The Chronicles of a Thieving Dragon

11. | a memory of a wolf

Mirk awoke with a wave of pain washing over him. He inhaled through clenched teeth, refusing to open his eyes as he tried to ignore the overwhelming smell of old hay, stale air and wet stone.

He was cold, he had spent days if not months living outdoors and finding little holes, caves and hollow trees to sleep in. But he was always in his dragon form for that, the scales kept his body heat in for longer than skin ever could.

Feeling the chains around his wrists and body made him realise that it had been done on purpose so he couldn't shift. He had foolishly given away some part of his mixed bloodline, the stale air of old blood told him that this is where they kept the terrible, horrible, most beastly hybrids who happened to cross their paths.

It didn't smell like a cozy inn, so he suspected it was the last stop in every hybrids life.

The execution cells.

"Bloody hell" he muttered under his breath, raising a weak hand to try and rub his eyes only to startle at the weight that seemed to pull them down. The iron seemed to weight a ton.

"'Tis worse than hell." A gravelly voice said, making Mirk crane his neck to see better. He was laying on the ground, squinting his eyes to see who was in the dusty cell with him.

A tiny skeleton of a male was tightly curled up in the darkest corner. The first thing smirk saw was sharp bones that seemed to want to burst from the dirty, daunt skin. It was an old man who was hugging his bare knees close to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs as he rested his thin face on his knees. He had dull, yellow eyes and tufts of gray hair that seemed to reach his shoulders.

But what shocked Mirk the most, were the male's hands that were wrapped in a dirty cloth. Both hands had been chopped off by the wrist down, the fabric that used to be a shirt was drenched in crimson.

"I shtole an apple, wha' did ya do?" He asked with a smile, dull eyes emotionless despite the grin on his ashen face.

"Ripped someone's throat out with my teeth." Mirk said fearfully, his voice hoarse. The handless male threw his head back and cackled, the sound bouncing down the halls and echoing through chambers.

"Now this, 'tis worth dyin' for. Well done, lad. 'Tis a pity ye're still just a cub. If ye hadn't been caught, ye might've had more time to take down a few more of those bastards. D'ye reckon we can take a couple o' them with us to the gallows?" He asked lightly, as if the talk of his own death didn't bother him one bit.

However, it bothered Mirk a lot. He didn't want to die, he was too young for it! "I don't want to... die." He admitted, rolling to his side to push himself up in a sitting position.

"Oh laddie..." the male said with a hint of compassion.

"No, really, I'll - I'll fight them. They won't touch me." He stuttered, wishing to pull his legs up to his chest for comfort but the chains prevented him from doing so.

The handless male watched Mirk for a moment, his grin fading into something deeper, almost sorrowful, as if he had seen this fear a thousand times before. His yellow eyes seemed to pierce through the darkness and straight into Mirk's heart.

"Ye see," he said softly, his voice thick with weariness, "we all fight 'til we can't no more. But fightin' doesn't always mean ye live. Sometimes it just means ye hold onto yerself while the world tries to take everythin' from ye."

He shifted slightly, wincing as his bandaged stumps grazed the stone floor.

"We were born to be hunted, boy. Not just by humans, but by the very world we stand on. They'll tear at ye, piece by piece, takin' yer hope, yer strength, 'til there's nothin' left but yer will to stand one last time. Dyin' ain't the worst fate, not when ye've stood taller than those who'd break ye. It's how ye face the end that tells the tale of who ye are."