The Arctic Book

Chapter 4 – Travel

One day, or night, I was deep in the tunnels, my muscles burning as they do each day, straining against a particular heavy cart. Despite having to endure it for so long now, the sulfur stench still clung to my throat every day, each breath like swallowing hot coals and reminding me of the cage that was my life. The runes on my collar pulsing faintly as a constant reminder of my fate. Of the magic that kept me, that turned my rage into numb obedience. Then a new scent cut through the mine’s stench.
Spices. Polished leather. The sharp, clean tang of something foreign. Something that didn’t belong in this underground hell. Voices murmured at the tunnel’s mouth, one a rough growl, a voice I had since recognized as the one who commanded all in the mines, and another’s but smoother, colder. Something got shouted down the tunnel. A guard came up to me and his hand seized my collar. I didn’t resist. Resistance was a memory, a thing I had unlearned years ago and I would willingly undergo whatever plan they had for me. A chain jerked and suddenly I was released from the cart, stumbling forward as its weight was lifted from me.
More words were being exchanged between the humans as I was brought before them. I did not understand at the time, but later on I would realize they spoke of coin. Of dragons. One definitely did not belong here. The merchant was a tall human, his clothes finer than the rough tunic of the overseer, his face hidden beneath the brim of a wide hat. He did not look at me. He spoke to the overseer, their voices a blur of words I did not understand.
The merchant’s voice was also much different from the overseer. Where the overseer’s words were grunts, the merchant spoke measured. His confidence was quiet, the kind that came from knowing he held all the power.
The overseer’s grip on my collar was rough, his fingers digging into the scales behind my head as he yanked me forward. The merchant’s hands were smoother, but no less firm as they took the collar. Coins clinked into the overseer’s palm and a piece of paper was given to the merchant. He looked on it, then to me and nodded to the overseer. The merchant’s fingers closed around my collar, and he started to mumble something. The magic in the collar shifted, the pull wasn’t just physical anymore. It was deeper, a silent command threading through my bones, my muscles, my very breath. None of the words I understood, but in my mind all I could feel was “I belong to this one now.”
The overseer nodded and grumbled something before turning around and walking off into the mine, the stench of this prison fading as the merchant tugged on the collar and said a word. The collar’s hum changed to a recognizable pitch. A low, insistent note that made my skull ache and dull all senses when I hesitated. I didn’t need to understand the human language. This meant “Follow. Obey.” The same orders I have been following for so long. I had switched owner, but the magic hadn’t stopped binding my instincts to its will.

After spending years being transported during dusk or dawn and working in the dark of the mine, coming outside and being confronted with sunlight, even if it was through clouds, felt like a blade, searing my eyes. I blinked, blinded as I stumbled forward while trying to regain my vision. Despite feeling some happiness of being rid of the mine, the surroundings didn’t inspire any joy. The ground around the mine was well-trodden, a mix of bleak stone and brown mud. The buildings near the entrance looked worn and the overall dread that hung in the air made sure to even make the sun feel bleak as it tried to pierce the clouds.
Up ahead the merchant’s cart waited on the road, its wooden sides reinforced with iron bands, the wood beneath painted in garish colors. The reds and blues had long since faded to dull streaks under years of sun and rain though. Jingling trinkets hung from the awning, cheap baubles that clattered with every bump in the road, their tinny chimes meant to draw eyes, and coin. Although it looked better than anything I had set my eyes on since my capture, it was a cage on wheels. Not like the cell. Not like the mines. But a cage all the same. The merchant pulled me closer and secured the collar with a chain to the back of his cart, the sound confirming my thoughts. He then climbed onto the driver’s bench without even glancing back, the wooden seat, and whole cart along with it, creaking under the weight.
And then the cart lurched forward, I followed and the world opened for me.

For the first time in years, I was outside.
Not in a cage. Not in a tunnel. Not beneath the crushing weight of stone and dark and the endless, grinding rhythm of the mine. The cart’s wheels groaned, the trinkets jingled, and I walked along in the back, my body automatically following, my legs eager to stretch, my claws dug into the road. Every sensation was sharp, new. The road beneath us wasn’t smooth stone or packed dirt. It was uneven, rutted, the cart jostling over rocks and roots.
Cresting the hill, I noticed the change in air first, almost like a physical force settling in me, so crisp and alive it was. I took deep breaths, my lungs burning with the sudden rush of it. 
The wind wasn’t the stale, suffocating breeze of the tunnels. It was wild, rushing past my face, tugging at the edges of my scales, carrying scents that made my head spin. My nostrils flared, drinking in scents I had forgotten existed. I could smell the grass being crushed beneath the wheels. The trees, their bark and sap. The distant, smoky scent of a village, the musk of other animals and the smell of fresh water from a river somewhere beyond the hills.
It was overwhelming. Despite being dragged along, I felt alive and freer than I could have imagined at the start of this day.

As we continued down the road the sky slowly opened up, revealing it’s blue and the full sun shining down on me. I had forgotten how endless it looked. A vast, blue expanse that stretched forever, so bright it seared my eyes again. I squinted, my pupils contracting painfully after years of dim torchlight and darkness. Tuffs of clouds moved above me, shifting like living things, their shadows sliding over the land. Trees lined the road, their leaves rustling in the wind, a sound so foreign it made me anxious. Birds called from the branches; sharp, wild cries, nothing like the dull echoes of the mines. Their songs were alive, and it hurt. It hurt because I remembered, suddenly, there was more in this world than what I had lived so far.
I had spent so long in the dark, in the smallness of the cell and the mines, that the world now felt naked. Exposed. There were no walls, no ceiling, no chains to hold me in place. Just the endless sky, the open road, the wind that howled past like a living thing. My wings twitched, the membranes stiff and scarred from years of disuse, the bones aching from being pinned. I wanted to stretch them, to feel the air beneath them again, but the straps held them tight.
The merchant kept looking back at all the sounds I made, but I was too drowned in my own sensations to notice my new owner. My body walked along with the cart in an automatic rhythm, my growls part of my breathing.
The world felt too big. The sky too vast. The scents too rich. The sounds too loud. After years of silence and dark and the rhythmic, grinding misery of the mines, this freedom was terrifying.
And yet…
Beneath the fear, beneath the overwhelming flood of sensation, there was something else. A spark. A memory of wind beneath my wings. Of the sky above the mountains. Of the way the world had once been for me. For the first time in years, I was outside. And for the first time in years, as the cart continued down the road, I felt alive.
That night, I dreamed of the sky. Not the mines. Not the cell. The sky. Wind beneath my wings. Cold mountain air in my lungs. The world below me, small and distant, the way it had been when I was young. When I was free. I woke with a startle, my body trembling, my wings twitching against their bonds. The merchant stirred, blinking awake. He looked annoyed, tossing a scrap of meat toward me, his words rough with sleep. I just stared back, my wings still twitching. He sighed, his gaze to my wings before he looked away. The words he said holding a compassion I couldn’t recognize at the time.

The first weeks with the merchant were a slow, aching rebirth.
He fed me better than my previous owners had. Not out of generosity, but because a starving dragon was a pitiful sight, and pity didn’t sell. The first time he tossed me a haunch of meat, still warm and dripping with fat, my body trembled with the shock of it. I devoured it, my jaws working furiously, my stomach cramping with the richness after years of rotten scraps. The next day, he gave me more; fresh bread, clean water, ripe fruit. My body drank it in, my muscles twitching with new strength, my scales having the faintest sheen returning to their surface.
He let me sit in sun and rain, because a dragon basking in the light was more striking than one shivering in the shade and as the grime of the mines washed away and out of my scales, their icy blue shimmer returned.
And so, day by day, I changed. My body remembered how to move, how to stand and how to relax. In the mines, the constant weight had pushed my body down, my wings strapped so tightly I had forgotten what it was to hold them away from my body. But on the road, I could lift my head. Stretch my legs. Walk with my shoulders back, my tail stretched out. The merchant never unstrapped my wings though. His eyes would flick to them, “too dangerous”, that look said. “Too much freedom.” But the rest of me? The rest of me could move.

As the path winded through the valleys, the farmlands stretched on endlessly. Fields of golden grain rippling in the wind. The scent of the earth here was richer, deeper. Cows lowed in the distance, their call stirring something in me. Sheep and goats bleated, running the second they caught my scent. The merchant would stop sometimes, bartering with farmers for food or lodging, and I would stand in the back, my nostrils filled with the scent of prey I could not touch.
The merchant preferred to camp outside the villages, I reckon not in the least because no human wanted a dragon nearby. But I liked it beneath the open sky. He would build a small fire, have dinner and settle in for the night. The flames would cast long shadows, and the air would fill with the scent of burning wood and the distant calls of night birds. But it was the stars that did it for me. I had forgotten them.
In the mines, in the cell, there had been no stars. Only dark. Only the suffocating press of stone and chain and the endless, grinding weight of captivity. But here? Here, the sky was a vast ocean, scattered with points of light so bright they made my eyes ache. I would lie beside the cart, my body curled but my head lifted, my gaze fixed upward. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the merchant would watch me during those moments. Not with fear. Not with cruelty. With something almost like recognition. As if he saw, that I was not just a beast. Not just a thing to be bought and sold.
But he never said it aloud.

The merchant’s cart rolled on, and I walked beside it, my claws digging into the earth, my tail swinging with the rhythm of my stride. The road was uneven, rocks and roots and ruts worn by countless wheels and they wound their way towards a city.
Before even getting close I saw the towering walls of stone, a fear flaring up in me as I got reminded of my previous cage. But this one sounded different. Their gates groaning open to reveal streets teeming with humans. The air in those places was thick with smoke, sweat, the sharp, metallic tang of forges and the rich scent of flesh, fruits and bread. Markets sprawled in the squares, a riot of color and noise. Humans shouted over one another, their voices a cacophony of words I was beginning to distinguish from each other. They bartered, they laughed, they argued. They stared at me. Pointed. Whispered.
The merchant would park his cart, and a crowd would gather around us, a sea of bodies held back by fear and fascination. I learned to ignore them. No, not ignore. I learned to endure.
There was a difference. Ignoring would have meant I didn’t care. But I did care. Every stare was a branding. Every pointed finger a reminder of the collar around my neck. But the merchant rewarded me for stillness, for silence. An extra scrap of meat if I sat quietly. A gentle word if I didn’t growl or snarl at the gawking children. And so, I learned to hold myself like a statue, my eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the crowd, my breath slow and steady.

One day a market square exploded into chaos. One moment, the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and haggling voices; the next, a scream cut through the noise. A man snatched a woman’s basket, and the square became a storm of fists and curses. My body reacted before my mind could stop it; muscles coiling, claws digging into the dirt, wings twitching against their straps. The collar flared, a searing heat behind my eyes, but the instinct to act was stronger. I bared my teeth, a growl rumbling in my chest. Then the merchant’s hand clamped onto my shoulder, his voice low and sharp: “Easy there. Don’t do it.” I froze upon his touch. The brawl died down as the man got caught, but the merchant didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on me, waiting. Testing. When I finally exhaled, the tension draining from my body, he let go, nodded and a faint smile passed across his lips.
I learned to observe. I watched the way the humans moved. How the women carried baskets of fruit on their hips, how the men’s hands rested on the hilts of their knives. How the children ran between the stalls, their laughter high and bright. I watched the way the light caught the copper pots, the way the wind tugged at the banners strung between the buildings. I memorized the smells; the spice of roasting meat, the sweet tang of mead, the sharp, green scent of herbs bundled for sale.
And when the merchant finally climbed back onto his cart, when the crowd dispersed and the city gates were left behind us, I carried those sensations with me.
I didn’t just observe their manners; I also learned the basics of the human tongue. The merchant spoke to me sometimes, his voice a low rumble, his words slow and deliberate. It started with simple things, as if he was talking to a dog. “Sit.” “Stay.” “Good.”
I learned what the words meant. I learned to obey them.
But as time passed, I began to understand more than just words. The way his voice dropped when he haggled with a farmer. The way it rose when he spoke to a sick child. The way his hands moved when he named the herbs he gathered, “thyme,” “lavender,” “wormwood.” I matched the sounds to the scents, to the shapes of the leaves, to the way the villagers’ faces changed when he pressed a vial into their hands. “For pain,” he would say. Or, “For sleep.”And I would watch. I would listen.

The seasons changed. In the summer, the air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers and the warm, golden smell of wheat ready for harvest. The merchant started to trust me more, letting me  go further from the cart and wade into streams, the cool water rushing over my scales, washing away the dust of the road.
In the autumn, the trees burned with color. Reds and golds and browns, their leaves crunching beneath my claws. The air smelled of woodsmoke and cider, of the sharp, sweet tang of apples left too long on the branch. The merchant’s business thrived in these months. The villagers, preparing for winter, were desperate for his tools, herbs and tonics. His promises of warmth and health in the cold months to come. Sometimes the wind picked up, and the sky split open without warning. Thunder rolled across the fields like the growl of a great beast, resonating deep in my chest, a primal echo of the mountain storms of my youth. The rain struck like a thousand tiny hammers, cold and sharp against my scales, but I didn’t flinch. I stood there, head lifted, eyes closed and let the water wash over me. The merchant cursed, scrambling for shelter, his voice lost beneath the roar. I didn’t care, because for a heartbeat, I was home.
And in the winter? The world grew quiet.
The roads were harder, the air biting. The merchant wrapped himself in furs, his breath fogging in the cold. I walked beside the cart, my scales frosted with rime, my breath steaming. The snow muted everything. The sounds of the villages and cities, the scent of the earth. But it also made the world bright. The fields were white, the trees black against the sky. The stars, when they came out, were sharper, clearer, as if the cold had burned away everything but their light.
The merchant’s eyes would linger on me more in the winter. On the way my scales caught the snow, my breath curled in the air like smoke and my stance stood more proud, more confident. He didn’t stop me from sleeping in the open, waking up being covered in snow. Sometimes he would wake me up by brushing some snow off me, almost tender. “You’re built for this, aren’t you?” he murmured.

The years passed. We traveled far, and often passing through mountains. One day as we skirted a ridge we both noticed a shape against the sky. Dark wings, a sinuous body cutting through the air like a blade. My breath caught. Every instinct screamed at me to call out, to run, to fly. The merchant followed my gaze, his eyes narrowing. “A wild one.” he grunted. For a heartbeat, I felt a kinship. Then the dragon banked, disappearing behind the mountains. I hated my own species in that moment. Not for leaving me like this. But for the fact that he could see the sky and not ache for it.
Time passed and my wings stayed strapped. The merchant never spoke of it. But sometimes, when he thought I wasn’t looking, his gaze would flick to them. To the way the leather cut into the scars. To the way the membranes, once supple and strong, now hung limp and wrinkled. And then he would turn away.
But there were moments, brief and fleeting, when the merchant softened up. When his hand, rough from years of handling reins and coins, would brush against my scales almost absently, as if he had forgotten, for a moment that I was not a beast, but a creature who had once been something more.
And in the evenings our bond slowly grew. The fire crackled low as he told a story by the fire. His voice was deliberate, the words slow, as if he thought I might understand. He spoke of a dragon. Not a beast, but a creature of cunning and fire, who had outwitted a king and won its freedom. I didn’t understand all the words. But I understood the rhythm. The rise and fall of his voice. The way his hands moved as he spoke, shaping the air like he could pull the tale from it. When he finished, he just stared at me. “You’re smarter than they think.” he said to himself, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the flames.
I did not trust him. But I did not hate him, either.