Occultus Draconem

Making a Dragon

Blaise jolted awake with a gasp, writhing on the bed. There was a terrible tightness in his chest, like someone had his heart clutched in their fist.

He dug his fingers into the mattress beneath him, taking deep, labored breaths. The last thing he could recall was the searing pain of a knife into his shoulder, but the pain he felt at that moment was so much worse.

"3,000 volts... five hits to the chest... Well," a voice muttered from somewhere in the dark room, followed by the scratching of a pencil on paper, "at least this one didn't stay dead."

"He's the only one who's made it this far," a deeper voice replied. Blaise tried to focus on where they were coming from, but the pain that flooded his body demanded his full attention. "Let him rest before we move on."

"Very well."

Blaise tried to will away the pain that consumed him. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds that surrounded him. One person was to his right, scribbling away—Blaise could hear the sound of pencil on paper, while someone to his left was rummaging through drawers and cabinets. Blaise opened his eyes when the person to his left stopped beside the examination table that he was strapped down to.

In the darkness, all Blair could see was the man's eyes, glowing orange in the darkness, as if they were lit from inside his body. He didn't say anything to Blaise, who jolted in surprise when something cold and damp touched his bare forearm. He struggled against the leather straps that held him, but the pain in his chest drained his energy.

The man's eyes never changed, even when Blaise cried out as a needle pierced his skin.

"Stop making such a fuss," the voice to his right said, still writing away on his notepad. "It's Draíocht—liquefied healing magic—for the pain. We don't have much, so enjoy it while it lasts."

Blaise's body became numb almost immediately. The tightness in his chest dissipated, and he nearly sobbed with relief. He didn't know how long it'd been since he had been brought to their facility, and he couldn't recall even one day since he was taken that he wasn't in excruciating pain. Why were these men so cruel and unfeeling?

"Please," he begged, barely louder than a whisper. His voice was hoarse, and his lips dry. His Oorlogan accent and slurred, tired words made it difficult for him to speak clearly. "P-please... I... I don' wanna be here no more... Lemme go."

"Why in the world would we do that?"

Blaise winced as the room was flooded with bright light. He had spent so long in the dark that it made his eyes ache. As he adjusted to the brightness, his gaze fell on the man to his right. He finally stopped writing and stuck his pencil behind his ear. Blaise would have loved to slap the grin off his face as he looked over him with judgmental blue eyes.

"You're about to make history. You'll be in books all over the world—a medical miracle. Wouldn't you like that, instead of being some nobody, wasting your life away, working in the same orphanage you grew up in?"

"The hell you talkin' 'bout?" Blaise shifted uncomfortably and closed his eyes against the bright lights.

He remembered when they had taken him, but how long ago had it been? Masked men invaded the orphanage in the night, seizing every boy over the age of sixteen. Blaise, being the eldest at twenty, tried to save them.

He remembered their cries, the boys he'd grown up with. He watched them die, one by one. A small sob escaped Blaise's lips and he fought back tears. Out of all ten of them, he was the only one left.

"I jus' wanna go home."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. We've come too far here." The man with the notepad stood, smoothing the front of his white coat with his hands. He handed his clipboard to his partner, then went to work to undo the restraints that held Blaise. "If we let you leave now, all of our failures will have been for nothing. That's not what you want, is it? For all of those boys to have died in vain?"