Chapter 37 Breakfast With the Scary Dragon Man.
When Damien finally reboots and leads us through the castle, I realise breakfast in a castle is apparently a formal affair, even when there are only two people and a very judgmental gecko involved. The dining hall looks like something straight out of one of those old storybooks I used to read in the tower. There's a long, polished table, glittering chandeliers, and paintings of people who look like they’d judge you for breathing too loudly. The food covers almost every inch of it: pastries, fruits, eggs, bread, and at least three kinds of meat.
I stop at the doorway. “Are you feeding an army?”
Damien glances up from his chair at the end of the table. “No.”
“Then why does it look like you’re hosting one?”
He hesitates, like he’s trying to work out whether I’m joking. “This is… breakfast.”
I whistle softly. “Right... And I’m guessing ‘light snack’ around here means a feast with fireworks?”
A quiet huff escapes him. I think it’s almost a laugh, though he looks mildly alarmed at the sound. He gestures toward the chair beside him. “Please. Sit.”
I take a seat, and Gilfred climbs onto the table like he owns the place.
“I see we’ve abandoned table manners entirely,” Damien says, watching the gecko paw at a grape.
“Hey, he’s a guest too,” I defend. “And for the record, he’s a better conversationalist than most nobles I’ve met.”
Damien’s brow arches. “You’ve met nobles?”
“Not in person,” I admit, picking up a pastry. “But I’ve read about plenty. My tower had more books than windows.”
Something shifts in his expression subtly. “You like to read?”
I nod, half-grinning at the memory. “Loved it. Still do, I guess. It’s how I learned about everything I couldn’t see. How I imagined the world worked. Turns out most of those stories lied.”
His gaze softens, curious now. “How so?”
“Well,” I say, chewing thoughtfully, “none of them ever mentioned what it’s like to be freezing in the middle of summer or how much people actually suck. They make it sound like every happy ending is earned just by being good. But that’s not how it works, is it?”
Damien tilts his head, studying me. “No,” he says after a moment. “It isn’t.”
I sigh, "Anywho, I've...lost my books, and now I'm learning that fairytales aren't always what they seem."
We sit in silence for a beat, the kind that feels almost… easy. He hasn’t touched his food yet; he just watches me, hands folded and posture stiff.
I point my fork at him. “You know, you’re allowed to eat too.”
He blinks. “I was waiting to make sure it was to your liking.”
I laugh. “What, in case I drop dead? That would be an awkward second impression.”
A hint of colour touches his ears, and internally, I'm giddy. Did I just make the dragon king blush? Surely not. “I meant… I wanted to be sure you had enough.”
“Damien,” I say, gesturing to the ridiculous spread of food, “I could feed an entire fishing village with this. I think I’m good.”
He clears his throat. “Of course.”
Gilfred snatches a berry and chirps like he’s won a war. I can’t help but smile. The air between us feels lighter now. He’s still cautious, careful with every word, but I can see the edges of something else. Something unsure. Something locked away that I so desperately want to pry open, simply because it seems forbidden.
I sip at my water and glance around the room. “You really live here all by yourself?”
He nods. “I have staff. Advisors. Guards. But yes, the castle is… quiet.”
“Quiet’s nice,” I say automatically, then correct myself. “Sometimes. But too much of it gets lonely.”
His eyes flick to mine. “It does.”
Something about the way he says it makes me look away, as if I'm pretending to be very interested in my pastry. When I finally speak again, it’s just to fill the quiet. “You know, I used to read about places like this. Grand halls, glittering chandeliers, cursed kings.” I grin sideways at him. “You’re very on theme, by the way.”
He actually smiles at that — a real one this time. It’s small and fleeting, but it hits harder than I expect. I've checked it off my bucket list already and I may be filing it away for later use...When I'm alone...because damn, that's one hell of a smile.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says.
“It was,” I say softly. “Mostly.”
The conversation drifts after that. He tells me small things about the gardens, the nearby village, and the way the snow came very early this year. Although I assume he knows why now. I tell him small things too, about the ocean, about Ashlyn and her chaos, about how I’m still trying to figure out what to do with myself now that I’m… free. When I mention the books again and how I miss them, how I wish I could read something new, his expression changes. I can practically see the cogs turning.
“I might have something you’d like,” he says.
“Oh?”
He stands, motioning for me to follow. “If you’ve truly read that much… I think you’ll find this worth seeing.”
I look at him suspiciously. “This isn’t another rooftop, is it?”
“No rooftops,” he promises, a trace of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Just… trust me.”
“Trust you,” I repeat, considering. “That’s a big ask, considering you’ve kidnapped me twice now.”
He opens his mouth to argue, then stops. “Fair point.”
I grin and push my chair back. “Alright then, show me your secret thing, scary dragon man.”
He looks mildly offended at the nickname but leads the way anyway, his long strides slowing so I can keep up. Gilfred climbs to my shoulder again, chirping curiously as we follow Damien down the hall.
He stops before a set of massive double doors, their handles shaped like curling vines. “Ready?”
“For what?”
Instead of answering, he pushes them open. Light floods the corridor, and the smells of parchment, dust, and something faintly magical waft towards me. My breath catches in my throat as I step closer. Rows upon rows of shelves stretch into forever, every inch filled with books. Floor to ceiling, balcony to balcony, an entire world bound in ink and gold. There are reading nooks carved into alcoves, ladders on rails, velvet cushions beside wide arched windows where sunlight spills through the snow outside.
I forget how to breathe. “This is—”
“Mine,” he says quietly. “But perhaps… yours too, if you’d like.”
For once, I can’t think of a single sarcastic thing to say. I just stand there, staring, heart pounding like it might explode at any second. Maybe monsters don’t keep girls in towers. Perhaps sometimes, they hand you the key to one filled with stories instead.