Seraphina's POV
The door opened without warning.
I looked up from the book I'd been pretending to read. Draeven stood in the doorway, carrying a heavy leather satchel that looked old and worn.
His eyes met mine, and I saw something dark there. Something that made my stomach twist.
"Get up," he said.
I set the book aside and stood slowly. "What's happening?"
"You wanted to know why I killed your family." He moved to the table and dropped the satchel with a heavy thud. "I'm going to show you."
He opened the satchel and pulled out journals. Dozens of them, bound in leather, pages yellowed with age.
"These are from your family's private library," he said. "Records they kept of their... work."
My hands trembled as I looked at the journals. "What kind of work?"
"The kind that built your family's fortune." He pushed one toward me. "Read."
I didn't want to touch it. But Draeven's eyes held no mercy, so I picked it up with shaking hands.
The handwriting inside was neat. Precise. Like someone keeping careful notes.
Day 23: Subject Seven (male, approximately 200 years old) shows resistance to the extraction process. Increased the binding spells. Blood yield improved significantly. Subject's screaming continues to disturb the household staff—will relocate to the lower dungeons tomorrow.
I felt sick.
"Keep reading," Draeven said, his voice cold.
I turned the page.
Day 31: Subject Seven expired during extraction. However, we successfully harvested enough essence to create five strength potions and two healing elixirs. His scales will be used for decorative purposes. His heart has been preserved for study.
The journal slipped from my hands. "No. This can't be—"
"It's real." Draeven pushed another journal toward me. "All of it. Every word."
I forced myself to pick up the second journal. My vision blurred with tears as I read entry after entry. Dragons described like animals. Their pain documented with scientific detachment. Their bodies harvested like crops.
One entry made me stop breathing:
The young silver female proved more resistant than expected. Age 187—still practically a child by dragon standards. Her father attempted a rescue but was neutralized. Extraction process extended over three days due to unusual magical properties. Note: Silver scales fetch higher prices. Recommend targeting more silver dragons in future expeditions.
"That was Lyanna," Draeven said quietly. "My sister. She was barely two centuries old. Still learning to control her fire. Still afraid of thunderstorms."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
"Your grandfather wrote that entry." Draeven's voice was hollow. "He documented every moment of her torture like he was writing a recipe."
I dropped the journal and ran to the corner. I vomited until there was nothing left, my whole body shaking.
"I didn't know," I gasped between heaves. "I swear I didn't know—"
"Ignorance isn't innocence." But his voice was less cold than before. Softer, somehow.
I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand. "How many? How many dragons did they—"
"Hundreds." Draeven picked up another journal. "Over three centuries, the Ashencrofts captured and killed at least three hundred dragons. Probably more. These are just the ones they bothered to document."
Three hundred lives. Three hundred families destroyed.
And I'd lived in that house. Eaten food bought with blood money. Slept under a roof built on genocide.
"I should have known," I whispered. "I should have asked questions. Should have looked—"
"You were a prisoner yourself," Draeven said, and the words sounded like they surprised him. "They kept you locked away. Starved you. Beat you. How could you have known?"
"I could have tried!" I looked up at him, tears streaming down my face. "I spent hours in that library. I could have searched harder. Could have found these journals. Could have—"
"Could have what?" He moved closer. "Freed the dragons yourself? A single human girl against your entire family? They would have killed you."
"Good!" The word burst out of me. "Maybe I deserved to die! Maybe that would have been better than living in ignorance while people—while dragons suffered in the dungeons below me!"
I grabbed another journal and opened it, forcing myself to read. Page after page of horror. Children torn from parents. Families massacred. Lives destroyed for magical ingredients.
"They used them for everything," I said, my voice breaking. "Potions. Weapons. Decorations. They treated living beings like—like materials for crafting."
"Yes."
I found an entry that made my heart stop:
Three juvenile subjects acquired today. Ages ranging from 50-120 years. The youngest shows promise for long-term study. His scales are remarkably resilient. Wife suggested we might breed them if we can keep them alive long enough. Consider this for future projects.
"They wanted to breed them," I whispered. "Keep them in cages and breed them like livestock."
Draeven's jaw clenched. "They tried. It never worked. Dragons won't reproduce in captivity. We'd rather die."
I slammed the journal shut and shoved it away. "I can't read anymore. I can't—"
"Yes, you can." He pushed it back. "You wanted to understand why I hate your family? This is why. Every page. Every word. Every life they destroyed."
"I understand!" I screamed. "I understand they were monsters! I understand they deserved to die! I understand—"
My voice broke completely. I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing so hard I couldn't breathe.
"I understand," I whispered through tears. "And I hate them too."
The words felt like betrayal and relief at the same time.
"I hate them," I repeated. "I hate my father for allowing this. I hate my grandfather for doing this. I hate everyone who knew and did nothing."
I looked up at Draeven through blurred vision.
"And I hate myself for being their blood. For carrying their name. For existing because of money earned from murder."
Draeven stared at me, something flickering in his golden eyes. Something I couldn't name.
"My family hurt me too," I said, my voice barely audible. "Not like this. Not like they hurt you. But they broke me. Every day. Every moment. They told me I was worthless. A mistake. A stain on their perfect name."
I touched the chains on my wrists.
"Lyria threw me in the mud and laughed while nobles mocked me. Father looked at me with disgust every time I entered a room. They starved me and beat me and made me wish I'd never been born."
Tears dripped onto my hands.
"I thought if I just worked hard enough, if I just stayed quiet enough, they might finally love me. But they never would. Because I wasn't good enough. Wasn't pure enough. Wasn't perfect."
I laughed bitterly. "Just like the dragons in their cages. Never good enough. Never worthy of mercy."
Draeven's expression cracked. Just for a moment, the cold mask fell away and I saw something underneath.
Pain. Understanding. Something that looked almost like...
He closed his eyes and took a breath.
When he opened them again, the mask was back in place.
"Get some rest," he said quietly. "You need your strength."
He gathered the journals and put them back in the satchel.
"Wait," I said. "Aren't you going to—I don't know—punish me more? Make me read the rest?"
"No." He moved toward the door. "You've seen enough."
"Why?" I pushed myself to my feet. "Why show me all this if you're just going to leave?"
He paused in the doorway, his back to me.
"Because I needed to see if you'd defend them," he said softly. "If you'd make excuses. If you'd try to justify what they did."
"And?"
"And you didn't." He looked back at me, and his eyes held something I'd never seen before. "You condemned them. Hated them. Even though they were your family."
"They were monsters," I said simply. "Family doesn't excuse that."
Something shifted in his expression. Something important.
But before I could ask what he was thinking, he left.
The door closed behind him, the lock clicking into place.
I sank onto the bed, exhausted and hollow.
The journals were gone, but I could still see the words. Still hear the screaming of dragons I'd never met. Still feel the weight of crimes I didn't commit but somehow carried anyway.
I curled up on the bed and cried until there were no tears left.
Outside my window, the sun was setting behind the mountains.
And somewhere in this fortress, Draeven was planning my execution.
But something had changed today. I'd seen it in his eyes.
He didn't just see an Ashencroft anymore.
He saw me.
Whether that would be enough to save my life, I didn't know.
But it was something.
A small crack in the wall of hatred between us.
And maybe—just maybe—that crack could grow into something bigger.
Or maybe I was fooling myself.
Maybe tomorrow he'd come back and kill me anyway.
I closed my eyes and whispered into the darkness: "I'm sorry, Lyanna. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry my family destroyed yours. I'm sorry for everything."
The wind whistled through the mountains.
And I could have sworn I heard a voice whisper back: I know.