Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 60: A spark

Dinner had been a moment out of time, a peaceful island in the midst of the storm that had become Isaac’s life. Léna had prepared a simple but warm, comforting meal: a golden roast chicken, fragrant with thyme and rosemary, accompanied by potatoes that were crispy on the outside and melt-in-the-mouth on the inside. Isaac had watched the light steam rise from the dish, his sister smiling gently as she served him his plate.

- You know, you really do look bad," Léna gave him a concerned stare, setting the spatula down on the table with a little snap. "Frankly, you should really stop these raids, Isaac... It’s too dangerous. Look at you: you look like a ghost!"

Isaac slowly looked away, needing his piercing gaze. He knew that Léna was right. But how could he explain to her everything he was going through? How could he tell her about this hellish double life, this ordeal that awaited him every time he closed his eyes?

- I know," he murmured simply, his voice barely audible. "But you understand, I don’t really have a choice..."

She frowned, obviously displeased with this evasive answer.

- She wasn’t. Always a choice, Isaac. Always has. Her voice trembled slightly, laden with restrained emotion. "Do you realize the state I find you in every time? This time I thought I’d lost you, do you understand that?"

Isaac inhaled slowly, feeling a painful lump form in the back of his throat.

- I’m sorry, Léna... I’m really sorry. But I’m doing all this for us. I just want us to be safe, never to be afraid again...

Léna looked at him silently for a moment, a deep sadness passing through her eyes before she looked down at her plate.

- I know you want to protect us," she said finally, her voice low and trembling. "But I’d rather live with you in fear than have to learn one day that you’re never coming back."

Isaac felt his heart clench painfully at these words. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with restrained emotions, each person remaining immersed in their own dark thoughts, while cutlery clinked softly against plates.

After the meal, Isaac had kissed his sister’s forehead gently before going to his room, each step sounding like an extra weight. He had stretched out slowly, finally feeling the soft mattress beneath him, exhaustion gripping him with overwhelming force.

He had closed his eyes, hoping at last to be able to sleep, to know rest at last.

But fate had never allowed him that luxury.

The change was brutal, violent, as if he’d been torn violently from reality. Isaac opened his eyes, his breathing cut off by an excruciating sensation of suffocation.

The cell. His cell.

His naked body lay on the icy, damp floor, covered in a fine layer of dust mixed with cold perspiration. The flickering light from the torches in the corridor cast ominous shadows on the stone walls, reinforcing the impression of suffocating oppression that weighed on him.

The regeneration he had gained in the other world was working gently, soothing his superficial pains, leaving his scars less burning. But the internal wounds, those of the soul and spirit, were still there, open, gaping, bleeding silently in the cold darkness of the cell.

A sudden metallic clang echoed through the corridor, rudely jolting Isaac - Mordred - from his painful thoughts. The dragon-guard’s heavy footsteps came closer, familiar, threatening, inevitable.

The door opens with a ready creak, the guard’s massive silhouette cutting sharply through the dim light.

- Get up, you vermin. You’ve rested long enough, now it’s time to take your place.

Isaac stares at the guard with dark intensity, his eyes burning with cold anger, silent hatred. He rises slowly, without a word, feeling every muscle protest painfully under the effort.

The dragon-guard smiles cruelly, revealing his fangs in a sadistic sneer.

- Looks like you’ve still got some strength left in you, slave. That’s good, because today you’re going to need everything you can find in your guts.

Isaac stood still for a moment, meeting the guard’s reptilian gaze with a new coldness.

- It’s good timing," he murmured, his voice husky, laden with icy determination. "I have no intention of dying today."

The guard let out a guttural, contemptuous laugh before pointing sharply down the dark corridor behind him.

- Move!" he ordered curtly.

Isaac passed him by without flinching, slowly stepping through the doorway into the stifling, familiar darkness of the corridor leading to the mine or arena.

The muffled groans of the other slaves echoed around him, their despair forming a macabre symphony in the shadows. Isaac felt the full weight of this oppression crushing him, but in the depths of his soul now burned a new determination, an implacable resolve.

He crossed the dark corridor, each step echoing heavily on the cold stone, inwardly preparing himself for the ordeal ahead.

The journey to the mine had been conducted in a heavy silence, broken only by the metallic clanking of the chains that bound the slaves together. Mordred walked slowly, chained like a beast, his impassive face concealing the cold rage burning inside him.

Once he reached the mine entrance, the cold, dust-laden air bit hard into his skin, the acrid smell of metal and damp earth immediately filling his nostrils. A dragon guard pushed him roughly inside, Mordred stumbling slightly before resuming his walk without flinching, his fists clenched under the tension.

- Back to work, vermin!" the dragon guard shouted, his hoarse, squeaky voice echoing against the narrow walls of the tunnel. If any of you fail to meet your quota, you know the punishment.

The slaves scattered in silence, grabbing their tools with silent resignation. Mordred slowly reached for his pickaxe, immediately feeling the familiar weight of the used wooden handle beneath his bruised fingers. He took a deep breath, calmly channeling his anger, and raised his pickaxe before striking forcefully at the hard rock in front of him.

The work was grueling, repetitive, each blow resonating painfully in his muscles, but he soon noticed a distinct difference in his efficiency. Thanks to his improved stats, his movements were faster, more precise, and each blow seemed to sink deeper into the rock.

The steady thump of the pickaxe, the panting breath of the other slaves, all blended into a hypnotic, almost soothing rhythm, despite the constant oppression here.

When he finally extracted his first moonstone, Mordred looked around, checking that the guards were busy elsewhere. He slowly closed his fingers on the glittering stone, his eyes lingering on its hypnotic, pearly surface.

- Absorb," he murmured softly.

The stone immediately disappeared, dissipating into his palm. He felt no immediate difference, but knew that, in his other reality, this choice would bear fruit.

Continuing his work with determination, he adopted a methodical strategy, discreetly absorbing every other moonstone, confirming the other in his basket. It was a risky tactic, but so far it had enabled him to avoid the suspicions of the dragon guards.

The hours passed slowly, each minute stretching painfully into a suffocating monotony. Mordred’s muscles burned under the prolonged effort, but he ignored the pain, drawing on his rage and determination to keep going.

By mid-day, he had almost reached half his quota, but was beginning to notice something familiar around him.

The other slaves, usually resigned and silent, were now exchanging furtive, almost conspiratorial glances. Slight, barely audible murmurs occasionally ran through the ranks, muffled conversations immediately extinguished as soon as a guard got too close.

Mordred squinted slowly, observing these subtle movements out of the corner of his eye.

Something was amiss.

An elderly man, his face pockmarked with deep wrinkles and ancient scars, was regularly casting steady glances at several of the other prisoners, subtly nodding his head, silently conveying something Mordred didn’t yet understand.

He immediately felt a wave of mistrust wash over him.

What exactly was going on here? What were they up to?

He gently clutched his head, keeping his thoughts to himself, but remaining vigilant, attentive to every movement, every whisper around him.

As the hours pass, he methodically continues his work, his pickaxe striking the rock with force, slowly, inexorably extracting the precious lunar mineral. When his basket finally reaches the quota set by the guards, he feels a deep wave of release wash over him. He places his last stone carefully, before allowing himself to discreetly absorb the rest of the extracted stones, which would have exceeded his quota.

Absorb... Absorb...

One by one, these stones disappeared into his palm, their lunar glow fading into silence, with no immediate effect, but Mordred knew he hadn’t wasted his time.

When finally, after what seemed an eternity, the guards announced the end of the day, Mordred dropped his pickaxe to the ground, exhausted but relieved to have achieved his goal. He looked up and immediately noticed the strange looks on the faces of the other slaves.

Their eyes no longer reflected anything but defeat, submission or the usual resignation. Now there was something else, a dark, dangerous spark of restrained rebellion, of cold rage ready to explode at any moment.

Mordred slowly squinted his eyes, distrust silently burning within him as he watched them intently.

- What are you two knuckleheads up to? You’re clearly no match for us... he thought warily.