Chapter 3 A Cage Made of Silk

I woke up on silk, which was my very first clue that everything had gone off the rails.

The mattress beneath me was impossibly deep, soft enough to swallow a person whole.

Above me rose a vaulted ceiling of dark wood carved with stylized dragons whose trailing tails formed intricate knotwork along the beams.

Floating in silver sconces along the stone walls were wickless, pale green candles that burned with a soft, heatless flame, casting long, calm shadows across emerald artworks depicting strange, monstrous creatures with wings and claws.

I didn't move my head. I didn't even let my eyes blink.

Three years of working security and late-night bar rounds at The Black Glass had taught me one rule above all others: when you wake up in an unfamiliar room, you pretend to be dead and let your eyes search for the exits before anyone knows you’re conscious.

I did a quick mental inventory.

My body was intact, though every muscle in my back burned with a dull, thumping ache from the violent drop through reality. My clothes were still on; my worn leather jacket crumpled around my shoulders, and my boots resting against the foot of the bed.

For exits.

To the west, a narrow, arched stained-glass window sat high up the wall. At least thirty feet off the floor. No ledge, no drape long enough to reach it, making it useless.

To the east, a set of massive double doors carved from dark oak, reinforced with thick iron bands. Outside those doors, heavy footsteps echoed against stone at precisely twelve-second intervals. Two guards, heavy boots, and synchronized patrol.

They weren't pacing out of nervousness; they were holding a perimeter.

It was a cage. An exquisitely furnished, gold-leafed cage designed to keep a prisoner comfortable while ensuring they couldn't leave.

"You're awake," a soft, calculated voice said from near the hearth.

I sat up in a swift motion, swinging my legs over the edge of the high mattress. My boots hit a plush rug that muffled the sound instantly.

A young woman stood near a carved wooden sideboard. She was small, dressed in a simple grey dress with white cuffs and an apron, her light brown hair pinned back neatly at the nape of her neck.

She held a silver pitcher styled in the shape of a coiled serpent and a tall glass filled with crystal-clear water.

"I poured this for you," she said, stepping forward with a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You have been unconscious for nearly six hours, Lady Zenaida."

"Keep it," I said, my voice dry as dust, my hand resting flat against my thigh, ready to push off if she made a sudden move.

Rule number one of surviving downtown: never accept a glass you didn't watch someone pour.

"And don't call me Lady. Where am I?" I asked sternly.

She didn't flinch or force the glass on me. She set it down on a nightstand. Her posture was relaxed, a warmth that felt like invisibility; the kind of posture worn by people who survived in high-stress places by making themselves unremarkable.

"You are in the East Wing of the Royal Citadel," she replied softly, folding her hands over her apron. "I am Mirelle. I have been assigned to see to your comfort while the King manages the council."

"Manages the council?" I repeated, rubbing my sore temples where a dull concussion throbbed behind my eyes. "You mean the room full of half-human predators who drew weapons on me the second I landed?"

"The High Lords of the Seven Houses are protective of the realm," Mirelle said gently. "It is not every day a human falls through the veil directly onto the throne. Especially not a human girl with hair as white as snow."

She tilted her head slightly, her brown eyes tracking the way my white hair hung loose around my shoulders. The look was calm, but the focus behind it was oddly sharp for a simple palace servant.

"Does your hair run in your family?" she asked casually. "Your mother... did she carry the same silver-white locks?"

I narrowed my eyes at her. "My mother died three years ago. What does her hair have to do with anything?"

"Nothing at all, forgive my intrusion," Mirelle murmured, dipping her head in a bow. "It is only that rare features often carry history in the Beast Realm. Did she ever speak of the ancient paths to you? Of doors that open without keys?"

"She spoke of paying mortgages and keeping my uncle out of the wine cabinet," I snapped, setting my feet firmly on the floor. "Did she wear strange jewelry, too? Is that the next question on your little survey?"

"Jewelry?" Mirelle paused, her eyes flickering with a faint, imperceptible pulse of interest.

"A signet ring. My uncle stole it off her dresser before her body was even cold," I said, watching her face closely. "The damn thing flared with heat right before the plaster split open and dropped me into this nightmare."

Mirelle’s fingers twitched against the linen of her skirt, but her expression remained placid, a mask of domestic concern. "An heirloom, no doubt. The human world is full of forgotten trinkets that hold faint traces of old magic."

"I don't care about trinkets," I said, pushing myself up to stand. My knees wobbled for a second, the room tilting dangerously before settling back into place. "I care about getting back to my life. I have a district attorney to meet at nine in the morning with a file full of fraud charges, and a thief of an uncle to send to prison."

"I am afraid nine in the morning has long passed in your world, Zenaida," Mirelle said quietly. "And returning home is not a simple matter of walking through a door."

"Why not?"

"Because you are in the Beast Realm now," Mirelle said, stepping closer, her voice dropping into a somber, conspiratorial tone. "A world bound by ancient blood and separated from yours by collapsing borders. And the man whose lap you landed on is King Vyrn... the Black Dragon, supreme ruler of the shifter court."

The memory of those terrifying gold eyes flashing in the dark council chamber came rushing back. The heat of his chest. The wing folded over me like a shield against the swords.

"He shifted into a monster," I whispered.

"He is a dragon," Mirelle corrected gently. "Or he was, before the curse took root."

My hand paused over the edge of the mattress. "Curse?"

Mirelle cast a quick, nervous glance toward the doors before leaning in slightly. "Ten years ago, a dark, decaying magic was bound to the King. It eats away at his humanity, day by day, year by year. His dragon is wilder now, and harder to control. Every shift brings him closer to losing his mind."

"And what does that have to do with me?" I demanded, my pulse beginning to hammer against my ribs. "I don't belong here. I don't know your king, and I don't know anything about magic curses."

"You touched him," Mirelle said, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that chilled the room. "Skin to skin. In front of the Crown Council, his dragon claimed you as his mate. A human girl, falling from nowhere, instantly calming a king whose mind has been broken for a decade."

She lowered her voice further, her words cutting through the quiet of the silk-draped room.

"The Crown Council does not see you as a miracle, Zenaida. They see you as an anomaly. A poison sent by whoever cursed him ten years ago. Right now, behind those doors, the Regent is calling for a vote."

My throat went dry. "A vote for what?"

"To purge you," Mirelle whispered. "Before the mate bond takes full hold and binds the King's life to a human who cannot protect him."

A cold shockwave washed over my skin. "Purge? You mean execute me?"

Mirelle opened her mouth to answer, but before a single word could cross her lips…

The doors were thrown open with a deafening bang.