Chapter 9: Words of Austere Simplicity

Irene slept better than she ever did before. She didn't wake up to use the toilet at all throughout the night, which was unheard of! Even Momo, who was used to sleeping with one eye open was unnerved about it. She came into her room multiple times through the night to see if Irene had caught a fever, but her forehead remained cool to the touch and Irene remained fast asleep.

Perhaps all the exhaustion had finally caught up to her, Momo thought.

The next time Irene awoke, she was greeted by a familiar rub on her head. She subconsciously pressed her head closer to the large hand that was warm to the touch.

"Are you thirsty?" asked a low voice.

Irene blearily opened her eyes. The dim candlelight illuminated the familiar figure of Eric.

"Father," Irene mumbled a sleepy greeting. She rubbed her eyes to push the grogginess of sleep aside as she muttered, "want water."

Her father dutifully poured her a glass that was by her bedside table. Irene cleverly sat up to take a sip.

While she drank, the father and daughter pair cross-examined one another. Irene took one look at her father's outfit and knew that he'd just returned home from who-knows-where. The tips of his brown hair stuck outwards like a messy birdnest. He was still wearing the Wincott brooch above his breast, the shine of the brass was reflected by the flicker of the candle.

His angular face looked hollower than usual due to his exhaustion.

He knew she was watching him and felt slightly embarrassed, Frieda constantly said they had to be a good example for their daughter, but he is looking like he'd just wrestle a bear. However, he knew Irene wasn't judging him for his looks, she was simply curious and cared for him because it had been a while since they last talked properly.

So at the same time, Eric took in his daughter. His darling girl looked loads better than that hellish day of her disappearance. He'd never forget the dread sinking in his stomach when Momo informed them that no one had seen Irene ever since his return. Then in the midst of his rising panic, his wife took control and arranged for search parties while he was sent to the telephone in the backroom.

"I'll handle the search party, you need to ask around, tell me if anyone's seen her," Frieda said.

"But the search party, I could help," Eric mumbled, though his hand was already grasping the phone because what Frieda says goes.

"I know, but they can handle it for now. If we need it, I won't spare anyone." The steeliness in Freida's eyes made her appear taller.

What else could he do but agree?

He spent hours on the phone asking shopkeepers, teachers and any of Irene's close associates to keep an eye out on Irene because none of them had seen her. All replies were negative. Not even the city guards who did regular patrolling of the city had caught a shadow. Eric was near convinced that Irene had been kidnapped, or worse, but he wanted to leave no stone unturned.

Left with no other choice, he dialled the numbers of other noble houses. None of them received his call urgently though he had stressed to the receiver that time was of the essence. He bit his lip and lamented that dragons often times sidelined humans because they couldn't understand the urgency. Time moved differently for immortals.

Every reply he got back from the 10 noble families came back with a polite, "We will keep an eye out for her." which essentially meant they weren't going to lend resources to find a lost human child. It crushed Eric the more he thought about it. The other two remaining houses descended from the human bloodline, but one of them had a small portion of dragon's blood. They were the Watherson House and Ryudarah House, with the latter having one of their sons marry a dragon wife. Eric couldn't really care anymore, and he'd lost all hope that any of them would help.

With his throat resembling a desert, he wasn't prepared to hear Lord Watherson's voice through the phone.

"Lord Wincott, to what do I owe the pleasure?" came his smooth baritone that nearly shocked Eric out of his chair.

"Sir, I mean, Lord Watherson. I," Eric scrambled for his words, "I'm deeply sorry to disturb you at this hour. My daughter, Irene, she's not home yet." He swallowed dryly, feeling the heat rush up his cheeks, "I was wondering, if, you could…"

"I could send a search party, no problem. Your daughter, could you give me a description of her?"

That was something Eric could answer.

He automatically rattled off her age, her height even the brand of the dress she was wearing (he got that from Momo) as he did nine times before.

"That should be good enough. I will assemble a squad of guards to round the city."

"Thank you so much," Eric's throat felt tight and his eyes stung.

"Don't thank me yet," Lord Watherson said, chided even, "Take care of yourself. We will find her."

The telephone by his ear emitted static as he tiredly returned it to the telephone box with a metallic clink. He rubbed his tired eyes, feeling overwhelmed by Lord Watherson's simple kindness. He flexed his fingers that were sore from gripping the phone and got up from his seat.

He's spent hours cooped up here when his daughter could be in great turmoil. Whether Freida approved or not, there was no time for debate. He fetched his cloak and requested his horse to be ready. He was going out.

"Master, the young lady has returned!"

Eric sprinted over to the entrance of the mansion and watched his wife cradle Irene like her most precious treasure. Everything else was history.

Now his daughter sits comfortably in her bed away from harm.

"Father, I have something to ask you…" Irene mumbled, deciding to end the strange staring contest that they've gotten themselves into.

"Hm?" Eric's voice rumbled.

"Uh, about the king, how did you know he was ill?" Irene asked.

Eric blinked owlishly. He certainly didn't expect this. He laughed secretly, to his daughter, he must look like a dragon-story dispenser.

"Well, I went to a meeting with the other noble houses. You know, with others like Lord Macabre, Lord Huzein, Lord Rolzaphor, Lord Watherson…" He listed, watching Irene nod impatiently.

"Yes I know, but who told you?"

Eric squinted his eyes as he tried to recall it.

X

The day of the meeting was like no other, he entered the palace in his carriage. He was escorted by the guards through the palace's halls. He was always one of the more early ones, so it wasn't a surprise to see only one other nobleman present.

"Good morning, Lord Wythe," Eric greeted as he entered the room. The guards closed the door behind him.

Lord Hund Wythe was facing the window, but when Eric greeted him, he turned around and inclined his head. He had a rather tall build even amongst dragons, right now his height was nearly 2 heads taller than Eric. Though Eric wasn't a snob for fashion, even he could tell Wythe did not put a single ounce of effort into his uniform today.

His collar was crooked and his shirt was crudely tucked in. The sleeves of his shirt were pulled up to his forearms. Wythe was a peculiar dragon whose history Eric was not privy to. Unlike all other dragons who would dress to the nines and litter themselves with gold and gems, Wythe was littered with scars that burn like fire.

All dragons of the Daijaya Country were descendants of sea dragons, so it was peculiar to spot a sign of a fire dragon among them. Other noblemen gossipped about how Wythe was a dragon warrior who fought against the fire dragons during the ruling days of the old where war ran rampant and steam clogged the air they breathe.

Like all other dragons though, Wythe had his hair tied in a short braid that rested between the crook of his shoulder blades. The sides of his hair framed his chiselled face, he had the barest of stubble across his upper lip. The corner of his lips seemed permanently glued downwards as he continued to gaze out the window.

"Lord Wincott is always early," Wythe spoke.

Eric was surprised because Wythe opted to remain silent and glued to the window as if he wanted nothing more but to escape as soon as possible. For Wythe to speak without the King's prompting was like the sun rising from the west.

"Ah, yes. And so do you," Eric mumbled for the lack of a better thing to say. He awkwardly decided to walk closer so they could speak normally instead of yelling at each other from the other side of the room. (Only Wythe had to speak louder for Eric to hear, of course, Wythe could hear Eric's mumbling just fine.)

"What are you looking at?" Eric asked.

Wythe's emotionless face was reflected on the window, but his eyes were focused on the palace's gates.

"Keeping an eye out," Wythe said.

"On what exactly?" Eric asked as he peered outwards.

Although they were early, other noblemen have begun pouring in, with the exception of Lady Ryudarah who usually comes in her husband's stead. They queue behind one another as the guards escort them one by one.

"The winds are changing, I can smell it," Wythe's words ended in a not-so-subtle growl. Eric was used to it, dragons often slip growls and roars in between speech, usually in an attempt to intimidate.

"Smell what?" Eric prodded.

"Smoke. Be careful, Lord Wincott, or you'll be singed," Wythe scowled at his own reflection and proceeded to turn away. He didn't stop even as he strode all the way to the far end of the room.

His heart was pounding in his ears at the sudden premonition creeping up the back of his neck. "Where are you going? The meeting's going to begin soon."

"There won't be a meeting today."