Chapter Five: The Golden Cage

The first thing Eirian felt was warmth.

Not the gentle warmth of his little bed above the bakery, but something heavier, engulfing—thick blankets stitched of velvet, soft pillows swallowing his small frame. A steady beating sound pressed against his ear, like a hidden drum. Not his teddy. Not Mama’s voice.

When his lashes fluttered open, silver eyes blinking in pale confusion, the world around him was unrecognizable.

It was a bedroom, yes, but nothing like home.

The ceiling stretched higher, painted faintly gold, with a chandelier blooming crystal light above. Walls were cream-colored, embossed with subtle swirls of roses. But what caught his eye most were the shelves.

Shelves lined with toys.

Dozens of teddy bears—plush brand-new, some taller than he was. Dolls stood side by side, jewels sewn into their little dresses. There were rocking horses, spinning tops, jars filled to the brim with candy. Even a glass castle stood at the far side of the room, fragile towers glinting like spun sugar.

And right beside him on the bed lay Mr. Honey, tucked snug in his usual place.

Eirian blinked again, confused. He rubbed at his eyes, then pinched Mr. Honey’s paw tight.

“M-Mama…? Papa…?” His voice cracked small in the huge chamber.

Only silence replied.

His lips tugged downward. His small body folded inward, hugging teddy close. Everything was too shiny, too tall, too… strange.

It was then he felt it—the weight of a gaze.

Eirian turned.

In the shadows of the corner, seated on an armchair carved from dark wood, Damian Vorensky watched. He leaned back, a towering frame clothed in black shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Crimson eyes glowed even in dim light, unwavering, drinking in every detail of the awakened boy.

Eirian startled, shrinking back into the blanket. “…D-Dragon…” he whispered faintly, voice trembling with both recognition and fear.

Damian’s lips curved slowly, his voice low, velvet, patient like a predator before a meal.

“You remember me.”

Eirian hugged Mr. Honey closer, eyes darting nervously across the room. His white hair mussed against the pillow, cheeks flushed with unease. “W-where… where Mama?”

Damian rose from the chair. The ground itself seemed to accept his footsteps like an emperor’s. As he approached, the size difference devoured the space—his tall, muscled body nearly doubling the fragile boy on the bed.

When he reached the edge, he crouched, resting one knee on the floor so his crimson gaze aligned with silver eyes. His voice, though deep and rough-edged, softened unnervingly.

“They can’t keep you safe.”

Eirian flinched. “Papa’s strong. He keeps me safe. Mama too!” He insisted with a little stomp of his small foot beneath the blanket, voice breaking.

Damian’s hand lifted, wide, scarred knuckles brushing hair gently from Eirian’s face. His touch was terrifyingly careful, as though handling snow that might vanish in heat.

“No,” Damian whispered. “They love you, yes… but love isn’t enough. The world is dangerous. The world devours. You…” His eyes trembled with feverish obsession. “…are too pure. Too porcelain. If you stay there, you’ll break.”

Tears welled suddenly in Eirian’s silvery eyes. His lip quivered. He buried his face into Mr. Honey’s fur and whimpered, muffled, childlike. “I want Mama…! I want Papa…!”

Damian froze. The sound—a fragile wail—stabbed deeper than any bullet wound ever had. For a moment, his entire chest ached like an open artery.

But obsession is cruel.

He bent lower, taking the boy’s small hands in his vast palms. “Eirian.” His voice deepened, commanding yet trembling with need. “Don’t cry. I will protect you. No one will hurt you again. No one will touch you.”

Still the boy sobbed softly, pressing his head further into the teddy. His body curled like a frightened child.

Damian inhaled sharply. Then, surprising even himself, he climbed onto the edge of the bed—not looming, not spreading his shadow, but lowering his entire bulk to enfold the trembling figure. His arms—arms that had crushed men’s throats, pulled triggers, spilled oceans of blood—wrapped carefully around the snow-haired boy.

Eirian stiffened in that caged hug. And then, hesitantly, he peeked upward through tears. His own reflection shimmered in those crimson eyes.

“Shhh…” Damian murmured, brushing his lips barely along soft white hair. “Shhh, angel. Don’t cry. Your Dragon’s here now. You’ll never need to be afraid again.”

Eirian sniffled, shivers slowing. His logic was broken, childlike; the comfort of touch, the rhythm of a heartbeat against his cheek soothed him just as his parents’ had. Slowly, he softened in Damian’s arms, still clutching Mr. Honey, but letting himself be held.

Damian exhaled deeply, crown settling against the pillow near white strands, tension bleeding away. For the first time in his life, killing had not satisfied him. Power had not healed him. But this… this fragile surrender in his arms did.

He whispered again, voice like an oath carved in blood:

“This is your home now. Your world. And you’ll never leave me, Eirian. Ever.”

The fragile boy, too naive to understand the bars of a gilded cage, only buried his damp lashes into Damian’s chest as the moonlight streamed through the window—silent witness of captivity reborn as obsession.

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