Starting out as a Dragon Slave

Once he returned home, Isaac walked through the apartment in silence, carefully avoiding the worried gaze of Léna, who was watching him from the living room without daring to speak. The tension was palpable, heavy, almost suffocating. His sister had likely guessed, from his distant and cold expression, that the day had brought nothing concrete. And Isaac had no desire to explain, no desire to justify his decisions or his apparent failures once again. He entered his room, closed the door softly behind him, and sat down on the edge of the bed. For a few seconds, he stared blankly ahead, his gaze lost in the shadows. His breathing gradually slowed, his heartbeat calming bit by bit, soothed by the silence.

Then, as it did every time now, a familiar sensation slowly crept over him. A chilling cold, dull and creeping, like an invisible hand plunging into his soul to tear it out. His mind was violently pulled away, reality flickered and collapsed in an instant.

His eyes snapped open.

—Mordred.

He was back in the oppressive darkness of his cell, the damp walls exuding a chilling moisture, thick iron bars slicing the pale moonlight into dark stripes on the ground. For a few moments, Mordred slowly regained consciousness, his breathing slightly ragged, his muscles tense, quickly readjusting his senses to this sudden shift in worlds.

He didn’t have much time to regain his senses. A dull metallic sound echoed in the outer hallway—the clinking of rusty keys, followed by the familiar creak of a heavy door. Two dragon guards appeared before his cell, their reptilian eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness.

— "On your feet, Mordred," one of them ordered sharply. "You’re coming with us."

Mordred stood up slowly, without protest, accustomed to these sudden interruptions. He sighed, the work at the mines would begin again. The heavy chains were swiftly placed around his wrists, a metallic collar fastened around his neck. The dragons took no risks with him, even after all his victories.