Charlotte: The Fate of the White Dragon

A few years earlier, and in the strangest of dreams, I saw a building…

The crooked sign on the old pet shop door read “CLOSED” in faded, peeling paint. Outside, the cobbled town of Lexxton slumbered beneath a velvet sky, heavy with silence. But inside the dimly lit shop, a different world stirred. It was one still teeming with peculiar life and strange, secret purpose.

From a shadowy corridor emerged a bald, ebony-skinned man cloaked in long, flowing white robes. Metal jingled as he unlatched each animal cage with measured hands. Creatures crept out cautiously, groaning and yawning like hungover spirits. The man’s thick grey moustache which curled around his mouth like twin ropes of charcoal smoke, made his lips look like two black sausages. And the dark brown beaded necklace swaying from his neck mirrored mine perfectly— another uncanny detail in this unreal place.

A sluggish tabby, dull in colour but sharp in voice, leapt down from an old half-broken shelf.

“What a bloody long day, eh?” it yowled in a hoarse rasp, stretching like it’d been jammed in a suitcase. Its blotchy fur bore peculiar brown marks that resembled smeared fingerprints. The noise stirred a fussy Chihuahua from its curled-up position — a scholarly one, wearing thick bottle-cap glasses and glowering over a red-covered book.

“To think we'd be entertainin’ more guests even after all that.” The tabby’s eyes glinted with dry amusement.

“You mean the hunt for the dragon prince’s—” began a scruffy grey cockatoo perched above, but the cat shot it a glare.

“Yeah, yeah, you get the point. No need spellin’ it out, feather-brains. Use yer head, will ya?”

A hoarse, wheezy laugh erupted from a balding rabbit still stuck in its cage. Its mangy brown fur stood in strange patches, as though bitten off by disease — or worse.

“Thanks to them daft Dreils, looks like our charming prince might live to see another sunrise,” it cackled. “Ain’t that somethin'?”

The bald man took a large sip of green tea and choked, coughing so violently it sent feathers flying from the startled cockatoo.

“Bless yer throat, lad,” the tabby muttered, glaring at the rabbit who only shrugged. “Hope the mess isn’t weighin’ too heavy on yer mind, child.” It said referring to the bald man who looked like he was in his late fifties. The other creatures fell quiet, watching as the man slumped on a tall wooden stool. His droopy eyes, dull and colourless, stared into the tea like it could offer answers.

Then the silence was sliced like stale bread.

“Their sacrifice was needed,” the cat said solemnly. “You know how it goes, the royal dragon bloodline must continue. That is our one and most important duty as Spargians.”

The faint, flickering light danced over the bald man's scalp. But he said nothing in return.

“Come on now,” the cat pressed, tail swishing, “sometimes you’ve gotta squint to see the bigger picture. We’re talkin’ ‘bout Spargia’s future, lad!”

“That’s exactly why Arthur’s blind,” the bald man muttered, finally letting the words escape in a hollow voice, "every insignificant thing is a sacrifice, and that's not right ".

The grisly rabbit let out a snort of grim amusement, that made the dog shoot it a death glare.

“Like that makes any difference. If the royal bloodline dies out, then so does Spargia,” it croaked, ears twitching. “And that means we're dead too, mate. It's priorities, innit? And just so you know Lewis, everythin' has a purpose, and the sooner we serve ours, the be'er for us!"

“Too right, Gilgort, too right!” squawked the cockatoo, flapping his wings as if to emphasise his point. The tabby nodded sagely, one paw resting under its chin like a feline philosopher.

“Or have you stayed so long among them Willies, you've forgotten where you’re from and who raised you, eh?” Gilgort’s voice darkened. “the Great Arthur won’t spare you. No, he didn’t spare Lord Ashrald, and he sure as rot won’t spare you, lad.” It cast him another dark look and shook its head soberly, adding, "especially not 'you', Lewis."

A hush fell and the creatures shuddered as Gilgort ended speaking. Even the air grew colder in the small room.

Lewis just stared blankly into the shadows, a cloud of doubt over his brows. I couldn't quite fathom what occupied that thick skull of his, but his expression was smeared with worry.

“I suppose you’re right,” he murmured at last. His eyes were unfocused, and he seemed to be lost in thoughts drifting like smoke into memory.

And that’s when this lucid dream began to twist.

The room blurred. Everything became misty and distant, stretching out into my reality.

***

It was the storm that woke us , or maybe stirred me deeper into the mix.

Outside Number Six, Melburry Street, the wind howled like a dying beast. Cold air slammed against the cracked windows as if desperate to get in. I remember the way it shivered through our bones, crept under the floorboards, whispered under the doors.

The moon had tilted very oddly, a bit off-centre and unnaturally bright as it hung in the sky like a single, watching eye.

Then the darkness rolled in, thick and eerie like ink dropped into water. Shadows swallowed the town whole. Thunder cracked across the sky, a thousand drums echoing through empty streets. The wind screamed, shrieked, danced like a mad spirit loosed from a cage. And every creature had awakened with a jolt.

But there, amidst the chaos, sat two black birds on a shattered signpost outside a deserted building. Their feathers were slick with rain, but they weren't shivering. Instead their beady red eyes shimmered with something ancient and knowing, as they chirped into the clapping of the thunder. Despite the noise of the angry storm, I could hear them quite clearly.

Perhaps, a privilege as the dreamer.

“Think ole prince’ll show his mug soon, then?” chirped one in a raspy tongue that I, somehow, understood.

“Aye,” croaked the other, scratching under its wing with its beak. “Ain’t got no windows left to jump outta now.”

“Dragons sure are ruthless buggers. Ain't they, mate?”

“Especially them pureblood ones.” They both laughed eeriely little cackles that disappeared into the howl of the wind.

The ground began to tremble, and tiles fell like dead leaves in autumn. Lamp posts bent as if bowing to some unseen monarch. Homes groaned, as their wooden frames cracked like bones under pressure.

And then, a strange stillness followed subtly but quickly. Like a whispering in the dead of night.

The earthquake had passed through our town like a pilgrim on a long journey. And the devastation lingered, though miraculously, no lives were lost.

One old reporter called it a miracle. Some man, in his home, watching the telly in his pants called it magic.

Lewis had whispered something else.

A “curse.”

But I, Charlotte, I knew better.

It was a dream. A strange, stirring, too vivid dream that seemed to reach backwards and forwards at once, binding the past and future in one twisted thread. Where animals talked in banter.

And I couldn’t quite remember every detail when waking up.