We move through levels I've never seen before, each darker and more oppressive than the last. The air grows thicker, the sulfurous scent stronger.
We continue downward, the passages growing narrower, the air warmer. Finally, Zeriel stops before a heavy iron gate partially obscured by shadow. He produces a key from his pocket—not standard issue, I note, but something older, cruder. He inserts the key into the ancient lock and it turns with a reluctant groan.
Beyond the gate lies a narrow walkway suspended above a vast, dark cavern. The distant glow of phosphorescent fungi provides just enough light to make out the massive shapesslumbering below. Adult dragons, at least a dozen, chained to stone pillars that rise from the cavern floor.
For a moment, I forget to breathe.
“Keep moving,” Zeriel hisses. “These are just breeding stock.”
Just breeding stock. As if that somehow makes them puppies.
He nudges me to continue along the walkway, though my feet suddenly feel like bricks. Do I really want to walk across this narrow, rickety old bridge? When was the last time maintenance checked it? The metal creaks beneath our weight. Below, one of the dragons shifts in its sleep, chains rattling against stone. I freeze again, heart pounding, but Zeriel's grip closes around my wrist, pulling me forward.
I jerk my hand away from him, scowling. “I can walk on my own,” I hiss.
“Then do so,” he retorts, clipped.
The dragons continue to stir unsettlingly as we creep along the path, and I find myself increasingly wondering if this is more a roasting stick than a walkway.
We reach the end after what feels like an eternity but was in reality only a couple of minutes.Here, another door awaits—this one smaller, wooden, and reinforced with iron bands. It’s not locked and Zeriel swiftly opens it, revealing a cramped antechamber lined with cruel instruments: metal prods with barbed tips, long-handled hooks, syringes filled with mysterious fluids.
When he lifts a metal rod from the wall, I arch an eyebrow. “Planning to bludgeon me if this goes wrong?”
His mouth curves, sharp and humorless. “If I wanted to break you, I wouldn’t waste a tool. My hands would do.”
“Will we need that?” I ask, keeping my voice steady even as something twists in my gut.
“Possibly.”
Beyond the antechamber lies another passage, descending deeper into the mountain's heart. The air grows warmer still, carrying the unmistakable scent of dragon—a metallic tang mixedwith something primal and ancient. My skin prickles with unease, but also with a strange anticipation that I can't quite explain.
“Where exactly are we going?” I whisper, careful to keep my voice low enough that it won't echo down the stone corridor.
“The juvenile pens,” Zeriel replies in a low tone. “At least, to start with.”
We continue downward until we reach a circular chamber with five tunnels branching outward like the spokes of a wheel. Zeriel pauses, orienting himself, then selects the second tunnel from the right.
The tunnel narrows, forcing us to walk single file. The walls here are much more rough-hewn, the floor far bumpier. This part of the Ironhold feels older, more primeval—as if we're traveling back through time as well as space.
Finally, the passage opens into a vast natural cavern, its ceiling lost in darkness. Unlike the breeding pens, this space is illuminated by actual torches set in iron brackets along the walls. Dozens of individual enclosures line the perimeter—stone pens separated by metal bars, each containing a juvenile dragon.
The creatures are somewhat familiar, thanks to my brief encounter with the few Selen showed me. But these are larger than those; smaller than the adults we saw earlier, but still imposing—each the size of a very large horse, with scales that catch the torchlight in shimmering patterns of color. Some pace restlessly in their confinement, while others lie curled in corners, wings folded tightly against their bodies.
“They're separated by breed,” Zeriel explains coolly, leading me along the outer walkway. “Fire drakes there, ashbloods here, storm wings in the far corner, etc.”
“Were all of these bred here?” I wonder.
“Not all. Some are captured from the wild.”
I scan the enclosures, my heart rate accelerating. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”
“First, we observe,” he says, stopping before an enclosurecontaining a midnight-blue dragon with silver markings along its spine.
The creature raises its head as we approach, nostrils flaring as it catches our scent. Its eyes lock onto mine, and my breath catches. Its pupils contract to thin slits, then slowly dilate again. Unlike the ashblood from the training pit, this dragon shows no immediate aggression, just intense curiosity.
“This one.” Zeriel points. “A storm wing. Rarer than fire drakes, less volatile than ashbloods. Intelligent, but not as unpredictable.”
I move closer to the bars, drawn by something I can't explain. The storm wing rises to its feet with sinuous grace, its head tilting as it studies me. The silver markings along its spine seem to pulse faintly in the dim light.
