The Silver Dragon by Kyra Murrell

LYDIA

The moment I opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong. I was going to die. You don't always need words to understand that kind of truth.

Sometimes your body just knows. You can feel it deep in your bones, that the end is near, that there's no way to run or hide. Death is waiting.

My head throbs painfully. Everything spins, and there's a sharp metallic taste on my tongue that makes me want to gag. I blink, trying to see through the blur. Then the moonlight hits me. It's a full moon tonight, glowing amber and heavy in the sky. The light pours down over me like liquid gold, too bright, too beautiful, almost cruel in its calm.

But I'm not outside. I'm trapped inside something. My heart pounds when I realize it's a container, dark, cold, and enclosed. The ceiling above me is made of glass, and the moonlight filters through it, reflecting off the metal around me.

I try to move, but I can't. My arms and legs are bound tightly by thick, rusty chains. They bite into my skin as I struggle. Panic rushes through me like a wave.

"Don't struggle," a voice says from behind me-low, calm, almost amused. "It won't do you any good."

I twist my neck, trying to see who's speaking. Shadows move around me. Shapes step forward until I realize I'm not alone. My breath catches in my throat.

Figures stand in a circle around the stretcher I'm chained to. They're dressed in long black robes, their faces hidden behind strange masks shaped like birds-ravens, with long white beaks gleaming in the moonlight. My pulse races faster. I don't understand what's happening or how I got here. The question keeps spinning in my head like a broken record: How did I get here?

One of them steps closer. His mask isn't white like the others, it's gold. My stomach drops as he stops beside me. Slowly, he lifts his hood and removes the mask.

He's beautiful, but in a cold, frightening way. His beauty feels unnatural, almost cruel. His silver hair catches the light and shimmers like liquid frost. His skin is pale, almost lifeless, and his features are sharp, perfect, too precise to be real. When he smiles, there's something dark and dangerous in it that makes my chest tighten.

"Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?" I demand, trying to sound strong even though my voice shakes.

He chuckles softly, walking around the stretcher like a predator circling its prey. "So many questions," he murmurs, his voice smooth and cold. "You'll find out soon enough."

He lifts his hand, and before I can blink, I feel a strange force pulling at the stretcher. It moves as if drawn by invisible strings, rising until I'm standing upright, chains rattling as the metal frame locks into place. I gasp, unable to stop the groan that escapes me.

Then I see my reflection in the mirror before me.

For a moment, I barely recognize myself. My copper-brown hair is a tangled mess, sticking to my sweaty forehead. My skin looks ghostly pale under the moonlight. My olive-green shirt clings to my body, and my black pants are torn at the edges. My boots are gone.

My blue eyes stare back at me, wide with fear, framed by a heart-shaped face. My lips tremble. I see the freckles scattered across my cheeks and think, absurdly, that I might never see them again.

The man's reflection appears behind me, his golden mask glinting in his hand. "To be honest," he says softly, leaning close, "I've always found you rather plain. Who would have guessed such an ordinary girl could matter so much? And yet, here we all are, because of you."

"What are you talking about?" My voice cracks.

He touches my cheek with the back of his fingers. The gesture is almost tender, but it sends a shiver of terror through me. I try to pull away, but the chains keep me still.