Chapter 2 – Darkness

The first thing I knew was the dark. Not the honest dark of the mountain caves. Not the kind that cradled you like a mother’s wing, that hums with the breath of the earth, that carries the scent of ice and stone. This was a human dark. Thick. Choking. It pressed against my eyelids like a weight, coiled in my throat, turned every breath to rust and rot. I woke to it with a jolt, my body wracked with a pain I had no name for. My wings were crushed beneath me, the bones protesting when I tried to shift them. My skull throbbed as if something had struck me -once, twice- behind the eyes. When I tried to lift my head, the world tilted violently, and I retched, my stomach heaving up nothing but bitter bile.
Then came the stench. Mold. Decay. The sharp, copper tang of blood, some old, some fresh. Beneath it all, the sour reek of human sweat, the grease of unwashed hides, the acrid bite of something burned. My nostrils flared, my tongue curling back in disgust. Even the carrion eaters of the valley did not stink like this.
I roared. The sound tore from my throat before I could stop it. A raw, broken thing, more pain than fury. My voice echoed off the walls, bouncing back at me in a way that made my ears ring. Mentally I called out “Mother!” The name clawed its way out of me. “Father!” My siblings’ faces flashed behind my eyes, my brothers’ sharp grins, my sisters’ wide, curious stares. “Where are you?”
Silence answered. Not even an echo. Just the dark, swallowing my voice whole. I roared again. And again. Until my throat burned raw, until my voice cracked into something hoarse and shattered. Until the only sound left was the ragged rasp of my breathing, the wet, shuddering gasps of a creature who had just learned what it meant to be alone.

The cell was too small. That was the first thing I understood when my eyes adjusted to the dim glow seeping through the bars of the door. Too small to pace. Too small to stretch my wings. The walls were rough stone, the seams between them filled with blackened mortar that smelled faintly of sulfur. The floor was packed earth, littered with a thin layer of straw; damp, matted, reeking of waste and something fouler. A bucket of water sat in the corner, its surface scummed over, reflecting the flickering torchlight from the hallway in a way that made my stomach twist. The door was wood, thick and reinforced with iron bands. A small window had been cut into it at human eye level, barred with more iron, the metal blackened with age and something darker. I could not reach it. The chain around my neck saw to that. I tested it anyway.
The collar was cold. Heavier than it looked. The metal was smooth, not from care, but from use. It bit into the scales at my throat when I pulled against it, the links of the chain rattling as they stretched taut. I dug my claws into the earth, bracing myself, and yanked.
Pain lanced through my neck, white-hot and sudden. I choked on a roar, my body jerking back, my wings flaring instinctively before the weight of the chain dragged them down again. The collar did not break. Of course it did not. I was small. Weak. Barely more than a whelp. The humans who had forged this thing had known that.
I collapsed onto my haunches, my breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts. My paws trembled. I could feel the blood trickling down my throat where the collar had cut into me, warm and sticky against my scales. The door did not open. No one came. I waited. Time in the cell had no shape.

There were no days. No nights. Only the dark, and the torch outside the door, its flame guttering when a draft swept through the hallway, casting long, wavering shadows against the walls. I learned to track its rhythm; the way it burned low before someone came to replace it, the way the scent of burning pitch changed when the air grew damp before a storm. The way the humans’ voices, when they came, sounded different at different times. Louder when they were drunk. Sharper when they were angry. Softer when they were tired.
I learned to listen for the door. It was the only thing that broke the monotony. The scrape of the lock. The groan of hinges. The thud of boots on stone. I would press myself against the back wall, my body coiled tight, my breath held, my eyes fixed on the sliver of light that grew wider as the door swung open.
They never came all the way inside. Just one step. Two, sometimes. Enough to toss something onto the floor. Usually a chunk of meat, often raw. Sometimes still warm with blood. Sometimes so rotten the stench made my eyes water. A hunk of bread, hard as stone. A bucket of water, sloshed carelessly, the contents splashing over the rim and soaking into the straw. Then the door would slam shut again.
The first few times, I lunged for it. I roared. I threw myself against the bars, my claws scraping against the iron, my teeth bared. The humans laughed. One of them was big, his face hidden beneath a hood, his hands scarred and brutal. He didn’t even need a weapon, he backhanded me so hard I saw stars. The next time though, he brought a whip. The lash left cuts across my scales that took weeks to heal.
I learned. The next time the door opened, I did not move. I did not make a sound. I watched, my body still, my breath shallow, as the meat hit the floor with a wet smack. The human -a different one this time, smaller, his hands quick and nervous- did not even look at me. He was already turning away before the door closed behind him. I waited until his footsteps faded. Then I crawled forward and ate.

The cell grew filthy. I stopped noticing after a while. The straw turned to muck beneath me, the scent of my own waste mixing with the stink of old food and the metallic tang of blood from the times I had clawed at the walls in frustration. My scales itched. My wings ached from disuse, the muscles wasting, the membranes growing stiff and brittle. I tried to stretch them once, pressing my body against the wall, my claws digging into the stone for leverage. The pain was sharp, a tearing sensation along the joints, and I collapsed, gasping, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
The humans did not care. They came when they came. Sometimes days passed between visits. Sometimes it was only hours. I lost track. My body did, too. My growth slowed. The collar saw to that—its weight pressing down on my throat, its magic (though I did not know that was what it was then) leaching something vital from me. I stayed small. Weak. My bones ached. My teeth, when I bared them at the door, felt dull in my gums.
I dreamed of the mountain. Of the wind howling through the caves, of the icefields stretching endlessly beneath the sky. Of my mother’s voice in my mind, her wings spread wide as she soared above the glaciers. Of my father’s rumbling laugh, the way his horns would clink against the cave ceiling when he ducked inside after a hunt. Then I would wake, and the dark would be there again, pressing down on me like a physical weight. I stopped roaring after a while. It did no good.

The first time they took me out of the cell, I thought I was going to die. The door opened, and instead of the usual scrap of meat, there were hands. Rough, calloused, gripping me by the scruff of the neck, hauling me forward. I thrashed, my claws raking against stone, my wings flaring. A boot connected with my ribs. Then another. I choked on a roar, my body curling in on itself, my breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. “Hold still, you little bastard.” The voice was male. Gruff. Amused.
I was dragged into the hallway. The torchlight burned my eyes. I squeezed them shut, my paws scrambling for purchase on the slick stone floor. The human was massive and he did not let go. He hauled me down a series of corridors, the air growing warmer, the scent of humans thicker. Then we stopped.
A door opened. Heat hit me first. The thick, smothering heat of a fire, the crackle of flames, the scent of burning wood and something else: something sweet, like crushed herbs. My paws sank into something soft. Carpets. They were thick, woven things, their fibers soft beneath my claws. I tried to dig in, to resist, but the human’s grip was iron. “Easy now.” The voice was different this time. Softer. Female.
I was lowered to the ground and the human let go. I collapsed, my body trembling, my wings pressed tight against my sides. The fire was close. I could feel its heat against my scales, the flicker of its light through my closed eyelids. My breath came in short, sharp bursts, my heart hammering against my ribs. Footsteps. Murmured voices. “…too young. Look at the state of it.” “Doesn’t matter. The collar’s holding. That’s all that counts.”
A hand touched my head. I flinched, my body coiling, my teeth bared. But the touch was gentle. Hesitant. Small, nimble fingers brushed against the scales behind my ears, the way my mother used to with her snout. My breath hitched. “Shhh. It’s alright.” The voice was quiet. Kind. I did not move. I could not. Something in me had gone still. Frozen. The part of me that should have told me to bite, to fight, to run was silent. All I could do was lie there, my body trembling, as the human’s fingers traced the ridge of my skull, her thumb brushing against the base of my horns. “Poor thing.” I hated it.
I hated the way her touch made my skin prickle. The way her voice made my chest ache. The way, for the first time in what felt like forever, I did not feel like I was going to shatter into a thousand pieces.
I hated that I wanted it.
The door opened again. The female pulled her hand away. The warmth of the fire vanished. Cold hands gripped me again, hauling me back into the dark. The cell was worse, somehow. The straw was damp beneath me. The water in the bucket had gone stale. The dark pressed in, heavier than before. I curled into a ball and did not move for a long, long time. They did it again. And again. And again. It became a rhythm. A cycle. The dark. The cell. The hands, dragging me out. The fire. The carpets. The voice. The touch. Sometimes, they fed me there. Bits of meat, softer than what they threw into the cell. Fresh water. Once, a piece of fruit, sweet and juicy, the taste of it so vivid it made my eyes burn.
“Good. See? You can be good.” The voice was always the same. Always hers.
I learned her scent. The way she smelled of herbs and smoke, of something sharp and clean beneath the stink of the humans around her. I learned the way her hands moved; slow, deliberate, never harsh. I learned the way her voice dropped when she spoke to me, as if she were afraid of startling me. I hated her. I needed her.
The conflict tore at me. Every time she touched me, every time her fingers brushed against my scales, I wanted to bite her. To scream. To make her stop. But I did not. Because when she touched me, the dark did not feel so heavy. Because when she spoke, the silence in my head did not scream quite so loud. Because she was the only thing, in all of this, that did not hurt.

For years, I was locked away. I had not seen the sun in those years. I did not know how many. Four, perhaps. My growth was stunted by the collar, the meager food, the cramped space. Defiance turned to survival. My mind could no longer think beyond the next moment. There was no future. No hope of escape. Anger and ferocity became compliance. Domestication. I did not know how many times they dragged me to that room. How many times her hands touched me, her voice soothed me. How many times I let her.
I did not know when I stopped hating her.
I did not know when I began waiting for her.
All I knew was that, one day, I realized I would do anything to be outside again. To feel the wind. To see the sky. Not knowing where I was or how to return home did not matter. The dark was worse. And in the dark, I learned to obey.