The metal hurt. They dug into his flesh and left bruises in their wake. The chains rattled and grated on his ears whenever he tried to move, scraping loudly on the cold stone floor.  

He had already stopped counting days. It was too difficult to tell time when there were no windows in his cell. It was always freezing and the cold from the stone seeped into his bones, leaving behind a dull ache that never went away.  

He regretted it. Regretted with every fibre of his being for telling her, for showing her what he could do. She had turned him into a weapon, a being devoid of emotion and feeling, built to kill.  

There was no freedom, only the chains of servitude that bound him to her. She taught him how to control it, but also controlled him.  

He no longer remembered what the sky looked like. It had been weeks since he had been let out, forced to wreck destruction over the villages that displeased her.  

Jongin flexed his wrist gently, wincing as the shackles dug into his already bruised skin. He watched as the tiniest flicker of power rippled through him, the nail on his pointer finger growing sharper and darker. It was only but a moment, before the flicker died and his nail became normal again.  

He was powerless in that cell. She had cast enough spells to ensure that, to contain and lock his magic away beneath his skin, allowing it to bubble and boil beneath the surface, fighting to get out until she needed it, letting it explode all over whichever innocent village that had offended her.  

She had burned too many of them. The villages had to be rebuilt, slowly, painfully, under the scrutiny of her many guards. There was nothing left to burn. And thus, Jongin remained, a prisoner trapped in a windowless cell.  

It was torture. He wanted to fly, to let his wings stretch out and feel the wind beneath him. He wanted to see the rolling green hills and play with the water in Kleptys Bay. But she kept him there, trapped in his human skin, unable to do anything but wait, for her command, for the brief moments where he would be allowed out.  

- 

Sehun detested his stepmother. She was strange, to say the least. Her lips and her nails always matched, painted a ruby red colour that reminded him of blood. Her skin was deathly pale and her hair was jet black, flowing down to her waist. And the sickly sweet scent of apples always filled his nostrils whenever she was close by.  

For the most part, he avoided her. It was not difficult for the castle was big and she had claimed the entire lower half, claiming to need space for her “equipment”.  

It was no secret that she was a witch. And a powerful one at that. Sehun had sneaked into her chambers once, and he found the massive, floor length mirror to be incredibly disturbing.  

She had it placed at the foot of her bed and at the top of its ornate frame, was a bronze dragon head with rubies for eyes. Its jaws were agape and its teeth bared. The room was also impossibly cold.  

There were also rumours that she owned a dragon. The same dragon that burned down the villages was hers, subject to her every whim.  

Sehun pitied the dragon, if the rumours were true. Dragons were not meant to be kept as pets, nor used as weapons. They were sacred and even though there were tiny dragons the size of his pinky that occasionally loved to attach themselves to humans, they were creatures that needed to be free and roaming.  

There were always dragons in Sivaria. He could hear them roaring sometimes, in the nearby mountains. His lessons taught him that the abundance of magic in their kingdom was the reason they settled there, and he was always taught to respect them.  

The far more powerful ones could transform into human form, and walk among them. And it was never wise to offend a dragon.  

The one time he had visited her chambers, Sehun could have sworn he heard the mirror speak. He heard a soft gasp, a plea for help and chains rattling. But his stepmother’s high heels had started in the hallway and he had fled, forgetting about the strange talking mirror.  

Now, as he held the small ornate hand mirror in his hand, his thoughts wandered back to that gigantic mirror. Had it really spoken to him? 

The mirror in his hand was heavy and its frame and handle were made of gold. As he turned it in his hand, he could see an inscription on its back.  

Warchodaeth  

As he read it aloud, the mirror grew larger and heavier in his hand. Its frame split apart and the mirror extended, until all that was left was a silver sword in his hand, the mirror’s handle as its hilt. Sehun’s eyes were wide with wonder as he gripped the sword, turning it as its blade caught the light. There was no questioning why his tutor had given it to him now, before he had been dismissed by his stepmother. 

Protection.  

Against what, he could not be sure but whatever it was, he knew he would be grateful to have that blade in his hand when he had to face it.