Written: 8/17/23
Word Count: 1,611

My breaths hiccuped through my chest. I squeezed my knees as close to my body as they could get, my joints aching at me in protest. I couldn't curl up any tighter without breaking my bones, but that didn't stop me from trying.

"How could you be so insolent?" Grandfather had asked her, once, right after an argument. The blue lake on the Swanmere property glittered tranquilly as every living Swanmere sat around the large, black-metal patio table. No one dared meet one another's eyes. Not after the showdown we'd just witnessed.

When Grandfather flew into a rage, even Father sat back quietly and watched the man like a lion tamer picking his battles. Sacrificing one for the sake of future obedience. Yet, Grandfather never got mad at his son, whereas, all I had to do to concentrate his ire was walk into a room.

Aunt Rosetta munched on beignets, the sharp sound of crunching pronounced in this silence. Or maybe she chose to chew louder on purpose.

She shrugged, her shoulder-length red hair shuffling around her professional turtleneck. The red of her hair was like autumn. It shone brilliantly under the light, but on cloudy days, it remained a dark curtain. She'd never worn it long, not for as far back as I could remember. It was incredibly unusual for an elva to keep her hair short for such a long time. The style was seen as more of a student thing, quickly grown out of once family life took over. An elva's true due.

But Aunt Rosetta always kept it just at her shoulders. It got in the way, she'd told me, though I didn't know what that meant. I always wished I'd be able to see her hair long.

Now, I know I'll never get that chance.

"What's the matter, old man?" Aunt Rosetta didn't finish chewing before addressing her father, her elbows propped rudely on the edge of the table. She brandished the beignet at the ancient elve, who'd grown still. Too still. Glaring out from under his old-fashioned hat, something like a short top hat, Grandfather's eyes were luminous with their glare. "You've got your heir, yeah? And your heir's heir. Don't be greedy, now. Some of us are trying to actually better the world. Not contribute to its decay."

Mother had made it out of bed for this family meeting. She sat beside me, very nearly not present. One could mistake her for a Naiad, clear like water, as she sat there. At Aunt Rosetta's words, she gave a sharp inhale, but nobody noticed.

Father had silently gasped as well, clearing his throat to detract from his surprise. Grandmother's brows, painted as vaulting arches half up her forehead, could go no farther, but that didn't stop her eyes from almost popping from their sockets. Niall, spinning his fork round and round in his hand, stopped, all at once. No more whispers of the metal tines glancing off his plate, no more near misses stabbing me in the throat.

All grew still, but not Aunt Rosetta. A twinkle shone in her dark eyes. She knew exactly what challenge she offered. That challenge was reflected in her irises, so sharp, it was a near-identical match for Grandfather's own glowering twinkle. I'd always seen Aunt Rosetta as an outlier in the family, taking after no one, but as she and Grandfather glowered at each other across the table, I couldn't help but see more of her inside the old elve than Father.

An elva like Aunt Rosetta—one who smiled crookedly, like a benevolent pirate—had been murdered. The Swanmere who refused to take pride in the corruption and politics the position had become. She sought to spread good with her own actions, her own hands.

She'd been murdered.

I retched, but nothing came up. My stomach couldn't stop roiling. I crawled to my knees, grabbing at the plush armchairs to pull myself to my feet. My legs continued to shake, my knees basically useless putty. I knew I was panicking right now, knew I had been shocked to my very core to see the trail of blood, to see the splinters from a table.

Don't think of it. Don't think about it.

Had she suffered? Had they disgraced her body? Humiliated her? Did they strip her, to make her look like the Elvara those hunters told me she was?

"Gukk!"

Another retch moved my whole body, my throat watering with my body's anticipated reaction. But nothing came. It was just another painful heave to upend my roiling stomach.

I made my way across the room, following the trail. I had to see. I had to see what lay at the end.

The thought of getting on my knees to scrub away my aunt's blood from her own floor was enough to make me feel lightheaded. Why hadn't they cleaned up? They'd come inside to take her body away, to check if she was dead. Yet, they couldn't be bothered to clean up her murder scene before her family came to the clinic.

Had these Dark Elves respected Aunt Rosetta at all? Not only had they kept her here, like some kind of political prisoner living in seclusion, they'd disgraced her memory by leaving her blood to stain her otherwise beautiful, new hardwood floors. As if they couldn't be bothered. As if she wasn't worth the effort.

I gripped the doorway that led into a kitchen area. Luckily, my hand quickly found the blue switch for the main magic-lighting in the room. I dialed it up, only to feel my stomach quiver and roil anew.

It was worse in the kitchen.

I barely stayed standing as I took in the scene. The kitchen, from its floors, to its counters, to its appliances, to its cabinets, was all either dark gray or marbled. It was the kind of kitchen that would make it hard to see dirty surfaces. Honestly, it was a bit too loud for my sensitive eyes to take. All the swirls on the counters, the wood texture on the gray floorboards...it created something like a kaleidoscope of patterns that made my head hurt.

An island sat in the middle of the impressive expanse. It had a simple basket and cutting board on it, scrolls and ink pots stuffed inside the fragile wicker container. Aunt Rosetta must have used it as a place to store mail and other random papers that always accumulated.

But the ground...

Blood was caked on the corner of the island. A whole wash of blood sprayed across the floor like someone had accidentally upended a can of paint.

It looked like an explosion spell in here. The very worst kind. Yet, the furniture remained otherwise untouched.

What did Aunt Rosetta's killers do to her to create blood spray like that?

A spot of white on the lowest drawer of the island drew my attention. I lifted my hands to my mouth, holding in the sounds of retching.

Was that brain matter? Was that from Aunt Rosetta's brain?

I felt like I was going to pass out. It was too much. Don't think about it? Hah. Don't be ridiculous. How could I not think about it, when faced with this scene of horror?

How would I ever sleep in this clinic after what I'd seen? How could I ever face Resinee, my fake-friendly keeper, without throwing up?

"I'm next."

This was what happened to those the Dark Elves forced to stay confined. What was so yewing important about having a dragon vet in the Haspa Mines? What was so yewing important that said vet didn't even get treated with the respect deserved of all folk-kind?

A distant noise buzzed into my ears, soft at first. A low hum, like a pitchy growl. It filtered slowly through my senses, numbed from shock. Once my ears picked up on it, though, the noise amplified. Soon, the low grumble turned into a full-on, resonating roar.

My ears twitched, and I instinctively looked up into the darkness of a room adjoined to the far side of the kitchen. There wasn't a hint of light, so my night vision was utterly useless, but I first felt the tremor in the air.

Something was in the clinic with me.

My heart kicked into a painful drive, destroying any semblance of control I'd had over myself thus far. My shock and grief turned my limbs to sand, my body too scared to move.

The island separated me from whatever was on the other side, but it was small comfort, especially with my aunt's brain matter wedged on the bottom drawer of the blasted thing.

A paw on the floor entered the reach of the overhead lights. It was furred, white, like a giant cat's paw. I'd never seen anything like it. Slowly, it unearthed itself from the thick darkness.

The dragon was a baby. Its face was pointed, tiny. Dragons came in all forms, but I was used to more of the fire and brimstone version depicted on all sorts of items in the Capital. Clocks, dishcloths, shirts.

This one resembled a winged fox. All white, its paws like that of a tiger's. The only other spot of color were its black brows, wedged like sideways triangles across the creature's tiny face. They made the beast's youthful softness take on the air of a grumpy old man.

The thing's teeth looked needle-sharp as it growled at me. It walked like a panther about to attack, fluffy wings tucked flat against its lithe frame.

"Oh Goddess," I whispered, locking eyes with the soft, baby-blue orbs of the dragon. "There's still a patient here."

End of Act I

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End of Chapter Lyric Vid:

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