1. Delivery

“Dave, one Abyss Kiss and Cold Blanket please.” A ginger man with pointy fluffy ears asks for another drink. I nod and start preparing the ingredients. “How’s the uni tho? You look too happy for a student.”

I giggle a little. “You know, we also have breaks.” That already drunk werewolf is one of our regulars. Working at police is hard, but despite that, I hear a lot of funny stories from him.

“Boy, don’t lie to an old wolf. I know the life.” He smirks at me. “Is it a girl, right?”

“Old wolf, my ass!” A loud laugh breaks the tranquility of the bar. “Garry, you’re 26! I saw you playing with a stick when you were younger.“A massive ork, broad-shouldered and still strong, he has only the first timid strands of gray in his dark, bristling hair.

Garry instantly ducks his head, shoulders hunching in embarrassment.

“Hey, don’t worry. You have a way better chance to get a nice girl first.” I slightly pat his shoulder and serve the order to him and his coworker. Just as I start cleaning the equipment, a ringing voice distracts me: “David, I’m here. You can go. Mary told me you asked to leave earlier today, didn’t you?” Siry, our great night shifts bartender is here. Great! Sometimes I envy vampires that they can be so energetic for the whole night. What’s more, one vampire in my uni told me that they need to sleep only one day a week. That’s really cheating…

Despite my inner monologue, I smile at Siry and go back to stuff room to change clothes and finally go home. The day that I’ve been waited for so long finally came. With all the excitement, I don’t even remember how I arrive at home, but I manage to do it even faster than planned. Here comes the most painful part – waiting for the delivery.

A month ago, I stumbled upon a site that sells limited edition of figurines. It said that they are totally unique, and extremely realistic, based on photos. As a hardcore collector, I definitely can’t miss them. I look at my stand, imagining where I will put new ones. Maybe between those werewolves? Or near that cool elven mage? I giggle to myself. Even after living in this world for several years, I can’t get rid of my otaku nature. Sadly, they don’t have anime industry, so I started to collect figurines of different races that was new to me. I’ve already collected all common races, a few birds species, even one mermaid, thought they considered a very secluded nation. But the the last race, the only one that I can’t find anywhere – dragons.

The lectures in uni taught me that once dragons had been ruthless tyrants who had ruled basically by their almost unlimited powers. A so-called “Age of Darkness”. Basically, all other races were unhappy. So, no one wants to make their images as some sort of taboo. But finally, I found someone who actually sells them. When I first saw it, I didn’t believe my eyes and ordered all three of them. The price was a little higher than for a usual doll, but I really hope it is not a scam…

Next hour I spend nervously removing imaginary dust from my collection and brewing another cup of tea without finishing the previous one. When I hear a doorbell, my heart almost stops. I run to the door, open it and freeze in place with unexpected picture.

Usually, most companies use a cat person for express delivery, as they are fast and very charming, which improve customer satisfaction. But in front of me a massive ogre stands in blue delivery uniform.

“David?” He asks with his low voice.

I gulp and nod.

“Good. Free the space.” He turns around, and I finally see three massive metal boxes behind him. I hastily enter the hall, allowing the ogre to put all of them inside, making the actually big hall feel very cramped. Each box is about a two meters tall and a meter by meter at the base. Without a word, the ogre exits my apartment and closes the door behind him, leaving me alone with those three boxes.

Each box is covered in symbols and text—faded stamps, barcodes, and what looks like warning labels in multiple languages. My eyes skip over them, trying to make sense of the size, the weight, the industrial seals. These aren’t figurine boxes. These are… what? Transport containers? The kind for dangerous equipment? My brain is stuck on the fact that these can’t possibly be what I ordered. Figurines don’t come in boxes that need an ogre to deliver them. Maybe wrong address? I nervously giggle to myself, imagining some organization getting my figurines instead of their whatever-those-could-be equipment.

Should I contact the delivery? Right when I’m reaching my phone, I hear a thud from one of the boxes. Shocked, I freeze. The sound repeats, followed by a muffed moan. What …what is going on?

I step toward the closest box and slowly open the locks. My rational part complains only when the front side opens, releasing a wave of cold air that makes me stumble back. Mist pours from the opening, curling around my feet like if it’s alive. I wave it away and peek inside.

My heart stops as a pair of golden eyes fixes on me with an intensity that makes my blood freeze. I stumble backward, my hip hitting another box. Light falls in the open one, revealing the creature. The figure is tall—taller than any human I’ve seen—easily over two meters even in her current hunched position. Her skin has a strange, almost scaled texture with a deep crimson sheen that seems to pulse with inner heat. Pairs of curved horns curl back from her head, and her hands end in claws that scrape against the metal as she shifts. Heavy chains are wrapped around her torso and limbs, biting into her scales, connected to the walls of the container. Despite the restraints, her form is distinctly feminine—powerful and scaled, but unmistakably female in a way that makes the chains seem even more brutal.

Her lips pull back, revealing sharp teeth, but she can’t speak—there’s some kind of muzzle locked over the lower half of her face. Her breathing comes in harsh, labored gasps through her nose. A muffled, desperate sound comes out. The chained figure strains forward, chains rattling, and those golden eyes jump between me and the muzzle, silently asking for help.

My hands are shaking, but I’m moving forward before I can think about it. This is insane. This is completely insane. I reach for the muzzle’s clasp. The metal is warm, almost hot to the touch despite the cold air around. “Don’t bite me. Please don’t bite me.”

She goes very still, those eyes locked on mine. Waiting.

I undo the muzzle.

It falls away, and the dragon—because what else this could be—takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. Her chest heaves, and for a moment she just breathes, eyes closed.

“Thank you,” she rasps, voice rough and crackling like a fire struggling to catch. “Finally—”

The chains start glowing. “Wait, what are you—” I start backing away, but it’s too late.

Red-hot light races along the metal links. The temperature in my hallway spikes so suddenly that sweat breaks out across my skin. The dragon’s eyes snap open, blazing like molten gold, and her scales seem to ignite from within, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

The chains don’t break cleanly. They twist, glow white-hot, then come apart in pieces. The heat wave hits me first, then the sound, a percussive crack that I feel in my chest. I’m already falling backward, arms raised, as glowing shrapnel pings off the walls. Something shatters in the other room.

The dragon unfurls.

She rises to her full height, easily scraping my ceiling. Powerful muscles move under those crimson scales. Her legs are digitigrade, bent like a raptor’s, ending in massive toe claws that gouge into my hardwood floor with each small shift of weight. Her clawed hands flex, and residual heat ripples the air around her. Wings—I hadn’t even seen the wings folded against her back—spread partially, scraping both walls of my hallway. She’s easily two and a half meters of pure scaled power that makes my apartment feel like a dollhouse.

For a heartbeat, there’s absolute silence. The dragon stands there, wreathed in dissipating heat shimmer, breathing hard. Her face expresses a mix of rage and exhilaration.

Then she sways.

It’s subtle at first—just a slight shift in her stance. But her breathing is getting heavier, more labored. The glow beneath her scales flickers. She tries reaches out to steady herself against the wall with her clawed hand, claws scoring deep cuts in the paint.

“Are you—” I start.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, but her voice lacks the earlier fire. She’s trembling now, slight tremors running through her powerful frame. She tries to straighten her wings and immediately hits the hall walls on both sides, damaging them even further. She takes a step forward and nearly stumbles, those predatory legs unsteady, her toe claws leaving deep scratches across the floor as she fights for balance.

The dragon looks at my hallway properly for the first time—at the low ceiling her horns nearly touch, at the narrow space where she can barely move without hitting something, at the two remaining boxes that take up most of the free space.

“This… Is this a joke..?” Her voice is quieter now. Her expression shifts, replaced by confusion and suspiciousness. She sound almost lost. Suddenly, her legs give out. The dragon catches herself before hitting the floor, ending up slumped against the wall, breathing hard. Her scales have lost that inner glow, looking duller now. One wing drags on the floor at an awkward angle.

I lean forward instinctively, trying to catch her. Just as I move, her golden eyes fix on me and I freeze, once again overwhelmed by her power. But then her expression softens a little.

“I’m… fine.” The dragon stands back up, still trembling visibly. “Don’t tell the others.”

Others… Right. I glance at two remaining boxes. Are those dragons too? My mind starts crumbling when I realize that I’ve bought not collectibles but actual living sentient creatures. I lean back against the wall, still unable to grasp what has just happened.

The dragon is still trembling, trying to maintain some dignity while clearly struggling to stay upright. I should be terrified. But looking at her—at this ancient, powerful creature reduced to leaning against my wall, scared of showing weakness to other dragons—I mostly just feel… tired. And weirdly sympathetic.

“Can you make it to the living room?” I ask. “There’s a couch. It’s probably too small, but it’s better than the hallway floor.”

She blinks at me, clearly not expecting the offer. “Why would you—”

“Because you look like you’re about to pass out, and I’d rather have you do that somewhere that’s not blocking the only exit.” That’s a good excuse. Be practical.

The dragon studies me for a long moment, those golden eyes searching for something. Finally, she nods. “Help me up.”

I move closer cautiously and offer my arm. She hesitates, pride warring with necessity, then grips my shoulder. Her hand is huge, claws resting against my shirt with careful precision. The heat radiating from her is intense, like standing too close to a bonfire, but not unbearable.

She pushes herself up before I reach her, using me more for balance than support. Still, I feel the weight of her—the solid mass of muscle and scales that makes it clear she could crush me without much effort. We take one step, then another. Her massive toe claws scraping against my already ruined floor with each step.

She has to fold nearly in half to fit through the door frame, wings pressed tight against her back. The living room isn’t much better—my ceiling is barely tall enough for her to stand upright—but at least there’s more space. The couch looks absurdly small next to her.

“This is…” she starts, then just makes a frustrated sound and carefully lowers herself onto it. The furniture creaks ominously under her weight. She ends up in an awkward position, legs folded, one wing draped over the armrest, tail—I hadn’t even noticed the tail until now—curled around her feet.

“Comfortable?” I ask, then immediately feel stupid. Obviously not.

“Better than the cage…” She says, eyes already half-closed. The exhaustion is catching up with her fast. She pats the couch cushion weakly. “This is …soft.” Her golden eyes close, and her figure relaxes, as she falls asleep.

There’s something almost vulnerable about the way she said it. Like she’d forgotten what soft things felt like. How long they have been in the chains? I should study the history more thoughtfully… But first, other dragons.

I look back at the red dragon one more time—her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, wings folded awkwardly, tail curled protectively around herself—then return to the hallway.

The empty container sits there, door hanging open, the interior still faintly warm. Now that the immediate crisis is over, I can actually examine it properly. The inside is lined with some kind of padding, torn and scorched where Red’s chains had been anchored. Frost patterns mar one corner—probably from the cold storage before delivery. And everywhere, those warning labels.

I crouch down to read them more carefully.

“⚠️ EXTREME FIRE HAZARD - Keep Below 15°C”

That explains the cold air. They were keeping her temperature down.

“DO NOT REMOVE RESTRAINTS IN ENCLOSED SPACES”

Yeah. I figured that out the hard way.

I move to the second box. Frost has formed along all the seams, and the metal is cold enough that my fingers stick slightly when I touch it. The warning labels here are more extensive:

“⚠️ FROSTBITE RISK - Insulated Gloves Required For Handling”

“CAUTION: Subject Capable of Complex Reasoning and Strategic Planning”

That one makes me pause. They felt the need to warn about her being smart? There’s a whole section about psychological evaluation that’s been heavily redacted, just black marks over what used to be text. Whatever they wrote about her, someone didn’t want it read.

I hear a soft sound from inside—not a knock this time, but something else. Almost like… humming? A single note, held perfectly steady, muffled by the muzzle. It’s beautiful and eerie at the same time.

I take a deep breath and reach for the lock. Unlike red dragon’s box, this one opens smoothly, the mechanism well-maintained. The moment the seal breaks, two conflicting sensations hit me at once—a wave of hot, stale air rushing out from inside the container, and then immediately after, a blast of cold so intense it makes my eyes water as it meets the warm air. Mist forms at the collision of temperatures, creating swirling patterns that pool on the floor.

Where the first dragon was all wild power and barely contained fury, this one is… composed. Her scales shimmer between deep blue and silver, catching the light like ice crystals. She’s slightly smaller than the red one, but somehow her presence feels larger—more deliberate. Every line of her posture screams control, from the precise angle of her horns to the way her clawed hands rest in her lap despite the chains binding them. Her digitigrade legs are folded elegantly beneath her, those massive toe claws somehow looking almost graceful.

Her eyes open. Ice-blue, and so cold they make the first dragon’s golden fire seem warm by comparison. She tilts her head slightly, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to step back. But I don’t. Something tells me that showing weakness to this one would be a mistake.

Her gaze flicks to the muzzle, then back to me. She doesn’t strain against it like the red dragon did. Doesn’t make desperate sounds. Just… waits. Like she has all the time in the world and knows I’ll eventually do what she wants.

“Right,” I say, my voice embarrassingly unsteady. “The muzzle. Just—don’t freeze me or anything.”

One elegant eyebrow rises slightly. I think she’s amused.

I reach for the clasp. The metal is so cold it burns, frost spreading from her breath even in the heated container. I hiss and pull my hand back, shaking my fingers.

The dragon makes a muffled sound—distinctly disapproving. She jerks her head toward the top of the container. I follow the gesture and see something I missed before: a small hook near the door, and hanging from it, a key on a chain. And next to it, a pair of heavy insulated gloves.

They put the key right there. Where she could see it the entire time but couldn’t reach it.

“That’s just cruel…” I mumbled to myself.

I grab the gloves—they’re thick, industrial—and pull them on. They’re too big, but they’ll work. This time when I reach for the muzzle, the cold is bearable. The clasp releases with a soft click.

She takes a measured breath of the cool hallway air. Then another. No gasping, no relief—just controlled inhalation, like she’s been waiting patiently and this was always going to happen eventually. The temperature around her drops noticeably, frost forming on the edges of the container as she finally stops suppressing her natural cold.

“Thank you,” she says, and her voice is like winter itself—clear, crisp, beautiful and absolutely merciless. “How… considerate of you.”

There’s something in her tone that makes it sound like the opposite of a compliment.

“You’re welcome?” I say uncertainly.

“Mm.” She studies me for another long moment. “Pyrra is in the other room, I assume? Recovering from her… dramatic exit?”

I blink, surprised. “You know her name? I mean—you heard what happened?”

“I heard everything,” she says, and there’s definite amusement in her tone now. “The chains shattering. The walls being damaged. Her collapsing. The rather pathetic plea for you not to tell us.” She pauses. “These containers aren’t nearly as soundproof as whoever designed them probably hoped. Or perhaps they simply didn’t care if we could hear each other’s humiliation.”

My face must show something because she adds, almost gently, “Don’t worry. Pyrra doesn’t know that. She thinks these boxes are isolated. Let her keep thinking that—it will make things… simpler.”

“She’s asleep on my couch,” I say, still processing.

“Of course she is.” A slight smile plays at the corners of her mouth. Not warm. More like a cat watching a mouse. “Pyrra always did burn too hot, too fast. All passion, no restraint.” There’s something complicated in her voice—not quite fondness, not quite contempt. “And Nox?”

“Still in her box. I wanted to—” I gesture vaguely. “Figure out what I was dealing with in order.” I pause a little. “Could I have your name?”

Her eyes narrow, and the temperature drops noticeably. Frost spreads across the floor from where she sits.

“My name?” The pleasant tone is gone, replaced by something sharp and cold as a blade. “You stand there making small talk while I’m still chained like an animal?” She shifts, and the chains rattle with a sound like breaking icicles. “I heard Pyrra collapse from exhaustion. I’ve been sitting in a heated box—do you have any idea how that feels?—listening to you bumble around out here, and you want to have a polite conversation about names?”

I take an involuntary step back.

“The key,” she says, each word precisely enunciated, “is in your hand. The locks are right here. And yet you stand there, asking questions, as if I have all the time in the world to indulge your curiosity.” The frost is climbing the walls now. “I have been patient. I pointed you to the gloves. I waited while you processed your shock. But my patience, David, has limits.”

I gulps.

“So let me be very clear: Unlock. These. Chains. Now.” She tilts her head slightly. “Or would you prefer I do it myself and leave your hallway as destroyed as Pyrra left it? Because I assure you, my dear confused little human, I am quite capable of that.”

My hands are shaking as I move toward the chains with the key.

“Good boy,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s mocking me or genuinely approving. Probably both.

I unlock the first chain. Then the second. The frost makes it difficult—the key sticks in the locks—but they open. The chains fall away with a musical clinking sound, ice shattering as they hit the container floor.

She stands smoothly—or tries to. The moment her weight shifts onto her digitigrade legs, something falters. Her knee buckles slightly and she catches herself against the edge of the container, claws scraping against metal.

For just a second, her perfect composure cracks. Her eyes close and she takes a deep breath of the cool hallway air, leaning heavily on the container’s edge.

“Are you—” I start.

Her eyes snap open, and the look she gives me could freeze blood. “Don’t.”

But she’s clearly struggling. Her legs are shaking—barely visible, but there. Hours cramped in that position, in the heat, and now they won’t cooperate.

I hold up my hands. “I was just going to offer—”

“I don’t need—” She takes a step and nearly stumbles, catching herself against the wall. The frustration on her face is intense, humiliation and rage mixing together.

Before she can snap at me again, I move to her side, offering my arm. “Just until your legs work properly. No one has to know.”

She stares at my arm like it’s a personal insult. For a moment I think she’s going to refuse out of pure pride. Then her jaw tightens and she grips my shoulder—not gently. Her claws rest against my shirt with enough pressure that I feel them through the fabric.

“One word about this to anyone,” she says quietly, “and I will make your life significantly more difficult than it already is.”

“Got it.”

We take one step. Then another. Her legs are unsteady, the toe claws scraping awkwardly against the floor as she tries to find her balance. She’s heavier than I expected, or maybe just leaning on me more than she wants to admit.

By the third step, her legs are working better. By the fifth, she’s barely using me for support at all. By the time we reach the middle of the hallway, she releases my shoulder and steps away, standing on her own.

She rolls her shoulders, stretches her wings slightly—they scrape both walls—and tests her weight on each leg. Satisfied, she gives me a single, curt nod.

“Thank you,” she says, the words clearly costing her something. Then, almost as an afterthought, softer: “That… was considerate. Borea. The name.”

Before I can respond, her expression shifts back to cool assessment. The moment of vulnerability is gone, sealed away behind ice.

She looks around the hallway properly for the first time, taking in the cramped space, the low ceiling, the damage Pyrra left. Her lip curls slightly.

“Well,” she says, voice dripping with disdain. “This is certainly… cozy.”

She moves past me, no longer needing support, her movements fluid and predatory now that her legs are working. She examines the scorch marks on the walls with one clawed finger, then looks at the gouges in the floor.

“Pyrra couldn’t even free herself without destroying everything around her. How typical.” She steps over the melted chain fragments. “All that power and absolutely no control.”

She glides—there’s no other word for it—toward the living room, and I hurry after her.

She stops in the doorway, taking in the scene with cold, analytical eyes. Pyrra sprawled on the couch, one wing draped over the armrest, tail curled around her feet, snoring softly. The couch creaking under her weight. The general chaos of the small space.

“Pathetic,” Borea says, but there’s something complicated in her tone. Not quite contempt. Maybe something closer to disappointment. “Look at her. The great Pyrra, terror of the western territories, passed out on a human’s furniture like a hatchling after her first flight.”

She walks into the room, circling the couch slowly. Her toe claws click against the floor with each precise step. She’s studying Pyrra like a specimen, noting every detail—the dull scales, the awkward position, the wing bent at an uncomfortable angle.

“She burned everything she had just to break free,” Borea continues, almost to herself. “Couldn’t wait, couldn’t think, just had to act immediately.” She shakes her head. “And now look at her. Useless.”

She turns away from Pyrra and begins examining the rest of the living room. She picks up one of my figurines—an elven mage—and studies it with detached curiosity.

“You collect these?” she asks, not looking at me.

“Yeah. Different races, mythological creatures…”

“How quaint.” She sets it down with exacting precision, exactly where it was. “Playing with little dolls of the beings you share your world with.” Her eyes sweep across my entire collection. “Though I notice you don’t have any dragons.”

“That’s… actually why I ordered you. I mean—not you specifically. I thought—”

“That you were buying figurines. Yes, you’ve mentioned.” She moves to the window, testing the lock. “Secure. Good.” She examines the glass. “Single pane. Terrible insulation. And this view…” She looks out at the neighboring apartment building. “Depressing.”

She turns back to survey the room, arms crossed. “Let me understand our situation. You live in this… box. Barely large enough for one person, let alone four. The ceilings are too low. The furniture is inadequate. The security is minimal.” Her eyes fix on me. “And you’re a student. Which means you have no money.”

“I have a job—”

“A bartender.” She says it like it’s a disease. “So you have almost no money.” She walks past me, back into the hallway. “Show me the rest. Kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms. I need to know exactly how limited our resources are.”

I follow her as she moves through my apartment like she’s inspecting conquered territory—except instead of being impressed, she’s finding everything wanting.

In the kitchen, she opens the refrigerator and just stares at the contents. “Is this all the food you have?”

“I wasn’t expecting guests—”

“Clearly.” She closes it with a soft click. “We’ll need significantly more. Pyrra alone will eat you out of house and home once she wakes up.” She tests the faucet, lets cold water run over her hand for a moment, closes her eyes briefly at the sensation. When they open again, the mask is back. “At least the water pressure is adequate.”

The bathroom gets a similar assessment. “Small. One person at a time, clearly. And I assume that tub isn’t large enough for any of us.”

“It’s not really designed for—”

“Dragons. Yes, I’m aware.” She looks at me. “Nothing in this world is designed for us anymore, is it?”

There’s something almost vulnerable in that question, but before I can respond, she’s moving again.

My bedroom. She stands in the doorway, taking in the single bed, the desk covered in textbooks, the closet barely large enough for my clothes.

She walks in without asking, running a clawed hand along the desk, examining my textbooks with mild interest. Then she sits on the bed—carefully, testing it. The frame creaks but holds.

“This is mine now,” she says simply.

I blink. “What?”

“This room. It has a door. Privacy. It’s the coolest room in this apartment.” She looks at me like I’m slow to understand. “You’ll sleep elsewhere.”

“This is my bedroom!”

“Yes. Was.” She stands, moving to the window and examining the lock. “Find somewhere else.”

“I’m not giving you my—”

“You’re not giving me anything. I’m taking it.” She turns to face me fully, and her expression makes it clear this isn’t a negotiation.

I open my mouth. Close it.

“That’s what I thought.” She sits back down on the bed, then reclines, testing the mattress. Her wings fold carefully behind her. “Close the door on your way out. I need silence.”

From the hallway, another knock. Louder this time, more insistent.

Borea’s eyes snap open. Something flickers across her face—too quick to identify, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by cool composure.

“Leave that one,” she says, her voice carefully casual.

“What?”

“The third container. Leave it closed.” She sits up slightly, and I notice her posture has changed. Tenser. “Nox can wait.”

“She’s been in there just as long as you—”

Borea moves with startling speed. One moment she’s on the bed, the next she’s right in front of me, her hand on my shoulder—not threatening, but firm. She leans in close, her voice dropping to barely a whisper, her breath cold against my ear.

“Listen carefully,” she murmurs, so quiet I have to strain to hear. “The air around her is toxic. One breath unfiltered and you’ll be convulsing on the floor. Her scales secrete venom—touch her skin and yours will blister and rot. Even her presence in an enclosed space like this…” She pauses, letting that sink in. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Another knock from the hallway. This one sounds almost amused, like Nox can sense the conversation happening about her.

Borea’s grip tightens slightly on my shoulder. “She’s not like Pyrra or me. She’s dangerous.” Her voice is still barely audible. “If you open that container, you might not survive long enough to regret it.”

I can feel her tension, the way her claws are very carefully not piercing my shirt. This isn’t manipulation or power play—she’s actually worried.

“But she needs to be let out—” I whisper back.

“Does she?” Borea pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, still keeping her voice low. “She’s been refusing food for weeks. Refusing to cooperate. What makes you think she even wants to be released?” She glances toward the hallway, then back to me. “Or that it’s safe to do so?”

“I can’t just leave her in there.”

Borea’s jaw tightens. She studies my face for a long moment, then sighs—a soft, cold exhale.

“No. You can’t. Because you’re the type who freed Pyrra even though she could have killed you.” Her voice is resigned. “Just… be careful. Very careful.”

She releases my shoulder and steps back, her expression hardening again, mask sliding back into place. When she speaks next, her voice is back to normal volume, almost bored.

“Do what you want. I need to rest.”

She closes the bedroom door, leaving me alone in the hallway with the third container and its patient, waiting occupant.

I stand there, hand still tingling where her cold claws rested on my shoulder, staring at Nox’s container.

Another knock. Soft. Almost gentle.

Waiting.

I approach the third container slowly, Borea’s whispered warnings still echoing in my head. Toxic. Venom. Dangerous.

The box itself is different from the other two. No frost like Borea’s, no residual heat like Pyrra’s. Just dark metal with condensation beading on the surface, like it’s been kept at exactly room temperature. Somehow that’s more unsettling than the extremes.

I crouch down to read the warning labels properly.

“⚠️ BIOHAZARD - Protective Equipment Required” “CAUTION: Toxic Exposure Risk - Do Not Inhale Directly”

There are observation notes scribbled in margins, just like I’d glimpsed before:

“Day 15: Still unresponsive to commands” “Day 23: Subject requested records of empire’s fall. Request denied.” “Day 31: Subject has stopped speaking entirely” “Day 40: Subject appears to be entering dormant state” “Day 45: Vital signs present but minimal. Possibly conserving energy.” The most recent note, in different handwriting, more hurried: “Day 53: Just ship them. Not our problem anymore.”

A soft sound from inside. Not a knock this time. Something else.

I lean closer to the container, listening.

Breathing. Slow, steady breathing. She’s definitely alive in there.

“Nox?” I say quietly, feeling stupid for talking to a sealed box. “Can you hear me?”

Silence. Then, deliberately, a single knock. Yes.

“I need to open this to let you out, but I don’t want to die doing it.” I feel absurd having this one-sided conversation. “Can you… I don’t know, control it? The toxicity?”

Waiting. Then, a single knock. Yes.

I grab the gloves from Borea’s container—still cold from her frost—and pull them on. The key is right there on the hook. I take it.

Back at Nox’s container, I pause with the key in the lock. “I’m going to crack it open first. Let the air out slowly. Okay?”

One knock.

I turn the key. The lock clicks. I lift the lid just an inch.

Stale air seeps out, warm and slightly musty, but not burning my lungs. No visible gas. I wait, counting to sixty in my head, watching for any reaction.

Nothing. Just that slow, steady breathing from inside.

“Still good?” I ask.

One knock.

I open the lid fully.

The inside is dark, but as my eyes adjust, I see her. She’s large—easily as tall as Pyrra, maybe taller, but built differently. Where Pyrra is all muscle and power, Nox is leaner, more streamlined. Her scales are so dark they seem to absorb light, making her hard to see clearly in the dim container. She’s sitting with her back against the far wall, knees drawn up, wings folded tight against her body. Her digitigrade legs are tucked beneath her, and I can just make out the curved claws on her feet.

Unlike Pyrra’s wild desperation or Borea’s rigid composure, she just looks… tired. Deeply, profoundly tired.

Her eyes open. They’re pale gray, almost colorless, and they fix on me with an expression I can’t quite read.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t strain against her chains. Just watches me.

“The muzzle?” I say, reaching for it.

She tilts her head forward slightly, giving me access. The metal is warm—body temperature, nothing extreme like the others. I undo the clasp and it falls away.

She takes a slow breath. Lets it out. Her face shows no relief, no emotion at all. Just… emptiness.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, voice hoarse from disuse.

I unlock the chains one by one. They fall away with soft clinks. She doesn’t move to break them, doesn’t surge forward. Just sits there as each restraint drops away, rubbing her wrists absently where the metal left marks.

When the last chain falls, she still doesn’t move.

“You can come out now,” I say, uncertain.

“Can I?” She says it like a genuine question, not sarcasm. “Where would I go?”

“Well… out of the box, at least?”

She considers this for a long moment. Then, slowly, she unfolds herself and stands. The container suddenly seems much smaller as she rises to her full height—she has to hunch to avoid hitting the top. Her movements are stiff, careful, like she’s testing if her body still works. When she steps out of the container, her toe claws click softly against the floor—controlled, deliberate.

She straightens fully in the hallway, and I realize she might actually be the tallest of the three. But where Pyrra’s size is intimidating and Borea’s is regal, Nox just seems… diminished somehow. Like she’s trying to take up less space than she actually does.