two ladies-in-waiting lingered nearby, faces sharp with curiosity, voices low but unmistakably cutting through the stillness.
"WHISPER," one murmured, eyes darting to Elissa's unnaturally flushed cheeks. "Was the hair dye too strong? She looks… off."
"SNICKER," the other replied, tone laced with satisfaction. "Too much sulfur, I hear. But as long as her hair glimmers just right, who cares about the rest?" She leaned closer to the first, their shared amusement sharp as a blade. "The old king… he adores blonde hair, doesn't he? It suits his tastes."
Elissa's chest tightened. The words hit her like pebbles in a storm. They spoke of her as though she were a piece of precious porcelain, not a human being. She was a commodity, measured and weighed, prepared for presentation. A hand rested firmly on the back of her head, raking through strands of the golden tresses as if grooming a pet rather than a person.
"So she's to become the King's concubine, living out her days here," the whispers continued, casual and cold. The finality of it sank into her chest like ice. The gilded chamber, the intoxicating scents, the courtly smiles—they were all a brittle, beautiful lie. A cage.
Then, like shards of sunlight through storm clouds, a memory struck—painful, unyielding, undeniable. A world of ash and steel, of roots and forest shadows, pressed itself into her consciousness.
She remembered a different self. Small, fragile, with white hair spread across damp moss, eyes struggling to focus on a towering figure before her. Green leaves blurred in the periphery as she lay on the forest floor, weak but aware.
She sensed a voice, faint, distant, as though carried by the wind through time.
A massive presence loomed over her—a man in dark, scale-like armor, blood-red plating that seemed forged in the core of a volcano. His power was palpable, magnetic, terrifying. Even as a child, she understood: he commanded the world around him, bending its silence and weight.
"KNEEL," a fragment of thought registered, but her body had already surrendered, instinctively prone to the shadowed titan.
His eyes—dark, piercing, unreadable—held a strange reverence. "WHAT A FEARLESS LITTLE GIRL," the low rumble of his voice vibrated through the air, an acknowledgment of courage she hadn't known she possessed.
She reached, tried to push herself up, tried to understand why her heart knew this presence, why her soul leaned into the warmth of this darkness even as her mind screamed caution.
His hand, vast and armored, settled gently on her head, stroking her white strands with a weight that was not oppressive, but protective.
"BUT I CAN'T HEAR WHAT HE'S SAYING…" The echo of his words was lost in the ringing in her ears, but the comfort remained, undeniable.
The golden chamber, the smell of sulfur, the petty court whispers—all of it now felt fragile, artificial.
Her heart thudded beneath the silk, heavy with the realization: the blonde girl in the mirror was a sacrifice, an ornament for someone else's desires. But the silver-haired child in the forest—she had been cherished, sheltered, protected by a darkness that was honest in its ferocity, genuine in its warmth.
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The journey to the capital was less a solemn procession than a rapid march of avarice, a parade of wealth and power masquerading as ceremony. Luciana sat stiffly, a meticulously crafted image of a royal concubine, every muscle taut, every breath measured. Each lurch and jolt of the carriage made her stomach churn and set her heart hammering, her feverish blush threatening to betray the careful veneer painted by the maids. The scent of dye and the harsh tang of chemicals clung stubbornly to her scalp, mingling with sweat to create an acrid haze she could not escape.
Her gaze fixed on the heavy gold chain woven into the neckline of her gown, a symbol meant to proclaim purity, status, and virtue. To her, however, it felt like shackles, a reminder that she was a possession to be displayed, traded, and evaluated. Every sparkle of the polished metal mocked her—she was the currency, the prize, the bait.
Behind her, the orchestrators of her misery conversed in soft but biting tones. The stepmother fanned herself nervously, face a portrait of triumphant anxiety.
"The girl's face is a disaster," she hissed, eyes narrowing as she peered through the carriage window. "If she falters before the King… if the color fades, the dowry will be worthless. We sold him a blonde; he must receive a blonde."
"Do not fret, Mother," her son replied smoothly, his voice oily with confidence as he gestured toward the enormous wooden chest secured behind the carriage. "The sulfur smell will fade, and the King's obsession with blonde hair ensures that he will not notice imperfections. Her lineage is golden, her youth pristine, and the dowry is more than sufficient. Chemically enhanced, she provides exactly what he desires."
He chuckled, a grating sound that made Luciana's stomach twist. "Besides, the King is impatient. He has long awaited the daughter of that… woman, to display as his own. His pride is matched only by his avarice. She will not be returned—certainly not with so much gold already exchanged."
Luciana pressed a trembling hand to her lips, trying to stifle the coughing spasms wracking her frame. The heat of the carriage, the chemical sting on her scalp, the closeness of her captors—it all combined into a nausea that clawed at her senses.
Her mind recoiled, spiraling back to the forbidden memory—the dragon. The creature whose life she had saved, the vitality she had poured into healing its grievous wounds. If she had not sacrificed so much of herself, she would not be here. The act had left her weak, vulnerable, and preyed upon, allowing vipers in human form to capture her, rename her, and dye her hair to suit a tyrant's fetish.
Ten long years had passed under the roof of her stepmother, years in which she had known she could have fled, yet the weight of her true identity and the lingering terror of the warrior who guarded her secret had kept her paralyzed. But now, the fear hardened into something colder, sharper—a grim resolve.
I am the dowry, she thought bitterly, lips parched. I am twenty, and I am being delivered to a man who discards women when his fancy wanes. They have sealed my coffin with gold and hair dye.
Yet beneath the surface, beneath the gilded illusion, the fire of survival still burned. The ice-colored eyes staring back from the polished carriage mirror were not the reflection of the naive girl they sought to present. They belonged to the same child who had healed a wounded dragon, survived the shadow of a warrior, and remembered how to fly.
She had been sold. But a caged bird, if given the chance, would never forget the sky.
The great hall awaited, a space designed to impress and intimidate, but it shattered immediately under the weight of chaos. Luciana stood in the center, resplendent in her white-and-gold gown, every detail of her appearance crafted to mask the turmoil beneath. The maids hurried, brushing thick layers of powder across her irritated skin, trying vainly to hide the allergic reaction caused by the harsh hair dye.
The stepmother, face twisted in disgust, leaned in close, her hiss cutting like a knife:
"YOUR UGLY FACE IS NOW COMPLETELY HIDEOUS!"
Her voice carried through the hall, drawing gasps from the attendants. Turning to her son, she added, trembling:
"WHAT IF THAT UPSETS THE KING? HE'LL EXPECT HER TO LOOK STUNNING, AS BEFITS THE DAUGHTER OF THAT WOMAN…"
Her son, however, was unmoved, smirking confidently. "DON'T WORRY, MOTHER. THE DOWRY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF." With a flourish, he gestured to the massive, ornate chest being brought forward.
As the lid creaked open, a blinding explosion of gold, jewels, and ancient artifacts lit the room. Eyes widened, breaths caught. The stepmother's face went from avarice to pure terror.
"W-WHERE ON EARTH DID YOU GET THIS?" she demanded.
The young man's pride gleamed. "A dark mage informed me that excavation along the Tayar border could yield substantial treasures. The ancestral graves of the Tayar tribe were… generous in their offerings."
The stepmother's scream shattered the room. "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?! YOU ROBBED THE SACRED TAYAR TOMBS?!"
Her son only smirked, but before he could reply, a deep, resonant sound rumbled from outside. An earth-shaking ROAR—ancient, terrible, unyielding—shook the very foundations. The chandelier trembled violently, throwing fractured light across every terrified face.
The walls groaned, plaster falling in showers, the floor vibrating under their feet. CRUMBLE CRUMBLE.
Luciana, caught in the eye of the storm, felt clarity piercing through the terror and the coughing fits. Memories of the dragon, the cost of her healing grace, the sacrifice she had made ten years ago—all rushed back.
The family had sold her, bound her with gold, and now something far older, far more terrifying than any king had come to collect what was owed. The price of the dowry had been miscalculated. And Luciana stood, fragile yet unbroken, at the center of a reckoning that was only just beginning.
The ornate chandelier swayed violently above the grand hall, casting fractured beams of golden light across a scene of instant terror. Each swing scattered shadows over the panicked faces below, flickering across the gilded walls that now seemed fragile, hollow, and unworthy of their pomp. A deafening ROAR tore through the air, reverberating like thunder across every surface. The walls trembled in response, and a powerful BOOM! rattled the foundations, as if the house itself feared the coming storm. Dust and plaster rained down, mingling with shards of splintered wood, while the walls of the mansion groaned and began to CRUMBLE CRUMBLE.
The stepmother, who had obsessed only moments before with Luciana's pale, flushed face, was now overtaken by panic, her voice shrill and frantic:
"W-WHAT'S GOING ON?!"
Luciana, still weak from the chemical assault on her skin and the lingering effects of the years spent hiding her true self, felt a strange exhilaration pulse alongside the terror. A cold thrill ran down her spine as her mind raced: perhaps she would not live to meet the King at all, for a far greater doom had arrived. Her thoughts flickered back, regret and memory intertwining—if only she had fled ten years ago, before sacrificing herself to heal the dragon, she might have avoided this. But the choice had been made, and the cost had been paid.
Her brother—the architect of this misery, arrogant and cruel—was the first to grasp the gravity of the moment. His boastful revelation of the massive dowry, stolen from the sacred graves of the Tayar Tribe along the border, had already provoked his mother's fury:
"YOU FOOL! SETTING FOOT IN THE MEZALUC AND DISTURBING THE SACRED TAYAR TOMBS WILL MAKE THEM COME AFTER US—!"
Now, the threat had arrived.
A second wave of concussive force shook the hall. BANG BANG! The deafening reverberations tore through the air, followed by the chaotic sounds of battle. Maids and guards pressed themselves to the walls, screaming in terror:
"IT'S THE TAYAR TRIBE! THE TAYARS ARE INVADING!"
Outside, the full fury of the Tayar forces unfolded. The sky was a blaze of yellow and orange fire, thick smoke curling into the heavens. Figures on horseback charged through the shattered gate, their war cries a savage symphony that rang through the crumbling streets. A female warrior, hair whipping wildly behind her, brandished a hooked blade with lethal grace. The air was alive with the SWISH of steel, the desperate screams of guards—"GAAAAH!"—and the raising of massive, scythe-like spears in preparation for the onslaught: RAISE!
And then came the dragons. High above, magnificent beasts with wings wide as banners, scales glinting in blue and yellow fire, tore through the air. They smashed into towers and battlements, spewing torrents of flame that engulfed walls and roofs alike.
Leading the charge, mounted on a dark steed seemingly impervious to the inferno, was the warrior Luciana remembered from the forest memory—ten years past. His armor, dark with red-scaled plating, glinted ominously beneath the blazing sky. A horned helmet obscured his face entirely, save for the crimson glow of his eyes, radiating both power and unyielding wrath. His massive, muscled torso spoke of a lifetime of combat and unchallenged authority.
With a deafening DART, he propelled his steed forward, halberd at the ready, polished blade catching the flickering firelight. Each movement was precise, lethal, and terrifying in its majesty.
Luciana remained frozen in the center of the shattering hall, her white-and-gold concubine gown stained with dust and flecks of plaster. Her wide eyes reflected both comprehension and awe. The dragon she had once healed now rose in fury, unleashed against the very family that had attempted to sell her, and she was witnessing the reckoning unfold in all its terrifying glory.
The chaos of the burning city pressed inward like a living thing. The sound of battle—clashing steel, splintering wood, and the desperate cries of the fleeing—grew deafening. "STOP THEM! ARGH—!" A ragged shout cut short, swallowed immediately by the roar of flames and the stamping of warhorses. The line of defense was breaking; the walls that once symbolized protection were now collapsing under the relentless assault.
Inside the palace, Luciana stood frozen, a figure of ethereal grace amid the shattering opulence. Her white gown shimmered even under the fractured light, the fabric whispering with each tremor of the hall. Her golden hair, interwoven with delicate leaves of gold, tumbled perfectly around her shoulders, the glow of fire outside reflecting against it like liquid sunlight. Her eyes—pale, luminous, almost otherworldly—tracked the encroaching terror, wide with a mix of shock, awe, and an unbidden familiarity. A bead of sweat traced the delicate curve of her cheek, a silent marker of fear and anticipation.
From below, a massive shadow fell across her vision. The Dragon King, Hakan, rode forth astride his immense, midnight-scaled dragon steed, hooves thundering over the blood-slick ground, his presence an overwhelming force that seemed to consume the very air. The wind from his passing weapon cut past her, a SWISH that promised violence before it arrived.
Suddenly, Hakan was there, enormous and immediate. The Dragon King dismounted, each step deliberate and impossible to ignore. His crimson eyes, burning with fury and unyielding judgment, swept across the hall, taking in the terrified faces and the crumbling remnants of the palace. His dark, red-scaled armor glinted even amid the smoke and fire, and his horned helmet—once a mask of demonic authority—lifted smoothly in a motion of chilling precision, revealing his face: sharply handsome, fearsome, yet radiating absolute control. Sweat-matted strands of black hair clung to his temples, streaked with soot and the red of battle.
Hakan sheathed the sharp point of his halberd in a fluid, efficient motion—SLGSH—as his gaze landed on the source of all dishonor: the princess in white, her figure trembling but steadfast.
His voice, deep and absolute, reverberated through the hall. Each word carried the weight of ancient custom, uncompromising authority, and the fire of vengeance:
"THESE FILTHY HUMANS HAVE VIOLATED THE MEZALUC OF THE TAYARS."
His eyes, blazing like molten embers, locked onto Luciana. There was no hesitation, no room for negotiation. The decree was final, a sentence of total annihilation, echoing the inferno raging outside.
"BURN THEM ALL."
Luciana sank slowly to the opulent marble floor, the folds of her white-and-gold dress spreading like snow upon the debris. Her chest rose and fell in a silent, ragged gasp, the realization of her world dissolving before her eyes. The hall, the fire, the screams—it all collapsed into a singular, blinding dread. Every thought froze, every breath caught, and the unyielding presence of Hakan, Dragon King and arbiter of wrath, made clear that nothing would survive the judgment he brought.