The spotlight was soft tonight.

  Lanterns strung overhead cast a warm glow across the small wooden stage, painting golden light onto the faces of the gathered crowd. It was a quiet performance—intimate, low firelight and warm wine. My kind of night.

  I stood barefoot on the smooth boards, hands loose at my sides, breath steady. My voice rose, spun, wrapped around the room like silk catching on every corner. I shaped the sound with precision and warmth, folding it into the rafters, weaving it between heartbeats. Each note shimmered like starlight over still water, quiet and commanding all at once. This was more than music—it was control. It was art.

  I loved singing, not just for the melody, but for the sensation of sculpting sound with nothing but breath and intent. I could thicken it, make it velvet-smooth, or sharpen it to a whisper that cut straight through bone. The resonance swelled through my chest, a familiar warmth that calmed and steadied me.

  The song poured from my chest like the tide pulling in.

  They called me the best the humans had.

  A voice touched by dragons, some whispered. Others said I was descended from sirenfolk—gifted with ancient magic in my blood. If only they knew the truth.

  I was a dragon.

  And I had been living as a human for nearly thirty years.

  I was forty-five now. Not far into my adulthood by dragon standards, though I still appeared as a young woman to human eyes. Time moved differently for us, and the humans never questioned it. To them, I was timeless—unchanging and ethereal, a presence that hovered just beyond the edge of ordinary.

  They spoke my name in cities and whispered it in villages. Minstrels tried to mimic my voice. Nobles paid handsomely for a chance to hear me sing. Some claimed I could command storms with my songs; others said my voice cured illness or lulled restless spirits. Fame had grown around me like ivy—tangled, relentless, and impossible to escape.

  A performer. A mystery. A living legend.

  I opened my eyes slowly as the last note lingered in the air, and that’s when I saw him.

  The human Duke of Thalebrook—cloaked in dark crimson, his shoulders broad beneath finely embroidered fabric, a silver circlet glinting in his dark hair—sat flanked by two guards at the edge of the crowd. His features were sharp, his gaze calculating, his posture too still. I recognized him by reputation before I saw the crest on his cloak.

  I had heard whispers—rumors that he collected rare and mythical creatures like trophies, kept them caged for his own curiosity and entertainment. Some said he was fascinated by what couldn’t be controlled.

  And now, he was watching me.

  Watching me.

  Listening.

  After the performance, a messenger approached me with quiet urgency, slipping between tables with the grace of someone used to moving unnoticed. He bowed low and extended an envelope sealed with the duke’s crest.

  An invitation.

  Dinner. Private. That night.

  The message was carefully worded, but the tightness in the messenger’s voice gave it away—he was nervous. Too controlled. I tucked the note into my cloak with a nod, already uneasy.

  I dressed deliberately for the occasion. Elegant. Regal. A flowing gown in shades of deep purple and indigo, the fabric catching the light like dragon scales. It draped like water around me, embroidered in silver thread and cut to move with every step. At my throat, a silver pendant shaped like a curling wave glinted under the light. Matching earrings hung delicately from my ears, framing my face with soft shimmer.

  Before I left, I paused in front of the mirror.

  My reflection looked back with calm, violet eyes framed by thick black lashes. My dark hair was braided intricately along one side, loose on the other to cascade down in soft waves. My skin carried the faintest luminescent undertone—like moonlight had touched beneath the surface. The dress hugged my frame like it had been spun from magic, pooling around my feet in quiet grandeur.

  I didn’t want to appear humble. I wanted to be seen—and to remind him that mystery could carry power.

  The duke’s estate was a marble-clad fortress, carved into the hillside like a crown above the city. Inside, the hall was quiet. A single table stretched between us, the distance intentional. I could feel the heaviness of the air clinging to my skin—the way staleness does when it has nowhere to go. I knew, instinctively, that it would have smelled of spices if I could still sense it. But I couldn’t. So I read the air instead by texture—how it pressed, how it stuck.

  My footsteps echoed against the polished stone floors—sharp, deliberate notes that bounced off the high walls and vaulted ceiling. Each step rang out like a challenge, a reminder that I was not afraid to be heard. But they were more than that. I used the rhythm of my heels like a sonar, gauging the way the sound shifted in the air around me. There was a hollowness beneath one wing of the estate—a large space underground. A basement? A prison? I had heard the rumors—mythical creatures held beneath the estate, collected like treasures. With every step, I felt the weight of those stories pressing against the marble beneath my feet.

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  I stepped through a towering set of double doors into the grand dining room. The ceiling arched high above with gilded beams and murals painted in scenes of conquest and splendor. At the far end of a long table—easily large enough to seat two dozen—the Duke of Thalebrook sat waiting, cloaked in darkness and decadence. A feast surrounded him: golden platters piled high, crystal goblets sparkling in the candlelight. Only one place was set—beside him.

  The food was beautiful—arranged like artwork. Bright fruits, glistening sauces, roasted vegetables layered with herbs. I chose dishes based on color and texture. Crisp greens, soft breads, creamy dips, chilled melon. The pomegranate glaze had no taste, but the jeweled seeds burst like tiny fireworks on my tongue.

  He watched me the entire time. Not with hunger. Not with admiration. With calculation.

  “You’ve built quite a reputation,” he said, sipping wine from a crystal glass. “There are those who say your voice is the finest in the world. That you’re not entirely… human.”

  I tilted my head. “People love their legends.”

  “And you don’t deny it.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  He smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. His heartbeat skipped—too fast, then too steady. He was lying. Or planning. Or both.

  “Where are you from?” he asked. “Who trained you? Where is your family now?”

  His tone was light, but the questions came too quickly.

  I met his gaze. “I’ve been many places. My voice is mine. My family… is gone.”

  His nostrils flared slightly. “And yet your gift seems… inherited.”

  I set my fork down. “You invited me for dinner, not interrogation.”

  He laughed, but his fingers tapped the edge of his plate. The guards shifted beyond the door. Something was happening behind his eyes—some decision.

  I met his gaze evenly, letting silence stretch between us before I spoke.

  “Is it true?” I asked softly. “What they say about you—about your collection of magical creatures?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted, but his voice dropped an octave. “People exaggerate. But yes, I’ve had the privilege of housing a few… rare wonders.”

  “Could I see them?” I asked.

  His expression didn’t change, but the pitch of his voice wavered just enough. His heartbeat ticked up, steady but forced. He was hiding something.

  “If you wish,” he said smoothly. “I’d be honored to show you.”

  We finished the meal in silence, his eyes never far from me. When he stood, he offered his arm.

  I accepted it only because I needed to see what he was hiding. His hand covered mine possessively, his palm too warm, too still. The touch crawled over my skin like smoke.

  I forced myself not to flinch. If there were truly creatures trapped in his estate, then I needed to see them. Maybe even help them.

  So I smiled and walked beside him into the dark.

  We descended a narrow staircase carved into the stone foundation of the estate. Two guards flanked us, silent and alert, their weapons close at hand. More followed behind. A full escort. But I wasn’t worried.

  They probably thought I was a siren hybrid—dangerous, perhaps, but manageable. If they knew what I really was, if they had any inkling that a full-blooded dragon walked at their duke’s side, there would have been a dozen more guards. Maybe more. With enchanted weapons.

  The corridor was dim and cold. Dampness clung to the walls, and the air grew heavier with each step downward. But it wasn’t just the weight of the air—it was the sounds.

  Breathing, ragged and uneven. The occasional scrape of claws against stone. Chains clinking as someone shifted in place. A low whimper. A wheeze. A rumble that may have once been a growl but was now dulled into resignation.

  I heard everything. The subtle, almost imperceptible details—the tremor in a centaur’s exhale, the flutter of a harpy’s broken wing, the way a griffin’s talons clicked nervously when it thought no one was listening. And layered beneath it all, silence—thick and unnatural. The kind that only exists where hope has been starved.

  The stairs opened into a long underground hall, its stone floor lined with iron-barred cells.

  The first cage held a harpy—her wings curled tightly around her as she sat on the floor, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. She didn’t look up.

  The next held a pair of wyverns, small and wing-bound, one of them limping as it circled the space restlessly.

  A second harpy sat slumped in another cage, younger than the first, feathers missing from one wing. Beyond that, two more wyverns lay curled together, breathing shallowly.

  I passed a griffin, its feathers dulled with neglect. Then another. And another—three cages, three different griffins. All of them silent. Watching.

  A satyr leaned against the bars of his cage, legs folded beneath him, horns chipped and eyes tired. He looked like he hadn’t spoken in days.

  And then I saw him.

  A man, seated calmly in a corner, watching me. The walls of his cell were deep with gouges—claw marks that tore through stone. He looked almost human. Almost.

  A shifter, I realized. Wolf or bear, perhaps. Something powerful enough to leave marks like that.

  The duke said nothing as we walked. He didn’t need to. The display spoke for itself.

  I hated all of it. The caged power. The stolen dignity. The despair etched into every glance, every limp, every shackle. They weren’t beasts. They were beings. Intelligent. Proud. And here, they were nothing more than curiosities.

  I kept my face still, my footsteps steady, but inside I was already planning. Not just how to get out.

  How to get them all out.

  I kept the disgust from my face, barely. My expression was practiced, serene. The duke began to speak, voice low and reverent—as if recounting victories from an old war.

  He told me how he lured a harpy with a decoy child and netted her mid-flight. How two of the wyverns were taken as eggs and raised in confinement, conditioned to obey. The satyr, he claimed, had once trespassed into human lands, and he had offered him ‘protection’ in exchange for servitude.

  Each word made my stomach twist tighter.

  Then he motioned me forward, down to the final cage at the end of the corridor.

  “This one,” he said, a glimmer of excitement in his voice, “is my favorite. A true rarity.”

  I stepped closer, the moment already sour in my mouth—and stopped cold.

  Inside the cell, perched in the dim corner on a branch of blackened stone, was a phoenix.

  Its feathers shimmered with barely-contained firelight, even in the shadows. It looked tired—wings tucked in, head bowed slightly—but it was unmistakable. Ancient. Proud. Pure magic incarnate.

  My blood began to boil.

  Phoenixes were not just rare—they were sacred. Rebirth-bound firebirds of legend, immortal through flame, their cycles of burning and rising again symbolized change, resilience, and power. Dragons revered them. Some considered them omens from the old gods, others believed they were myths come alive only in times of great transformation or war. A sighting of a phoenix was said to mark turning points in history. Entire flight paths had been redirected to follow the trails of ash left behind.

  And now one was here—caged. Dimmed. Dying in silence.