White opals. No pupil. No iris. Just that pale, luminous white, ancient and terrible and utterly, completely awake. They stared at Caldan with an intelligence that had nothing to do with animal instinct and everything to do with something older, deeper, more frightening than any human mind could hold.
The dragon did not move. Did not lift its head. Did not strain against the chains.
But smoke began to curl from its nostrils.
Not fire. Vaelrix had never breathed fire. That was the thing that made the court whisper, the thing that made the other riders look at Caldan with pity or contempt. A dragon that didn't burn. A dragon that breathed smoke — thick, black, choking smoke that didn't kill.
It did something worse.
It showed the truth.
The smoke rolled across the cavern floor like a living thing, pooling around Caldan's knees, rising to his waist, his chest, his face. It didn't burn his lungs. It filled them. Cold and thick and tasting of old ash and older secrets.
