I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Twenty-Three: Chained
The morning air was thick with anticipation, the ground beneath my feet still damp from the dew, and my whole body buzzed with restless energy. It was like static under my skin—residual charge from what was to come. Muscles coiled, heart steady but elevated, eyes sharp. I was ready. Ready to train. Ready to begin the of whatever this was becoming.
But just as I braced myself, feet spreading instinctively for a fight, Richard raised a hand and brought everything to a halt.
"That's enough for now," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "First, we eat."
I stared at him, blinking once. "Eat?"
He fixed me with that look—half exasperation, half amusement. "Training on an empty stomach? That's how you end up puking on your shoes before you even break a sweat. Come on."
With a small sigh, I let the tension drain from my limbs and followed him inside.
The kitchen was warm, filled with the quiet, comforting smells of breakfast. Emily had already laid everything out on the table as if she knew exactly when we'd walk in. Scrambled eggs steamed on a large plate, golden and fluffy. Thick slices of toast, butter melting into every ridge, were stacked beside a large bowl of sausage links. A dish of fresh fruit sat at the center—grapes, apple slices, strawberries, all perfectly arranged. She didn't even glance up at us, her attention focused on slowly stirring her tea, as if we were merely stepping into a scene she'd already written.
We took our seats—me on one side, Richard across from me, Emily at the head. No one said anything at first. The only sounds were the soft clinks of cutlery, the rustle of napkins, and the distant birdsong filtering in through the open window.
It was a quiet moment. Almost fragile in how ordinary it felt. The kind of moment you don't know you'll remember until much, much later. Sunlight streamed through the panes, casting long beams that turned the dust in the air into drifting stars. Everything was still, peaceful. Real.
And then Emily spoke—calmly, almost casually, as if commenting on the weather.
"Even though Richard acts like a fool half the time," she said between bites of toast, "he's probably one of the best hunters this world has ever seen."
Richard raised a brow and smirked, but he didn't say a word. He didn't need to. His silence said everything. No false humility. No bragging. Just quiet acceptance.
I glanced at him. The lack of denial was telling.
Emily kept her eyes on her tea. "I'd rather you not go charging into dangerous situations at all," she continued, her voice dropping in volume but gaining in weight. "But I know you. You'll do it anyway. So if you're going to ignore me—and you will—then at least you're learning from someone who's survived things that should've killed him."
She set down her cup and turned to look at me, her expression unusually serious. It was one of those rare moments where her walls dropped just enough to show what was really underneath: worry, pride, fear, and something else. Something close to love.
"Learn everything you can from him, Lucas," she said. "Before that old coot finally keels over."
Richard gave a muffled laugh through a mouthful of sausage. "Touching, really."
But I didn't laugh. I nodded. When Emily spoke like that, you listened. She didn't waste words. If she said something mattered, it did.
Breakfast ended the way meals often do—dishes clattered, silverware scraped, tea cooled. The scent of herbs and sugar lingered faintly in the air like a memory. Then, without needing to say it, Richard and I got up and headed back outside.
The sun had climbed higher by now. The early morning chill had burned off, replaced by the creeping warmth of midday. The backyard clearing, surrounded by trees and ringed in shade, now felt like an arena—our training ground.
Richard turned to me and tossed something. I caught it easily: a silver chain, its links fine but strong, and at its center, a small crystal that shimmered blue in the light.
It was cool in my palm, humming softly—like a heartbeat just beneath the surface.
"You know about sigils, right?" Richard asked, hands resting on his hips.
I nodded. "Hunters use them for all sorts of things. Enhancing weapons, creating traps, building barriers, sealing corrupted beings."
He gave a satisfied nod. "Good. That crystal has a sigil etched into it. Wear it."
I hesitated for only a moment before slipping the chain over my neck. The crystal settled against my chest, right over the sternum, and immediately I felt it. The soft pulse, the cold hum, the faint glow.
"Now give it a drop of blood," Richard said.
I didn't hesitate. Extending a claw from my index finger, I nicked my palm just deep enough for a bead of blood to well up. I let it fall onto the crystal.
The reaction was instant.
The drop disappeared the moment it touched the surface—sucked in like water into dry soil. The crystal flared bright, casting a quick pulse of blue light, then faded to a steady, dim glow.
And everything inside me shifted.
It was as if someone had turned a dial and muted my core. My strength didn't vanish, but it dulled—noticeably. My muscles felt lighter, weaker. The beast within, always humming with presence, was suddenly distant. Caged.
My breath caught in my throat. "What… is this?"
Richard crossed his arms. "That," he said, "is a Suppression Sigil. It's what we use to restrain corrupted creatures—make sure they can't tap into their strength. You're still a werewolf— but right now, you're barely stronger than an average human."
I stared down at the crystal. It felt like a collar. A leash. I hated it immediately.
"Why?" I asked, my voice flat, low.
Richard stepped closer. "Because you can't learn to fight like a human if you don't understand what it feels like to be one."
I opened my mouth to argue—but nothing came out.
Because he was right. Deep down, I knew it.
"You're going to wear that chain," Richard said, "until you've mastered every single technique I teach you. No shortcuts. No crutches. Just discipline."
I clenched my fist. The chain didn't burn—but it weighed on me all the same.
Still, I nodded. "Alright."
Richard's lips curled into something close to a smile—not smug. Just satisfied. "Good. Let's begin. First lesson: footwork."
And just like that, we started.
No claws to dig in. No unnatural strength to lean on. No blur of speed to correct a misstep.
Just me, the ground beneath my feet, and Richard's voice guiding every movement.
He drilled the fundamentals into me—how to shift my weight, how to pivot without overextending, how to keep my center balanced and grounded. Every detail mattered. Where to place my heels, how to breathe, when to move and when to wait.
"You're not a wild animal," Richard said, circling me like a hawk. "You're not a monster. You're a blade. You're a weapon. Start acting like it."
I repeated the steps. Then again. And again.
My muscles burned until the healing kicked in. Sweat trickled down my spine. The sun beat down, relentless and unforgiving. The chain at my neck pulsed with quiet restraint, a reminder with every heartbeat that I was less than I had been. But that didn't stop me.
Under the sun, beneath the watchful eye of a man who had seen more battles than I could imagine, I trained.
The wolf inside me growled at the boundaries—at the leash. It howled for release.
But I didn't take the chain off.