Sacrificed to the Dragon Prince

[Millicent] People always say, "Can you remember when the problem started?" I'd like to say, "Yes, Sir. You see there was this one moment where everything went wrong..." But I cannot. I don't even know who I am. I was not born Millicent Walker. That name was gifted to me when I showed up in the village of Crimson, covered in bruises, burns, and blood. I have no parents, no family, and no memory of my life before the age of seven, or however old I am--nobody is quite sure. My strange gold hair and hazel eyes made it obvious to those who first met me on the dusty road from the East that I wasn't from anywhere near the town of Crimson, or anywhere else along the Emerald Shore where the locals were fair of skin and light of eye. To them I was different, and to people with small minds and smaller experiences, there is nothing scarier than different, except for maybe the unknown, and I was a living representation of both. I was, and remain, a mystery. With no one to care for me and no

[Millicent]His malicious grin, the only part of his face I could see clearly, was predatory and possessive as he grabbed my hand roughly and led me through a stone door at the side of the keep. The door slammed behind us, the solid boom reminding me of the finality of my situation. Any chance for my freedom ended when that door closed behind us.We entered a small chamber that led to a dark hallway, lit by odd metal torches burning with a strange green flame behind clear bowls of hand-turned glass. I didn’t have much opportunity to appreciate the cleverness of the craftsmanship, however, because I was still suffering under his rough handling and he pulled me along faster than my much shorter legs could travel. Nobody was around to see him drag me up the stairs as I struggled, hitting and punching his back, hoping he'd stop moving and let me go. But he didn’t. Nothing seemed to matter as he continued. Not my screams, not my tears, not all the nasty things I said about him, his parenta

[Millicent] It was several minutes before I was able to move from the spot where I watched Leon leave. When he had exited, there had been a door, with a typical handle carved of wood. As soon as he disappeared from sight and the door closed behind him, it melted into the wall, becoming stone. Stepping forward, I gently rubbed my hand to see if I could feel a seam or any other sign that a door had been here only moments before. It was no longer warm to my touch, only cold polished stone with not even the smallest blemish. Remembering the trick from before, I placed my hand on the center of the door, waiting for it to warm to my touch and open outward as it had before. Patiently I stood, fear slowly bubbling up my body from my gut, as the stone remained cold, hardly even warming up to my body heat. What had Leon said? That I was the only one who could enter. He didn’t say anything about whether or not I could exit. He also hinted that I wasn’t the only one who would be able to cont

[Millicent] I hate him. Right now, there isn’t a single part of my body that doesn’t hate him. What was he thinking, bringing those horrible men into this keep? Every single one of them represents a handful of memories that I’d rather forget, parts of my life that I had to endure. Seeing them like that, having him demand that I tell him how each should die, sent me right back to those moments to live once again. I know that he sees me as insignificant, I am only a human, and the lowest of them, and he is a dragon prince. He has no reason to see me with any kind of regard. But what he did tonight,

[Millicent] Leon and I spent the morning re-teaching me how to sit (with one’s back straight, head pointed towards the heavens), how to eat (slowly and with care, never hurried), and then how to read (a painful process for the heart, mind, and eyes). It was more than a bit humiliating, but he did all of this with such patience and goodwill that I felt at ease, even at my lack of understanding. \ For example, it is “unladylike” to use your hands to dip your fruit into your bowl of cream. There are little forks for eating your berries so that your fingers are never sullied with juice. Nevermind that the juice often tastes better licked from one's hand. It is also “undignified” to pour your own cream in the first place because that is what the attendants are hired to do. Even if that meant you waited in hunger until they made their way over to you. Rushing and impatience are also “undignified,” so those moments of waiting your turn are important when cultivating patience, a desired vi