Dragon's Hoard: ch 11
(inspired by Blugiragi and Docdudo)
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You sensed him long before you saw him.
Ghost didn’t breathe the way the others did. Didn’t move, didn’t sigh, but he was there. Just at the edge of your vision. A shift in the shadows. A second weight in the silence.
He clung to the shadows and wore it like a second skin. Still and soundless, the kind of stillness that made your bones itch. Something primal in you knew not to look directly at him. But you did.
You turned. And instead of vanishing like a bad thought, he stood at the mouth of one of the side tunnels—half-consumed by flickering dark, half-revealed in the pulse of firelight. Watching.
When you turned, you expected him to vanish. Instead, he stood at the mouth of one of the side tunnels, cloaked in the flickering dark. Watching.
He said nothing.
As if he knew what happened yesterday with Soap still bothered you. It lingered in your mind like a never-ending nightmare. Shuddering at the memory, your eyes meet Ghost's for only the briefest moments. His silence spoke volumes. It screamed. You knew he knew. Knew about what had happened with Soap the day before. Knew how the memory still festered beneath your skin like an old bruise that wouldn’t fade.
Your breath caught. A single glance into the hollows of his mask, and it was like staring into an empty grave. A grave he very well might have crawled out of.
With your back to the cave wall, the feeling of solid rock against your spine almost burns from how cold it is. Your thin arms wrapped around your knees for warmth. The fire in the center crackled quietly, a low murmur of warmth and light against the cooler draft from deeper in the den. You didn’t look at him long. You’d grown used to the others filling every silence with noise, but Ghost never seemed to need sound. And strangely, that made him less unbearable to be around. Almost tolerable.
At least he wasn’t trying to touch you. Or talk. Or pretend to understand.
But that didn’t mean it was easy, either.
It wasn’t long before the quiet of the new day was broken, by Soap. the werewolf came bounding into the room. You heard him before you saw him— always did. His impressive claws clicking on stone, the slap of something soft, maybe a pelt being dragged across the floor.
“There you are!” he chirped, too loudly. His grin was sheepish, his ears pinned back like a dog that knew it had done something wrong but wasn’t sure what. And sure enough, there was a pelt being dragged by his side. But in his arms, he held something, almost tenderly. He was holding something—a little doll, maybe. Squinting, it takes a moment to makes sense of what he's holding. Rather than a doll, it looks more like a bundle of dried grass tied with bits of twine, knotted in places to suggest the shape of limbs and a head. “Made this for you. Look—see, it's even got a wee face on it.”
He crouched, holding the thing out like a peace offering. The smile on his face faltered as you just stared. The longer you stared, the more the hairs of his mohawk started to spike.
You didn’t want the doll. Not because it was ugly (though it was), or because it came from claws that had once curled too tight around your arms. But because it was too late. The damage was done. He didn’t understand what he’d done to upset you, not really. And that made the apology feel wrong. Like a not so well practiced performance.
Soap’s ears flicked nervously. “You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t ask for it,” you said softly, indignation curling in your stomach.
Soap blinked. You could see the sting in his cerulean eyes even as he tried to laugh it off. “Right. Of course. Just... thought it might help.”
You didn’t answer.
The silence thickened—until Price’s voice cut clean through it.
“Hatchling,” came the gravel-deep rumble, and Price emerged from the far tunnel, his one wing half-spread for balance as he ducked under a low arch of stone. His eyes were narrowed, not in anger, but in that assessing way dragons often looked at things they considered theirs. “Soap love, out of the way.”
Soap hesitated, then stepped aside with a huff, tail flicking. He muttered something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch.
Price settled in front of you with slow, heavy movements, like a mountain deciding to sit. His golden eyes studied you with practiced patience.
“You’ve been quiet.”
You said nothing.
“Can’t blame you,” he said. “What happened yesterday... shouldn’t have. Not like that.”
You stiffened. His tone was calm, but it curled uncomfortably in your gut. You didn’t want to talk about it. You especially didn’t want to understand him.
“I told Soap not to roughhouse with you. He doesn’t know his own strength. Thinks humans are made of bark and bone like he is.”
glaring, you send a steely gaze up at the dragon hybrid. Your expression a little sharper than intended.
Price’s brow lifted. “Fair enough.”
He shifted, then reached out, slow and deliberate, as if you were a skittish animal. His clawed hand didn’t touch you—but hovered just close enough to make your skin prickle.
“Let me show you something,” he said.
You didn’t move, but your silence was enough.
Price nodded once, then turned, gesturing for you to follow. Reluctantly, you did. Brushing off your knees with both hands as you rise to standing.
He led you to the edge of where the mouth of the cave just about opened to the world outside. Ghost lingered behind, silent as breath with Soap who could be heard whining in his thick accent.
“This,” Price said as he stopped beside a stone shelf tucked beneath a low overhang, “is where we teach.”
“Teach?” you echoed.
“Yes, to teach other. How to live in the same den without tearing each other’s throats out. Just far enough into the cave, and shallow enough to take advantage of the outside if needed." The walls etched with tooth marks, talon scratches and burnt marks.
“Ghost, Soap and Gaz, they learned how to deal with me. I learned how not to torch them when I’m pissed,” he said with a dry smile. “Now we’re going to learn how to live with you.”
You stared at the stones. They didn’t mean anything. Not to you. Not yet.
“I’m not part of your pack,” you said, voice low. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” Price agreed, surprisingly gently. “But you’re still here. That makes you part of it—whether or not you think so.”
His words were meant to comfort. Instead, they curled around your ribs like vines, squeezing.
“You can’t just decide that.”
“I didn’t,” he said. “The others did. All of us did.”
He stepped back, giving you space, but his presence lingered like smoke in the lungs.
"I'm your Papa. We're your papa's now."
Then he said it.
The thing you didn’t want to hear. The thing you couldn’t un-hear.
Behind you, Soap shifted again, claws scraping softly on stone. Still holding the grass doll like a promise already broken. And Ghost—
Ghost hadn’t moved at all.
But the white of his mask burned like frost in the dark.
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here is chapter 11!!!!!!!!!!! I hope that you all enjoy it! With the requests now closed. I'll be getting to work and hopefully posting more regularly.
