Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 70: Bodies on stakes

Evening arrived more quickly than Isaac had anticipated. Still satiated by the monstrous amount of meat he had gobbled up, he naturally decided to skip dinner, but kept Léna company while she ate.

Sitting opposite her at the living-room table, he watched her pick at her plate with an absent smile. Léna stared at him, slightly intrigued:

- Are you sure you’re not hungry? she asked softly, raising her eyebrows. You haven’t touched anything tonight.

Isaac laughed lightly, patting his still slightly swollen belly:

- Believe me, with all I’ve eaten this afternoon, I don’t think I’ll be hungry until at least tomorrow.

She nodded slowly, amused and intrigued at the same time.

- Honestly, Isaac... you’ve been acting really strange lately. You’re doing things that no normal person would do.

He smiled faintly, looking down at his hands on the table:

- Let’s just say... my life has become a little more complicated than I expected, Léna. And a little stranger too.

Léna frowned slightly, sensing an unusual seriousness in her brother’s voice.

- Is everything all right?

Isaac looked up at her, smiling warmly:

- Everything’s fine, don’t worry. I just need a little rest, that’s all.

She smiled back, reassured, before quietly finishing her meal.

After chatting a little longer with his sister, Isaac finally got up slowly, bidding her a tender good night:

- I’m going to bed. Rest well, Léna.

She replied with a gentle smile:

- You too, Isaac. Good night, Isaac.

Isaac slowly entered his room, closing the door behind him. He dropped onto his bed with a deep sigh, staring at the ceiling for a few moments before gently closing his eyes, knowing full well what would happen next.

He barely whispered:

- Come on... let’s go...

As always, a strange whirling sensation invaded his mind, sucking his consciousness out of his body. And in an instant, the warm, reassuring decor of his room disappeared, replaced by the cold reality of the other world.

When he reopened his eyes, he found himself immediately immersed in the recovery tank, his body gently floating in the strange green liquid he’d left behind earlier. He had a brief moment of instinctive panic, before remembering his situation.

"Mordred. I’m Mordred again."

He slowly moved his fingers under the liquid, feeling a pleasant lightness in his limbs. Carefully, he gently contracted his muscles, his arms, his legs, carefully checking his physical state.

To his surprise, he immediately felt a perfect physical form, without a trace of pain or fatigue. All the injuries sustained during his violent battle with Kalderaan had completely disappeared.

- Impressive..." he murmured, bubbles gently escaping his lips and slowly rising to the surface. This liquid is truly extraordinary...

The door to the room suddenly opened, interrupting his thoughts. The princess’s steward, the same humanoid dragon who had watched her last time, entered silently, his hands folded behind his back. His yellow eyes, piercing and cold, calmly observed Mordred floating in the vat.

Without uttering a word, he approached a nearby control panel and manipulated several buttons with a precise, confident gesture.

The greenish liquid immediately began to drain slowly from the vat, gradually making its way down Mordred’s body. He shivered instantly as the cold air of the room came into contact with his damp skin.

Finally, when all the liquid had been evacuated, Mordred stood naked, trembling slightly, his bulging muscles wracked with uncontrollable shivers, shivering slightly. His gaze briefly met that of the steward, cold and impassive, who approached him with simple slave clothes in his hands.

- Get dressed, human," he said in a calm, neutral voice, devoid of warmth. The princess has taken personal charge of your recovery. You should be grateful to her.

Mordred reluctantly took the clothes, carefully avoiding meeting her gaze any longer. He slowly pulled on the rough clothes, still shivering from the cold.

- Grateful?" he muttered bitterly. Grateful to be a slave healed just to fight better?

The steward stared at him silently for a few seconds before answering slowly, in a calm, icy voice:

- Watch your words, human. The princess chose you for a reason that escapes me. If she abandons you, your fate will be worse than anything you can imagine.

Mordred glared at him but remained silent, understanding the implicit threat. Once dressed, he took a step forward, signalling that he was ready to leave.

The steward nodded silently and opened the door, indicating with a brief gesture of his chin the dark corridor ahead of them:

- Walk ahead of me," he ordered simply.

Mordred obeyed without a word, moving slowly through the cold, damp corridors, his bare feet echoing lightly on the rough stone floor. Behind him, he could constantly feel the steward’s intense gaze fixed on him, scrutinizing his every move.

Finally, they arrived at the familiar metal door of his cell. The intendant opened the gate with a mechanical gesture and motioned for Mordred to enter.

- This is your cell, human," he announced coldly. Rest well. You’ll need all your strength for what awaits you tomorrow.

Mordred entered slowly, fixing the steward with a hard, wary gaze. Before closing the door, the steward added, in a low but perfectly audible voice:

- Never forget: your life depends entirely on the goodwill of the princess. You’d be wise not to disappoint her.

The door slammed shut, echoing for a long time in the silent, dark cell, leaving Mordred alone with his troubled thoughts and uncertain future.

- Who is this princess?

He dropped heavily against the cold wall, closing his eyes with a deep sigh.

"How long do I have to put up with this?"

- Until I figure out how to get out of here," he finally muttered, his fists clenching with fierce determination.

Mordred had barely had time to doze off against the cold wall of his cell when an unpleasant metallic creak made him open his eyes immediately. The door opened slowly, revealing a massive dragon guard, his icy gaze fixed on him with contempt.

- Get up, you vermin," he growled in a harsh, imperious voice. It’s time to go work at the mine.

Without waiting for his reaction, the guard brutally approached, grabbed Mordred by the shoulder and forced him to his feet with an iron fist. Mordred didn’t protest, knowing that any sign of resistance would only aggravate the situation. He walked silently, head down, his gaze fixed on the damp, icy ground.

When they arrived at the mine, Mordred immediately noticed the unusual atmosphere. He looked up in surprise, examining the slaves around him. Something was deeply wrong. All the familiar faces had disappeared, replaced by strangers with sombre, resigned expressions.

All but one.

In a corner stood the old storyteller, looking haggard, his empty gaze fixed on his labor-worn hands. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Mordred immediately sensed a strange tension in the air.

The guard quickly distributed the picks, coolly announcing the start of work:

- Get moving! The quota remains unchanged, and those who don’t reach it will suffer the same fate as your predecessors," he spat with a cruel smile.

Mordred frowned, troubled, but set to work without delay, plunging his pickaxe into the hard rock with renewed strength. Despite his mechanical movements, his mind was elsewhere, lost in intense confusion. With each moonstone extracted, he absorbed every other one discreetly, feeling a familiar but useless warmth flow through his body in this world, waiting to benefit from these gains in his original world.

Time passed slowly, with each blow adding to the questions tormenting Mordred. Several times, he cast furtive glances at the old storyteller, who seemed increasingly absent, as if living in another world. Mordred felt anguish growing in his belly as the break drew near.

When the pause bell finally rang, he immediately put down his pickaxe, striding towards the old storyteller, determined to get some answers.

- Hey," he murmured, kneeling beside the elderly man gently but firmly. What happened here yesterday? Where’s everybody else?

The old man slowly raised his tired eyes to Mordred, a deep sadness mixed with unspeakable terror clearly visible in his gaze.

- They’re gone, lad," he murmured in a trembling voice. They’re all gone for good.

Mordred’s heart missed a beat. He gently grasped the old man’s lean arm, staring intently into his pain-veiled eyes:

- What do you mean, gone? What exactly happened?

The old man sighed deeply, shaking his head wearily:

- Yesterday... yesterday, everyone rebelled. They’d been planning this for a long time, without telling anyone they didn’t trust. They attacked the guards first thing in the morning, thinking that with numbers, they’d succeed.

The old man paused, his voice breaking with emotion. His wrinkled hands trembled violently.

- So what?" insisted Mordred, his tone more urgent despite himself.

- So what?" the old man repeated slowly in a broken voice. It was a massacre, kid. A total bloodbath. The dragons... they slaughtered them all. Without mercy. Without hesitation. Men, women, young, old, they left no one behind. Me... I was too old, they ignored me... like a useless relic, unworthy even of their attention...

The storyteller’s voice choked on a painful sob.

Mordred felt his blood freeze in his veins, his breathing stopping momentarily under the brutal shock of these revelations.

- All... dead?" he murmured in a strangled voice.

The old man looked up at him, silent tears running down his sunken cheeks:

- Yes, all of them. If you want to check, look near the slave barracks when you come out. You’ll see for yourself the price they paid for their rebellion.

Mordred felt his legs give way slightly beneath him, a wave of frozen horror washing over him. He rose slowly to his feet, his mouth dry, and moved without thinking towards the outside, towards the place the old man had indicated.

As he emerged from the mine, his eyes widened at the immediate impact of the horrific sight before him. Just a few yards from the slave barracks, hundreds of human corpses were impaled on long wooden spikes, erected vertically. Men and women, their bodies mutilated, their faces frozen in expressions of absolute pain and terror.

A violent shiver ran through Mordred’s body, pinning him in place. His stomach turned abruptly, an intense nausea rising rapidly inside him. He looked away, panting, feeling his chest tighten painfully in sheer horror.

He took a few trembling steps backwards, suddenly meeting the cold, satisfied gaze of a nearby dragon guard, who slowly approached him with a cruel, sadistic smile:

- Impressive, isn’t it, human?" he says in a low, threatening voice. It should serve as an example to anyone who has the bad idea of resisting. Including you.

Mordred clenched his fists with barely controlled violence, feeling a burning rage rise up inside him, a profound disgust mixed with visceral hatred. Yet he didn’t retaliate, knowing full well that the slightest reaction would mean his immediate demise.

The dragon guard laughed softly, satisfied, before leaving to rejoin his comrades with one last scornful glance at Mordred, leaving him alone with his anger, horror and utter helplessness.

He stood there motionless, his eyes riveted on the scene of massacre, aware that this atrocious spectacle would haunt his nightmares forever.

- I won’t let this go unpunished," he finally whispered with dark, icy rage, vowing inwardly to avenge those who had fallen to the dragons’ merciless cruelty.