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Chapter 10: New Management

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Chanteirwen would never break. She would escape from here. Find her brother. She would live free, winds lifting high, soaring to the brightest future she could see.

These thoughts sustained Chanteirwen as she suffered the Forgers' rule. For countless moons, she lived in monotonous, brain-numbing captivity. They kept her in a cave so unnatural it could've only been their work. Gray walls rose on all sides, boxing her in a space too small for her to spread her wings—if she could—or stretch her body. She could never get used to this claustrophobic enclosure; merely flicking her forked tongue reinforced the airless feeling, constantly reminding her where she was.

The Forgers had scattered dry grass in one corner in what was a pitiful attempt at providing some measure of comfort to the dragons they held captive. It did nothing to distract from the noisome pile of her bodily waste sitting in the corner. Grime marred the grass, staining it with the stench of rot and dirtying the open wounds on what was once a gleaming and vibrant hide—smooth when licked, whole when scratched.

Now, cracks had formed on her burgundy scales. In several areas they were discolored, if not broken. She was covered in bruises. Ruined with scars; some streaked across her flanks like talons while others were as misshapen dots. Every single one inflicted by the Forgers in their attempts to subjugate her, to render her obedient to their every whim.

To Chanteirwen, the Forgers lived complicated lives. They did not kill to eat. Nor did they work to eat. It was a world she couldn't understand. None of the two-legged monsters dragging her out of this cramped cave to work the "carretilla", the "caja", the "cuerda", or the other ridiculous-sounding contraptions possessed the same muscular physique as those that had murdered her parents. Not a single one looked like they could survive in the jungle, let alone be apex predators.

Yet what she had seen in the place they called "Graham Logistica" defied everything she had known as a whelp. The Forgers no longer wielded claws or hides made of shimmering metal. Now they changed—they controlled the world around them using objects made from materials beyond her comprehension.

They also sought to exploit her as they did with all else.

Chanteirwen put up a struggle each time they tried to remove her from her cave for a full day, resisting them when she could, when she knew they weren't angry enough to kill her.

Despite her resistance, the Forgers still tossed pawfuls of stale, near-rotten meat after sunset. Not enough to even relieve the agony gnawing at her belly all day. Though it confused her natural instincts—for food had to be sourced from kills—it was clear they did not want her dead.

Chanteirwen never had time to grieve the misfortune that she experienced. When the Forgers chained her, Verstein, and a few others, packed them in metal boxes, and put them on giant contraptions floating on the Endless Waters, she was too worried for her and her brother's fate.

That the fat, one-eyed Forger who previously held them didn't do anything was a massive relief in itself. However, her dread only increased after one of the dragons had been exchanged for unnatural, inedible boxes containing colored leaves. They sat there, wasting away in a wooden cave. Every time she closed her eyes she relived the night the Forgers came, slew a large number of her clan. Each day she remembered the way her parents were dismembered and dismantled, denied the grace—the respect due them by being prey to an even greater predator.

When someone had come to take Verstein away, Chanteirwen had struggled to stay with her brother. She had thrown herself at the bars, growled the loudest she could notwithstanding the tight muzzle keeping her snout shut. Neither Forger had gazed in her direction. She did not exist to the both of them. All she could remember from that day was Verstein's gaunt form staring back at her, unwilling to be separated from the only family he had left.

That night she howled constantly, eyes dripping with water. Her world felt like it was collapsing. Thoughts of her brother being butchered and turned into mincemeat tormented her day and night. She had barely recovered from the stress when her turn had finally come—when the Forgers she would come to know as Stephen Graham and Charles Graham gave Paul Del Rosario the same colored leaves in exchange for her.

What followed was relentless and unceasing torture. They replaced the chains on her paws with heavy shackles, weights, and a restraint that bound one forepaw and hindpaw together. They wrapped her precious wings in a sticky, indestructible fabric. They reinforced the muzzle, switching from fibers to restrictive metal. They even trimmed her claws—snapped off the ends. They didn't care if it bled.

Then the Forgers Graham began to beat bits and pieces of their language into her head. They taught her how to perform certain tasks that the other Forgers did in the daytime. They struck her for each and every time she defied them, drawing blood with their ropes and metal claws, stunning her with shock sticks, and bruising her beautiful scales with thick rods of metal or wood.

Time quickly lost its meaning.

Stephen Graham and his pup were replaced by Forgers who obeyed them the same way the dragons obeyed the ruling patriarch of their clan. They forced her compliance—forced her to perform the tasks she was taught. Agony became routine. She had realized it when "Graham Logistica" brought in more dragons, a few she recognized from her own lounge.

The new arrivals did not resist as long as her. They had only endured a moon or so after having the nefarious "GL" image literally burned onto their flanks before they finally succumbed.

Seeing members of her own lounge—people she had considered part of her extended family—resign themselves to fate in captivity magnified the flames blazing in her green eyes.

Chanteirwen would never break. She would escape from here. Find her brother. She would live free, winds lifting high, soaring to the brightest future she could see.

Alhough she had nightmares every night and cried herself to sleep, the glint in Chanteirwen's eyes grew sharper as the moons passed.

She refused to give up. If anything, the Forgers had a more difficult time subduing her. She ignored the warning growls of her weaker brethren. If it weren't for the muzzles tightly clamped around their jaws, she would've scolded them for surrendering. How could the other dragons permit this abuse? They were larger—stronger—tougher! They could fly and kill with their breaths! None of the Forgers in Graham Logistica could do anything to them if they could only free themselves from all these damned fetters!

Chanteirwen always tried breaking the Forger-made restraints when she thought no one was watching her. She would contort, curl, and twist, trying to reach the straps crimping her wings. Blunted claws swiped at her muzzle, in the hopes that repeated strikes will knock off the material if not tear the chain netting. If not her limbs, then the environment around her—the walls even bore the damage of all her struggles to damage the devices.

Chanteirwen endured the pain and exhaustion she inflicted upon herself. She put extraordinary focus on her mission to break free, drawing strength from her last memory of Verstein.

She had to.

She had no other choice, or else she would lose her mind.

There was nothing to do in this tight enclosure save to pace and circle endlessly, trapped and with nowhere to go. Her wings ached for the winds knew how long. She had grown thin. She could barely walk. She could not warble or bark—could not talk to any of the other dragons even if she wanted to.

Work was practically never-ending, ceasing only four times per moon. The Forgers never gave her rest. They would force her to perform a series of thankless tasks without a break. The moment she stopped, someone would scream and swing their weapons at her, and she could do nothing but brace for the worst.

Every afternoon, Chanteirwen would pass near the largest structure in the compound. Each time, the dragoness would stop whatever she was doing and lift her gaze. Her eyes lingered on the lone figure that was always visible on the highest level, glaring down at the entirety of Graham Logistica like a clan patriarch or their offspring.

Charles Preston Graham.

Chanteirwen detested that Forger and his father the most, out of everyone in this place. They had been directly responsible for the squalid indignity that was her life. They put her through unspeakable dolor during their "adiestramiento" and, worse, cascaded the cruelest, the most ruthless practices to every dragon who came after her.

Charles himself had nearly taken out her right eye at least a hundred moons ago, and she had a gruesome scar to show for it. She swore she'd never forget what he had done for as long as she lived, because someday she would have vengeance. Someday she would pounce on that Forger, sink her fangs into his skull, and tear out his eyes before ripping him apart from limb to limb and leaving his mangled body to rot without even ingesting a single piece.

Chanteirwen would never break. She would escape from here. Find her brother. She would live free, winds lifting high, soaring to the brightest future she could see.

One day, Charles stopped appearing at his perch.

Chanteirwen only realized that the abhorrent Forger had vanished when she noticed the jornalero uttering to themselves in hushed tones.

She passed a couple of them sitting beneath a tree, eating their strange food out of a box. A stupor came over her when she smelled the delectable fragrance wafting in her nose. Chanteirwen shook it off. No use wishing for it; she'd never get to try Forger food. Listening in was more important. "...el desmadre que pasó en FDRA ayer."

One of them did a double take. "¿Quieres decir que el Jefe Charles formo parte de eso?"

"¡Sí, sí! Por eso está ausente. ¡Los rojos lo han secuestraron!" The other man nodded, animatedly confirming his thoughts.

The first jornalero shook his head. "Hmph. Ese pendejo está como muerto ahora. ¡Escuché que los rojos atacaron dragones salvajes en la policía!"

"Correcto. Se está volviendo más aterrador por el año, amigo mio…"

By and large, the exchange passed through Chanteirwen's ears without comprehension. However, she had developed an intuitive understanding of the language called Spanish over the many seasons she had toiled for Graham Logistica and recognized several words.

Desmadre.

Secuestraron.

Muerto.

Dragones salvajes.

Charles had been involved in some recent disaster. He had been kidnapped by "red" Forgers—whatever that meant—who supposedly had wild dragons fighting for them.

Chanteirwen gasped in shock. Her tail thumped the ground. As surprising as it was to hear about Wildborn in Henrico, she couldn't help focusing on what they said about the Graham pup himself: that he was as good as dead.

Both Forgers heard her reaction. They glanced at Chanteirwen. A moment passed before somebody muttered, "¿Eh? ¿Por qué Rojo Salvaje está parado ahí?"

Rojo Salvaje. Wild Red. That's what they called her. Even the Forgers knew she was the most belligerent of the fifteen dragons in Graham Logistica.

The other man cupped his mouth and shouted at the Forger trailing behind her. "¡Oye, Ricardo! Saca a la lagartija esa de aquí. ¡Nos está hinchado las pelotas!"

Chanteirwen clicked her tongue. Her attention bothered them. She had to move—

"¡MUEVETE!" Ricardo bellowed, prodding her scales with the barb of his hook. The dragoness had already resumed her slow pace, pushing one of the pallet carts to the structure near the gate.

As she and her handler left the vicinity, she overheard the Forgers resume their conversation. "Oye, no nos pueden entender, ¿verdad?" The question startled Chanteirwen. They were starting to notice she could understand pieces of their conversation.

"No me sorprendería si el lagarto puede entender un poco. Estos animales son muy inteligentes..."

Intelligent animals, he just described her. He might as well have described all of them. Chanteirwen interpreted his wild speculation as a warning. Forgers never liked it when creatures other than themselves were capable of language—of reason—as though the ability to speak, write, and think should be theirs and theirs alone. This was true even in ancient times, when they roamed the lands with hides and claws of steel.

If they learned just how much Spanish she could already understand, they were likely to put more restrictions on her, if not subject her to direct disposal. Some of the more gruff-looking Forgers wandering the grounds carried the same firesticks that had been used on the night she and Verstein had been taken. Many of them eyed her and her kind with wariness, seemingly begging for the tiniest excuse to shoot them dead.

She would never give these monsters that satisfaction.

Chanteirwen took time to process the news, digesting it as she worked under Ricardo's supervision. The thought of Charles Graham dead, and perhaps with the help of other Wildborn at that, filled her with both elation and disappointment.

Elation, because one of the two Forgers directly responsible for her suffering was gone. His father, Stephen, was surely roaring at the skies in agony wherever he was. It also felt good, knowing there was a lounge of dragons somewhere in this land, living freely under a clan patriarch.

Disappointment, because she would never get to exact vengeance on Charles. Chanteirwen had always fantasized about putting him beneath her scales and sinking her fangs and talons into his flesh and it felt strange knowing she would never experience this for herself.

Her displeasure deepened after she spent some time thinking about the Wildborn in Henrico and concluded that they weren't as free as she initially believed.

The Forgers controlled nearly everything in current times, a situation far beyond the reckoning of even Chanteirwen's patriarch, who had been a mere whelp around the era of the dragonslayers. Who would have thought that, in just a few generations, these two-legged, land-bound creatures would come to rule both the skies and the ground? Were the Wildborn truly free in this era?

A disgruntled snarl rumbled out of Chanteirwen's throat, frightening the handler Ricardo had transferred her over to for the evening shift. The two-legs whimpered in fright. "¡B-b-de vuelta al trabajo, Rojo! ¡O yo... yo traeré un guardia!"

Chanteirwen snorted derisively. How pathetic could Forgers be? Even after everything the Grahams had done to render all the captive dragons harmless, there were still spineless half-wits who shriveled and flinched with a simple glare. It was people like these that often made her wonder how they had become the apex predators. She tuned out the handler's stammering and focused on the unrewarding task in front of her: shoving heavy crates up a ramp and into the metal box atop one of their "cargo trucks", a metal monstrosity bigger and more massive than even the largest dragon in her clan.

How would the Forgers respond to Charles' absence now? Chanteirwen hoped they would become less vigilant over time. A piece of wisdom from her clan's patriarch came to mind—the Forgers' greatest weakness was their myopia. They could only focus on one thing for so long before their attentiveness slipped and mistakes began trickling through the cracks.

Charles and the Forger known as Vanessa had always ensured the restrictions on the dragons were tight, but Vanessa was rarely seen outside the big structure in the middle for whatever reason and Charles was the only one who regularly patrolled the grounds. With him gone, Chanteirwen expected lapses in security to follow.

Where there were lapses in security, opportunities for escape soon followed. It was only a matter of time.

Chanteirwen would never break. She would escape from here. Find her brother. She would live free, winds lifting high, soaring to the brightest future she could see.

Her excitement did not last long.

One evening, after half a moon had passed, she spotted Vanessa guiding a bulky and hairless Forger through the dragon enclosures. "¡—N-no puede hacer eso, Señor Jeffrey! ¡Jefe Charles hizo esa política por—

Chanteirwen had been woken up by voices floating into the cramped rooms. Her failure to associate them with any of the handlers drew her curiosity. She got up on her feet—winced at the persistent ache in all four of her ankles—and slowly lumbered her way to the door, dragging the chains and weights behind her.

The other man was a head taller than even Charles Graham. His baldness shone brightly, even with the dim lighting. "Charles siempre ha sido inflexible. ¡Él siempre está besandole el culo del Padrino Stephen! Tengo muchas ideas en mente--

She found most of the Spanish incomprehensible. What little she understood hinted at a family relationship with Charles and a slew of new things to come.

Vanessa replied with a disagreeing tone, "Pero Señor, esas ideas—

"¡Pollas en vinagre!" He said in dismissal. "¡Ganaremos mucho dinero!"

Vanessa submitted easily, lowering her head. The display shocked Chanteirwen. Whatever the bald Forger was thinking would certainly come to pass. She shuddered at the very idea. She had seen Jeffrey working the boxes and the carts just like any other jornalero, but he would always have this strange, inscrutable expression, ogling nearly every dragon who entered his eyes.

Chanteirwen shrunk back as Jeffrey and Vanessa passed the thick, metal door to her enclosure. Vanessa did not deign to even glance in her direction, scurrying along the aisle, an overpowering, floral stench trailing her steps. A shiver traveled through her spine and tail when Jeffrey glanced at her through the transparent and indestructible screen, leering. A sickening gaze that always portended bad things to come.

She had seen this look several times on a Forger's face, almost always before some life-altering scheme was forced on her—the demons who had abducted her from the wilds, the one-eyed Paul Del Rosario, and even Stephen Graham, when she had finally fulfilled his commands and successfully unloaded a cart for the first time after hours of confusion and brutal torture.

Several days passed since the evening Chanteirwen had seen Jeffrey, with nothing happening in particular to either the dragons or the jornalero. She had spent much of her time speculating what would happen next and how she or any other dragon could take advantage of it, if not pry open an opportunity themselves. Even if she had been able to speak to the others, there was no way she could have expected things to get worse than it already was.

The changes came without warning.

Evenings were something Chanteirwen looked forward to, not just because it meant her grueling work was finished until sunrise, but also because it was time to eat and relieve, if slightly, the merciless hunger pangs churning her gut.

If she hadn't been muzzled, her jaw would have dropped at the sight waiting for her in the enclosure one night. She would have croaked a mournful yowl, seeing just about half the meat she was usually fed. Even worse, it was rancid! What the Forgers fed the dragons before barely passed for food; now they were feeding them something much closer to garbage!

The water also seemed much dirtier than before. An iridescent tint swirled on its surface and it was foul to the palate. She lapped the bucket, trying not to gag on the fetid drink.

The effects this change had on the dragons was quickly evident. Within days, all but the hardiest dragons—the kind who had thick armor rather than a natural weapon—became lethargic. Their strength waned, and at night, Chanteirwen could hear nearly everyone groan from agony, pawing at the walls, scratching their bellies, wishing the screams of her unsated stomach gone.

Chanteirwen was the first to protest. She refused to comply with Ricardo's orders in the morning. She snarled at the Forger, glaring into his brown eyes. She sent the empty container to his two legs with a slap. She might've tried mimicking one of their Spanish words if the damned muzzle let her open her maw wider!

The Forger understood the message. His response emphasized another change Jeffrey Preston had done on the way things were done in Graham Logistics. For the first time since she'd been brought to this hellish place, Ricardo withdrew a small boomstick from the thin hides he wore over his furless skin and aimed its dangerous end right at Chanteirwen's foreleg.

The dragoness fell over and writhed, smooshing her own waste onto her scales. She howled. The pain was even greater than she ever expected. Blazing hot—hotter than her own flames. It blinded her vision and rendered her helpless.

Ricardo grunted in irritation. "Eso es lo que obtienes, stupid dragon_. ¡Ahora levántate y_ FOLLOW_!_"

Chanteirwen quaked as she rose to her feet. She saw a shallow hole on one paw, with a shiny object lodged inside. It did not fully penetrate her hide, but by the wind, how it hurt! The Forger in front of her made a clicking noise and beckoned, not caring about her plight. Chanteirwen forced herself to follow, ignoring the spikes of pain flaring up in each step.

As the day went, Chanteirwen realized the handlers had become even more violent in enforcing the dragons' obedience, in controlling them. Several Forgers went inside the enclosures, followed by screeching. What they had done terrified her; they would measure their tails against some straight, wooden object and slice off a portion to match it.

Chanteirwen was fortunate her tail didn't need any pruning, yet one dragon was nothing but belligerent to the Forgers that entered his room. An ice spitter. He had every right to defend himself from the abuse. However, Jeffrey Preston arrived during this time and addressed the problem not by subduing the dragon as Charles would have done, but by taking one of those long firesticks and placing its tip on the head.

Rat-tat-tat!

The dragon died instantly, holes punched through its skull.

Nearly every reptile who heard this cried out, including Chanteirwen herself. She slunk to the back of her cramped cave and pressed her slim, malnourished body up against the wall, shivering. Jeffrey's next words stabbed her heart. She completely understood his Spanish. "Time to get another dragon_."_

Never before had she wished so hard for a way out of this abyss, for the resolve to survive at all costs.

Chanteirwen would never break. She would escape from here. Find her brother. She would live free, winds lifting high, soaring to the brightest future she could see.

For many moons to come, the dragoness visualized her sole wish in order to power through the torturous suffering, constantly telling herself to endure, to wait for that once-in-a-lifetime chance to escape, yet the longer she waited, the more unreachable her goal seemed.

She was increasingly parched—starving—by the day. The dark red of her scales, rich with life, appeared more and more horrendous, increasingly discolored and marked with more scars than before. The handlers became more aggressive, sometimes even lashing out their weapons at her and the other dragons for no reason at all. Her enclosure reeked of biological waste, with the Forgers rarely coming in to clean it out and her body constantly feeling the urge to urinate.

In spite of it all, Chanteirwen held on to her resolve.

She clung to her dream, to her vision of the future.

Even in the most trying times when Jeffrey Preston focused his attention on her—on all the females in this cursed lounge.

Chanteirwen no longer had a clue as to how much time had passed since Graham Logistica fell under new management. There simply came a point in time when she was roughly awoken from sleep by a pair of Forgers opening the door to her enclosure. Handlers she could recognize.

Jeffrey's voice floated across the portal, the Spanish somewhat comprehensible. "Bring out Wild Red! ¡Pull de la beast si tienes que hacerlo!" The latter did not need any translation when the two handlers entered Chanteirwen's personal space, arms reaching for her body or the chains weighing her down.

The dragoness did not move until their hands clasped the clinkling metal—a remnant of her defiance. She snorted, rising on her paws. She walked outside, not knowing what to expect from this latest intrusion.

A Forger stood beside a male, waiting patiently for Chanteirwen to emerge from her enclosure. The male dragon was fairly larger than her. A Cerulean Yellowtail, his blue and yellow scales suggesting the type that possessed its own lightning. Most astonishingly, the Forgers had removed the large stone orbs that were normally shackled on their paws. They had even replaced the net-like muzzle with something that resembled a tube, which fit near the base of the snout and allowed the dragon slightly more wiggle room for their mouths—still not enough for talking, but enough to eat and spit with.

Her ears attentively flicked upward, eyes darting around. At least ten Forgers surrounded them, nearly all holding the long, rapid-fire boomsticks in the dragons' general direction. Jeffrey himself stood in center position, closer to the dragons, more isolated from his escorts, but armed with the same kind of boomstick that could punch a hundred holes on a dragon's face in one shot.

"Lighten its load," commanded Jeffrey. The two handlers trailing Chanteirwen lined up beside her and, kneeling down, began fiddling with her shackles until—

Snap!

Sweet, satisfying relief instantly flooded her mind. The two rock spheres tied to her feet were rolled away. Her left foreleg and right hindleg felt lighter than they had ever been in many seasons. It felt so good that Chanteirwen couldn't help making a relaxed sigh and drumming her claws on the ground. Before she knew it, her face felt freer than ever, as the contraption had been replaced with the same kind of muzzle worn by the drake.

Chanteirwen closed her eyes and bathed in the liberating feeling. She wished the moment would never end. If only she could stretch her wings out too…

Jeffrey's voice ruined it all; dragged her away from her stupor. "Feels good, eh?" He said. Her apprehension returned. The Forgers never did something—never did anything—without a reason.

Jeffrey raised his hand. A loud noise cracked the air.

At the sound, the handler beside the Yellowtail shoved him forward. The male dragon snarled, yet none of the Forgers showed fear. Clearly, even if the lightened restraints meant Chanteirwen and the drake could go around and bite a few dead, the rest would surely turn them both into bloody chunks.

"Well?" Jeffrey asked. "What are you waiting for? ¡Go and follarse unos a otros!"

Both dragons stared at him in confusion. Chanteirwen didn't know what he wanted or why he brought her and the Yellowtail out in the aisle. She didn't recognize that last bit of Spanish either.

"La puta madre, these dumb lizards." Jeffrey flicked his finger at the drake's handler. "You. Show them how it's done."

The man blanched, face contorting in an expression Chanteirwen could only associate with disgust.

"Do it!" Jeffrey yelled. "Do it, pinche pendejo, or you're despedido!"

Whatever that last word meant, it spurred the man into action. Chanteirwen did not expect the handler to squat beside the Yellowtail and place both hands between his legs, stroking at the dark blue scales. Understanding dawned on her when the male stuck his tongue out in a vulgar expression and a pink tendril bulged out from the middle.

The Forger reluctantly clasped the tapered shaft and continued stroking the Yellowtail, who squirmed at the touch. Watching the ribald act caused Chanteirwen's guts to stir. A foreign sensation came over her, striking her with the urge to join them. She felt her loins moisten, acquiring a sticky, if gluey, wetness. As her eyes gazed on the drake's shaft, watching it grow larger and accentuate the ribs decorating its length, all of a sudden Chanteirwen felt woefully incomplete.

For a moment, she focused on the action. She forgot about the Forgers. She forgot about her worries. She couldn't stop thinking about the crawling itch in her nethers. Pure instinct screamed at her to fill a need she had never known about. All she had to do was go there, let the handler work her up a bit, and allow the Yellowtail to pierce her core, over and over, until she felt whole again.

It was not until she drank in the Yellowtail's scent did she snap out of the lascivious haze. His masculine odors reminded her too much of Verstein—of the family—of the clan she had lost ages ago. As soon as Chanteirwen realized the drake was from the same lounge as her, the dragoness immediately recoiled. Fighting against the instinctual desire to get mounted, through nothing but her willpower, she forced herself to retreat.

To turbulently shake her head.

To cast her gaze on Jeffrey and the Forgers he brought here, holding their boomsticks at the hips. All had frozen at her sudden move.

The Cerulean Yellowtail cried an unhappy whine, turning his head to growl at the handler, who had been pleasuring him mere moments ago.

The man in question stepped back and pointed at Chanteirwen, a gesture they both understood. The Yellowtail moved forward to claim his prize, his bristled shaft still throbbing hungrily in the air. He licked his chops, anticipating her.

Once more, she felt the desire to let this dragon mount her, slam her on the ground, and pound her loins raw. But its pull was no longer as irresistible as earlier. Chanteirwen glanced askance at Jeffrey one more time and saw the eagerness in his eyes.

They wanted this.

They wanted the dragons to copulate.

Whatever sinister reason the Forgers had for putting her and the Yellowtail near each other, Chanterwein didn't want to be part of it.

Letting out a defiant snarl, she reared up and swatted the Yellowtail on the head. He released a confused and disappointed warble before growling unintelligibly in frustration and awkwardly pouncing at her. Mindful of her own hobble, she pirouetted out of his line of attack. Spotting her massive sphere nearby, she placed both forepaws on its surface, clutched hard, and swung it upward with all her strength.

"¡Ay caray!" murmured several Forgers as soon as the stone orb slammed into the Yellowtail's erection. She watched him collapse on the floor and flounder like a hatchling, bleating through the tubular muzzle.

"Wild Red, I shit on God!" Jeffrey shouted incredulously. He kicked some object in the aisle and furiously snarled at the other Forgers, pointing at Chanteirwen. "¡Tíralo de vuelta a la cage_!_"

She turned around to escape into her enclosure and preemptively remove any cause for them to hurt her, but she was moments too late. Sharp, stinging pain sliced across her breast. A loud bang thundered in the air; something smashed into her tail a split second before it was on fire.

Chanteirwen fell over. She hadn't had the chance to mewl until cutting hooks penetrated her weakened scales and created new wounds over old scars. She pawed at the air, wriggled her tail, rolling to and fro, wings struggling against the tight restraints. The Forgers did not care. They sustained their assault, literally beating her as they dragged her back into her enclosure and all but threw her inside.

There she laid, hopelessly injured, blood oozing from fresh wounds. She listened intently to the Forger Jeffrey howling crazily at her rebellion, kicking various metallic things near him. "¡La reconchatumadre! ¡Los Cabernets Ecuatorianos son extremadamente raros Vatran! Why is this beast so wild? ¡Mierda! ¡Estamos fritos!"

Jeffrey's vexation was satisfying to hear.

Chanteirwen would never break. She would escape from here. Find her brother. She would live free, winds lifting high, soaring to the brightest future she could see.

Since the incident with the Yellowtail, none of the Forgers returned to bother her. Jeffrey, a few handlers, and armed guards still frequented the dragon house after dark, coaxing a male and female out of their rooms, if not forcibly hauling them outside, and encouraging them to breed in the aisles or the training areas.

Chanteirwen would hear lustful groans each night. She would squirm, toss, and tumble on the dry grass, her loins moist, her body unusually warm, yet with her needs totally unanswered. The torture was no less unbearable than the abuse she received on a daily basis, but her suspicion was eventually vindicated when, after several seasons, ear-shattering squeals or whimpers rang out in the middle of the night.

They were loud enough to wake every dragon in the facility.

Out of curiosity, Chanteirwen walked up to the door. Her ears twitched upon seeing handlers exit another enclosure whilst cradling recently-laid dragon eggs in their arms. They loaded them on a cart then moved on to the next enclosure, all under the watchful gaze of Jeffrey Preston.

Later, she watched him glare at a would-be mother trying to defend their unhatched offspring and have her shot dead. All resistance ceased after two more dragonesses were slain, but that did not stop the sobbing that always followed. Neither did the loss stop the other dragons from participating in Jeffrey's scheme—fornication became an escape for many, even though it only ensured an even greater hell many moons in the future.

Chanteirwen could only block out the weeping and howling on nights when eggs were seized. Each time, chills would course through her—because the dragoness sobbing uncontrollably that night easily could've been her—and sustain her resolution.

Her contempt for the other dragons in Graham Logistics soared to its highest altitude when Jeffrey led a handful of Forgers into the building—Forgers that Chanteirwen had never seen or smelled before. Each stranger would enter an enclosure, shortly after which she would hear sounds of intense rutting. Oozing crotches would splatter each other, punctuated with the most carnal moans she had ever heard from Forgers and dragons alike.

Chanteirwen grimaced each time, utterly disgusted. Why would anyone wish to be tainted by their alien seed? How could they still call themselves Wildborn when they had performed the ultimate submission and surrendered to their whims?

They… they were not true dragons. Not anymore.

Chanteirwen would never break. She would escape from here. Find her brother. She would live free, winds lifting high, soaring to the brightest future she could see.

Lamentably, hopes of her fellow Wildborn revolting against the Forgers—if and when the perfect opportunity arrived—plummeted as the moons came and went. Whenever she crossed paths with the other reptiles, she would only see numb listlessness clouding their gazes. They would avoid locking eyes with her. Even her own clanmates eluded her. She couldn't imagine how they would converse with each other now, if they had been able to speak to begin with.

Jeffrey showed his face in her enclosure one night, flanked by several gunmen. "I'll make you submit someday, Wild Red! I'll succeed where that maldito Charles and Padrino Stephen failed!"

He had grown larger—gotten fatter—since she had last sighted him up close several seasons ago. But his increased size did nothing to blunt his ruthless nature. Mercilessly he tormented Chanteirwen himself, abusing the very tools the handlers used to enforce the dragons' obedience. To her credit, she faced each torture session with the dignity of a Wildborn. Never was she reduced to a cowering undragon like the others. Never did she let her wounds from the previous night affect her work at Graham Logistics and give the fat gordito a reason to dispose of her. Even when she felt sick, she would push herself, always thinking of the time she would soar in the skies with her own wings, as free as any dragon should be.

When Jeffrey gave up a few lunar cycles later, Chanteirwen thought they would leave her alone and work her to the bone. To her shock, the man himself returned to the dragons' safe haven and, when he wasn't having the dragons breed with each other or a few filthy Forgers, had new enclosures built in what was once empty space. She couldn't believe her eyes when their occupants were brought in.

She couldn't believe her nose either.

All were younger than Chanteirwen had been when she was first brought to Graham Logistics.

All did not carry the faint, belligerent odor of the jungle that followed every Wildborn.

All bore alien scents, reminding her of the clean, unnatural odors emanating from the big building in the middle of the compound. They smelled as though they had been raised by Forgers.

In fact, they were obedient to them—extremely obedient. Chanteirwen witnessed Jeffrey Preston touring a group of Forgers composed of handlers who had been controlling the lounge for countless seasons. "As you can see," he was saying as they gathered into the training area, "Henrico has once again made grandes avances in industriya del dragon. The criadores in the provincias del sur have finally criado dragons domesticados! Look! See how compliant—how docile these lizards are! The obedience training Padrino Stephen placed years ago is now a thing of the past." He pointed at Chanteirwen's enclosure, locking eyes with the dragoness inside. "We will not have another 'Wild Red' again now that we have domesticados."

Jeffrey Preston beckoned a handler to release one of the newcomers. The Forger simply had to beckon at the male to coax him out of his enclosure. Chanteirwen couldn't help sticking her head to the transparent screen, her eyes transfixed with horror. She watched this… this domesticated undragon stroll calmly out of his cage. She felt immense jealousy when she realized he had much less restraints than her and the other Wildborn.

The domesticates had their snouts muzzled with mere straps of cloth rather than nets of metal. Clothing straps wrapped around their wings instead of stifling chains. Thick and seemingly heavy anklets had been clamped to their paws, clearly lighter and more comfortable to work with compared to the hobble and the balls-and-chains tied to Chanteirwen's legs.

Aside from their scaly hides, the only thing these domesticates had in common with the Wildborn were their trimmed claws. Everything else was unbelievably gentle. She shifted her head, hoping to see outrage on the faces of every Wildborn watching this.

It was utterly appalling—disappointing—to notice that she was the only one who cared about this new development. No one paid heed to Chanteirwen's low growls or her agitated pacing. No one cared when she gasped at the sight of the domesticate openly warbling and barking at Jeffrey's commands.

When she saw how the domesticate's tongue had been cut short.

When she realized that the Forgers had rendered the domesticate incapable of vocalizing any language, including the dragons' own.

She instantly retreated to the furthest corner in her enclosure. She curled in on herself and dug her snout into her ugly, pockmarked scales. The reality of her situation settled in her heart, the full weight of her grief strengthening the pathetic mewls she had been suppressing for years. Distressed sobs burst out in mournful notes. Even if Charles Graham was dead, even if Stephen Graham remained absent, every Forger who replaced them would only sustain the cycle of anguish.

Fleeing from captivity had been a foolish dream from the start, concocted by someone who was still a naïve, if arrogant, whelp in many ways. Only two options were available to her now: to discard her pride and completely submit, or to toil until the day the Forgers butchered her without ever surrendering the one thing—the only thing she had protected this entire time.

There was nothing else she could do.

Chanteirwen had finally broken. She would never escape from here. Never find her brother. She would die in chains, sick and useless, waiting for a future that would never come.

At the very least, she would never die as a domesticate.

Someday, she would return to the earth as a proud Wildborn.

As a true dragon.