Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 62: An unexpected request

The chains thudded against the stony floor as the slaves were slowly led back to their cells. The silence was heavy, charged with resentment, restrained hatred and a dull, dangerous rage, ready to erupt at any moment. Mordred advanced slowly, feeling the metallic weight of his entrails as a physical extension of his oppression, each step a bitter reminder of his powerlessness.

When he finally found his cell, his gaze slid over the damp, familiar, oppressive walls. The chains were brutally removed by a particularly evil-looking dragon-guard, who took care to give him a scornful look before slamming the door violently behind him. Mordred found himself alone in the half-light, his wrists still sore from the cold bite of the metal.

He let himself slide slowly against the cold wall, his head thrown back slightly, his exhausted muscles trembling under the combined effect of physical fatigue and extreme mental tension. He breathed in slowly, trying to calm his heart beating furiously in his chest, replaying over and over again the brutal incident in the mine, the bloody face of the young slave, the cries of pain still echoing macabrely in his mind.

His rest was short-lived. No sooner had he begun to recover than heavy, familiar footsteps were heard, rapidly approaching his cell.

The door opened abruptly, and an imposing dragon guard stood in the frame, an evil look slowly stretching his reptilian lips. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

- Get up, you vermin!" he shouted contemptuously. "There’s been a change of plans. You’ll be fighting at the Colosseum tonight."

Mordred sat up slowly, surprised and worried in spite of himself. He stared coldly at the guard, his fists slowly clenching.

- Why such a sudden change?" he demanded in a low voice, barely controlling his obvious frustration.

The guard burst into a hoarse, mocking laugh, his cold gaze filled with amused cruelty.

- King Drakeor has decided to throw a big party at the colosseum to celebrate the fiftieth birthday of his son, Prince Varyos. He’ll be crowned tomorrow at the Palace of the Burning Fangs, and for the occasion, the king is calling for a show. And guess what? You’ll be one of the main attractions.

Mordred clenched his jaw slowly, feeling the burning anger rising violently inside him. Once again, he was nothing more than a toy in the dragons’ clutches, used at their convenience for their cruel amusement.

The guard slammed the door without waiting for his reply, plunging the cell back into a suffocating semi-darkness.

Mordred sat down slowly, trying to calm his chaotic emotions. His mind was a whirlwind, between anger at being manipulated again, the accumulated fatigue of the day, and the dull anxiety of having to face the arena this very evening.

He slowly closed his eyes, pretending to recover mentally and physically, silently repeating to himself the samurai mantras he had learned to calm his nerves, ease his mind, and prepare for battle. He felt the weight of every battle already fought in the arena, every scar still visible on his body a constant reminder of the risks incurred, the suffering already endured.

But barely twenty minutes had passed when heavy footsteps were heard again, violently breaking his meditation. Mordred immediately raises his head, intrigued and worried by this unexpected interruption.

The cell door opened slowly, revealing the dragon-guard, but this time he was not alone. A hooded figure, obviously feminine, stood silently beside him. The dragon-guard stepped inside the cell, giving Mordred a barely concealed look of contempt.

- You’ve got ten minutes, not one more," he growled curtly at the figure before slipping away, leaving Mordred to face his mysterious visitor alone.

The figure stepped slowly into the dim light of the cell, his slender hands elegantly removing the hood covering his face. Immediately, a cascade of silver hair fell over her shoulders, catching the faint glow of the torches in the corridor.

The woman’s delicate face, almost unreal in its beauty, and piercing golden eyes appeared clearly to Mordred, provoking an instinctive tension within him.

- You... murmured Mordred ,murmured Mordred, wary and intrigued, immediately recognizing this unsettling face. "Why are you here?"

The dragon princess sketched a ready, almost provocative smile, approaching with disarming assurance, kneeling before him with a grace as fascinating as it was frightening. Her golden gaze plunged into Mordred’s, charged with an unsettling intensity.

- Do you remember me?" she asked in a soft, almost caressing voice. "We had an agreement, Mordred. I’ve come to claim my request."

Mordred stiffened slightly, feeling his heart quicken under the effect of a dull anxiety. The memory of their first meeting came back clearly, her mysterious aura and ambiguous words had left a deep mark on his memory.

- Yes, I remember," he replied slowly, struggling to control his agitation. "But you never told me what you wanted from me. What, then, is your request?"

She smiled softly, moving a little closer, her ominous proximity further intensifying the already heavy atmosphere in the cell. Her delicate fingers gently brushed Mordred’s cheek, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. His face was now close to hers, his lips slightly open to speak in a whisper laden with innuendo.

- My request is simple, Mordred. Her voice was suave, seductive, almost hypnotic. "If you survive tonight’s battle at the Colosseum, you will accompany me tomorrow to the coronation ceremony of my brother, Prince Varyos."

She paused, her smile widening slightly, as if savoring the significance of her words.

- Every dragon of high rank brings back with him a toy... a trophy he particularly appreciates. And you, Mordred, will be my toy, my very own trophy.

Mordred immediately felt a cold, violent anger seize him at these words, a restrained rage rumbling in his gut. His eyes darkened sharply, his fists slowly clenching under the tension.

- I’m no one’s plaything," he growled in a low voice charged with anger that was difficult to contain.

Lysiria leaned a little closer to him, her lips almost against his ear, her warm breath sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine.

- You seem to forget you don’t have a choice," she murmured slowly, a subtle hint of menace piercing through her soft voice. "Remember our agreement, Mordred. You agreed to my terms. You can’t refuse now."

Mordred inhaled slowly, his heart beating violently in his chest, torn between anger and frustrated helplessness. He suddenly realized that he had let himself be drawn into something far more dangerous and complex than he had imagined.

Lysiria finally stepped back elegantly, calmly putting her hood back in place, instantly regaining her mysterious, distant allure.

- Survive tonight, Mordred. It would be a shame for you to die now, when your destiny is about to become so much more interesting.

She gave him one last enigmatic, almost provocative smile, before turning and silently leaving the cell, leaving Mordred alone with his confusion and chaotic thoughts.

His heart still clenched by this unsettling encounter, Mordred let himself fall back slowly against the cold wall, his face closed in silent rage and suffocating frustration.

The metal door creaked again, pulling Mordred from his tormented thoughts. He looked up slowly, meeting the furious gaze of the dragon-guard, who seemed particularly annoyed by this umpteenth visit. Mordred let out a weary sigh, a mixture of irony and resignation, before flashing a slight mocking smile at the guard.

- You again? If you keep coming to see me so often, people are going to start thinking we’re a couple," he said in a falsely tender, sarcastic tone.

The guard immediately opens wide reptilian eyes, his jaw dropping in shock at the remark. His scaly face took on a strange hue, oscillating between anger and deepest disgust. He took a step back, as if to express his horror at the idea.

- You vermin! Don’t you ever say anything so disgusting again, or I’ll cut your tongue out on the spot!" he roared, truly outraged by Mordred’s insolence.

Without waiting for an answer, the guard grabbed Mordred violently by the arm, dragging him out of his cell without any delicacy. Mordred stumbled slightly under the brutality of the gesture, but recovered quickly, following the guard without flinching, smiling inwardly at the outward reaction he had just provoked.

- Get ready quickly, the first fights start in two hours. I want you ready, understand?" spat the dragon-guard, tossing him unceremoniously into the adjacent armory, a small, austere room filled with worn armor and blunt weapons.

Mordred nodded silently, quickly regaining his seriousness, aware that the next few hours would be decisive. He reached for his black leather combat uniform on a table, his fingers slowly running over the reinforced seams and thick leather plates designed to protect his vital organs while allowing him great freedom of movement.

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes to regain a semblance of inner calm before the impending battle. Slowly, methodically, he slipped on his combat gear. The thick leather slipped over his skin like a second suit of armor, perfectly fitting the contours of his battle-scarred body. The familiar feel of the leather against his skin brought him a strange serenity, a sense of regained control.

Mordred then grabbed his katana, its black blade glinting faintly under the diffused glow of the torches. His hand closed instinctively on the hilt, feeling the familiar, reassuring weight of his weapon between his fingers. Carefully, he placed the katana on his belt, fastening it firmly against his hip, ready to draw at any moment.

For a moment, he remained motionless, eyes closed, breathing slowly, deeply. He could almost hear the muffled beating of his heart in his chest, steady but tense with anticipation. When he opened his eyes again, an icy determination shone in his eyes, sweeping away all his fears and hesitations.

He was ready.

The guard returned a few minutes later, his evil gaze sweeping Mordred with suspicion before leading him to another cell, located directly beneath the colosseum bleachers. This cell was smaller, darker, reserved exclusively for fighters about to enter the arena.

Mordred sat slowly on the used wooden bench fixed to the wall, watching the damp stone walls around him with cold tranquility, listening in silence to the muffled noises coming from the Colosseum above his head. The stirring of the dragons gradually settling in the stands echoed faintly, but distinctly in his ears. Soon, these same dragons would be howling their bloodlust, encouraging violence and celebrating death with obscene cruelty.

Sitting in his cell beneath the Colosseum, Mordred slowly closed his eyes, gradually entering a state of intense, almost meditative concentration. Every breath was controlled, every heartbeat calculated. He was ready for what was to come, ready to fight, ready to survive.