Castle of Dragons

Castle of Dragons
Sandra 

A large bump startles me awake, but I am still very drowsy. I try to feel around me to see what I can find. There is nothing but something that feels like a carpet underneath me. I try to reach above me, but something is restraining from lifting my arms up. Panic threatened to overwhelm me, but the fog in my head made it difficult to piece together what had happened or where I was. The air was cool and stale, tinged with a faint chemical sweetness that churned my stomach. Blinking against the dull ache behind my eyes, I struggled to orient myself in the darkness—shifting my weight only to discover my ankles were bound as well, leaving me helplessly cocooned. A distant, rhythmic hum vibrated beneath the floor, suggesting we were moving—maybe in a van or a train car, but I couldn’t be sure. My heart hammered in my chest as I strained to listen, desperate for any sounds that might clue me in to my captor’s intentions. A faint voice drifted from up ahead, muffled but sharp; a woman’s laugh, low and mocking, sent a chill through me. I tried to steady my breath and remember the self-defense training Jay and Jackson had drilled into me, clinging to the knowledge that Joseph and the Brotherhood would stop at nothing to find me. Gritting my teeth, I tested the restraints again—if there was even the smallest window of opportunity, I would fight with everything I had to get back to Joseph and my family. 

Suddenly, the vehicle lurched to a halt, jolting me against the side wall. Footsteps crunched on gravel outside, and a metallic door groaned open, letting in a rush of cold, earthy air tinged with the scent of pine and damp leaves. Before I could fully process the change, rough hands gripped my arms and a coarse burlap bag was pulled over my head, plunging me into deeper darkness. The musty smell of the bag mixed with traces of oil and old smoke, making my throat itch. Outside, I heard the faint creak of distant wind-blown branches and the shrill call of some songbird. Gravel crunched beneath boots as I was hoisted and guided forward, every step echoing against the silence of open land. We must be far out in the country somewhere. A safehouse maybe. The air grew heavier as we crossed a threshold. A door groaning on ancient hinges, ushering me into a hushed, cavernous space that smelled of wax, old wood, and something faintly metallic. My heart pounded in my ears, the only rhythm against the oppressive quiet of the building we had entered. I was still groggy and unbalanced. What the hell did they do to me? 

As I struggled to clear the haze from my mind, the woman’s voice sounded again, sharper this time and laced with authority. I caught fragments of her orders as she directed the others; her tone softened when she mentioned the Dragon quietly—almost reverentially, as if invoking a legend. “She’ll still be groggy,” I heard her say, “the fentanyl will keep her compliant for hours. Put her in the Sárkány Szoba.” The name struck me as foreign, strange and unfamiliar, echoing off the stone walls with a chill that made my skin crawl. The hands loosened the restraints around my wrists and ankles, then gently guided me to a padded chair. “Sit,” the woman ordered, her accent more pronounced as she spoke. “Leave the bag on until you hear the door lock.” I hesitated, but their grip remained firm. The burlap still blocked my vision, amplifying the sense of vulnerability. I heard the shuffle of footsteps and the heavy click of a lock, marking my new reality—alone, drowsy, and shrouded in darkness still. I slowly removed the bag, and the lights in the room instantly stung my eyes. 

I look around the room, my vision adjusting to the stark brightness as I take in my surroundings. The space is breathtaking in its eerie opulence, a sweeping, vintage chamber that whispers of another era. Heavy stone walls are draped with dark, tapestry-laden banners depicting mythical beasts and crests; their threads shimmering in the soft golden light cast by iron sconces and an elaborate wrought-iron chandelier overhead. The floor is lined with rich, hand-knotted rugs in deep crimson and gold, muffling each footstep and enhancing the sense of secrecy. A massive four-poster bed dominates one side of the room. Carved with intricate dragons and shield motifs, its canopy hung with luxurious velvet. Ornate wooden chests and medieval armoires line the walls; their brass fittings gleaming, while tall arched windows, framed by billowing velvet curtains, let in slivers of daylight that play across polished armor displayed in the corners. The air is scented faintly with beeswax, old books, and traces of incense, altogether a space that feels both regal and foreboding, as if I’ve stepped into the heart of a gothic legend. This man has done too much. Does he really believe he is a Dragon king. I laughed out loud to myself. I still have drugged out of my mind. Logically, knowing this is not a funny situation. Beyond the ridiculousness of the room, it is beautiful and expensive. Millions of questions filled my mind. How did he get this wealth. What was he so feared? How did he become The Dragon. All the questions I would ask if he were to talk to me in person.   

A surge of anxiety claws at my chest, weaving tightly with the stubborn remnants of sedation that cloud my senses. I feel both vulnerable and strangely defiant; my skin prickled with unease as I scan the chamber for any sign of hope or opportunity. My hands tremble slightly, still unsteady, but an undercurrent of determination flares within me—I will not let fear swallow me whole. As my gaze drifts around the room, I notice an assortment of curious trinkets scattered on a polished side table: an ornate silver locket with a faded family crest etched on its face, a small dragon figurine carved from jade, and a heavy iron key resting atop a stack of delicate parchment letters sealed with crimson wax. On the dresser nearby sits a hand mirror bordered in gold filigree and a set of aged coins from various countries, their surfaces worn smooth by time and touch. Each object seems deliberately placed, tokens of a life steeped in myth and secrecy, inviting questions I desperately wish I could ask. 

Fear pulses quietly beneath my curiosity. A dread that this carefully constructed prison is more than a display of power. I worry that I’ll never see Joseph or my brothers again, that I’ll be lost in this web of legends and vengeance, and that whatever plans the Dragon has for me are already in motion, beyond my control. My mind races with fragmented memories and what-ifs, haunted by the possibility that no matter how strong I am, I might not be enough to escape this time. Yet, beneath the fear and confusion, my thoughts sharpen with resolve with each moment that drug clears my system. I catalog every detail, every artifact and sound in the room, searching for meaning and potential escape. I remind myself that I’ve survived many things before, against odds, and against monsters. The unknown terrifies me, but it also fuels a stubborn hope: I will not let this become the end of my story.

I am Sandra, I am Sunshine, and I will find a way to fight back, no matter what shadows press around me.