"There it is… the Laguna Country Club."

Charles Graham followed his security escort onto the unmarked road, veering off of the smooth asphalt of the highway and onto the stone-strewn driveway. Pops' old Mercedes jostled and jiggled on the uneven gravel, its mechanical innards rumbling noisily. 

Ahead of the Graham convoy stood a lone security station guarding the only public entrance, backed by a tall, fortified concrete wall. Set several hundred meters away from the highway, the distance provided both visitors and guards alike a panoramic view—one for admiration, and the other for vigilance.

A deep, purring growl resonated beside him. Charles glanced at his companion, the only other passenger in the SUV—a dragoness with scales reminiscent of wine. She was sprawled on top of a fully reclined seat, lying on her stomach. Her massive size required her to curl inward, her tail occupying the remaining seats. 

She didn't voice whether she was comfortable or not, her eyes fixated on the surrounding landscape. Wild, untamed fauna covered the rolling hills. The tropical forest gave way to an open grassland closer to the Laguna Country Club. Palm trees and exotic plants lined the sides, partially concealing the lush, vibrant scenery. Crops and fruit trees flourished in the surrounding lands, with a handful of jornaleros tending to them. 

A loud thump echoed from the back. Charles didn't need to look to know it was the dragoness's tail, leisurely swaying. "Forger place, very beautiful," she growled in broken Spanish. Her voice was husky and guttural, a clear indication that dragon biology was not compatible with most human languages.

"You like it, Tearry?" Charles asked. A second later, her long, thick tail thumped the back of his seat, and he felt the impact.

Chanteirwen turned her muzzle towards him. Her eyes lingered on Charles longer than what felt comfortable. Smacking her chops and momentarily flashing her sharp, unquestionably lethal fangs, the dragoness pondered her response. 

"Only eyes like," she said after a brief pause. "This, not for dragons. Only Forger."

"I know." Charles glanced at her flank. On her delicate underbelly lay a massive burn scar. It was fresh. He had personally thrust the searing rod at that spot a few days ago at the GLC campus, but only at Chanteirwen's request. It was where the Graham Logistics logo used to be, after all.

A wave of guilt washed over him. "And I'm sorry."

Noticing his gaze, and where it had fallen, the dragon emitted a melodic chirp. "You always sorry," she said. "That time, cannot change no more. But I better now, and I, trust you."

Chanteirwen resumed her observations, muzzle trained once again on the landscape. Charles could hear her purring over the gravel crunching noisily beneath the Mercedes. It was loud and rumbling like a motorcycle engine—nothing like a cat's purr—and most would find the heavy, snarl-like noises unnerving. Yet, to Charles, it was therapeutic. It always calmed his inner turbulence. To think he had never heard a dragon purr even back during the 80s when he was executing Pops' obedience program or running the company.

Chanteirwen snorted as the Mercedes and its convoy approached the large gate that led inside the tall, imposing walls. The sound seemed derisive. Charles quickly noticed what she'd seen: domesticates standing alongside the other guards, identification collars on their necks and brands marking their flanks. Mostly Techerta, Molnya, and Glass—dragons with abilities specialized for subduing intruders and defending against attacks.

Charles could roughly guess what she was thinking. Unlike the other dragons in Graham Logistics, Chanteirwen never surrendered her Wildborn dignity despite everything he and his family had done since the day they bought her from Uncle Paul over fifteen years ago. She likely thought less of the domesticates for embracing the ways of Man, for being pathetically weak in their resolve, for remaining willfully ignorant of their origins.

The country club's guards halted the entire convoy at the gate. One approached the Mercedes as soon as the other two vehicles stopped directly behind the lead motorcycle. A pale blue dragon accompanied them, its eyes scouring their surroundings. Like many other domesticates, its restraints were nothing like those the Grahams used on the Wildborn in the mid-1980s. Its muzzle was a mere strap of cloth, the hobble and balls-and-chains replaced with weighted anklets. 

Seeing the guard gesturing for him to lower the tinted window, Charles realized Chanteirwen wasn't wearing any of her restraints. "Tearry, your bindings."

Chanteirwen snorted in astonishment herself, ears perking upward. She rummaged the car floor with one of her forepaws before growling in frustration. "Can't find muzzle."

Charles clicked his tongue. They were out of time. "I shit on God. All right, just lie down and pretend to sleep." He reached over and clasped her paw, drawing her attention. He locked eyes with the dragon and made a short and subtle growl in an oscillating pattern. Something he knew held meaning in the dragons' language. "I have your neck."

Chanteirwen warbled her reply—he hadn't deciphered its actual meaning yet—then complied. She brought her head down and curled inward, feigning sleep. 

Charles rolled the window down just in time for the vigilant guard to peer inside the Mercedes-Benz. "Here for the Dragon Banquet, guey."

The guard's stern, no-nonsense expression suddenly blanched the second his eyes landed on his passenger. "You have large cojones, sir, riding with an unmuzzled dragon."

The Glass accompanying him regarded the aforementioned Vatran with mild interest, apparently unbothered by the utter absence of safety equipment on her body. He snorted, then sauntered off towards the other SUV.

"¡Pollas en vinagre!" Charles dismissed. "You know how these domesticates are. They're practically our slaves now."

Chanteirwen bristled at his words. Her angry hiss was loud enough for him to hear. Charles gently put his right hand on top of her dorsal fins and gave a soft, if comforting, pinch, ignoring the pain flaring up. His right hand had never been the same since he'd lost his little finger. "Calm down, Tearry," he muttered, "Bear with me here…"

The guard heard neither Charles nor the dragon. "Regardless, sir, we have a safety policy. We can't let you in if you don't have any safety equipment for your Vatran."

"It's fine! I have them in the car somewhere."

"But sir—

"Just let me in, guey." Charles gave the man the biggest smile he could muster while fishing his driver's license from his wallet. "Otherwise, you'll have to explain to the owners why you didn't let Charles Preston Graham through."

"C-Charles Graham!" The man shot a frightened glance at the other dragons as well as the other men in the guardhouse.

It was expected that the security guard would recognize his name. The ubiquity of dragons in the 1990s meant that the Grahams—the father and son who had practically pioneered their domestication—were known everywhere. Charles sneered. "What, you don't believe me? I have my driver's license right here—

Before he could flash it, the man stood at attention and saluted. "No need, Boss Charles! You may go through." He studied Chanteirwen and winced, pleading, "But please secure your dragon before entering the building. We wouldn't want any incidents later."

"Good that you know." 

Charles brought the window back up, shifting the 500E back into drive as the convoy was now cleared for entry.

The dragoness beside him huffed. "We not slaves."

"Not all of you, but it's headed in that direction. Did you know that there are people—there are Forgers rearing them now?"

Another revolted hiss. "Still not Wildborn. Not true dragon."

"Another ten years, and maybe they'll be all that's left."

Chanteirwen's tail slapped the seats behind him. "Forger Charles, really cannot help?"

Charles did not answer immediately. He pulled into the parking lot and found an unoccupied slot. It wasn't full, making it easy to get a spot beneath a tree and in view of the exit for an easy getaway, if it ever became necessary.

He started backing into it. "Tearry, I told you, there are too many people who want your kind to remain what they are now. My influence—my name can't stop them, and even Pops is on their side!"

Charles engaged the handbrake, its noise interrupting any reply from the dragon. "Helping you is the only thing I can do right now. If nothing else, just having you and your brother living freely with me is enough."

He reached down and felt underneath Chanteirwen's seat. Her muzzle was there. "Now put this on. I'll put on the other stuff later when we get out of the car. I need to check my gear."

Charles leaned over and squeezed past the dragoness, retrieving a metal box from the glove compartment—an ARES folding machine gun. He popped open the center console and took out a Spyderco knife and a flash grenade. All had been customized by their manufacturers for dispatching domesticates. Charles had learned his lesson before. What happened in FDRA years ago would never happen again—

"Rrrrrrr." Chanteirwen snarled, eyes narrowing. Her body tensed up. Charles could hear her claws tearing into the seats, curling on their own accord. "Those things…"

"Always better to be prepared. We might fight other dragons. I can't help you if I'm too helpless to fight back." Charles' explanation was succinct and straight to the point. He moved to shut the car off and disembark, only for the Vatran to growl louder.

"It kill Papa and Mama." Chanteirwen glowered at Charles, nostrils dilating. She fixed her golden eyes on his own, her defiance—her refusal plain and visible. "No want it with us. No!"

Charles wanted to pinch his nose. "Hostia puta, you know I'll never point these at you."

Chanteirwen bared her fangs and snarled. "Leave, here!"

"Chanteirwen!"

Her forepaw furiously slapped the lid of the center console. If there was anyone among Charles' bodyguards watching this, they would be terror-stricken, fearing the reptile would leap forward and maul their principal dead. 

"Forger Charles!" Chanteirwen snapped her jaws at him. Her teeth clapped shut directly in front of his face, splashing him with spittle. Another attempt at intimidation.

It would have worked… if Charles hadn't known how her true hostility looked like. "My people are watching." He cast his eyes outside the windshield and saw Albert watching them. Chanteirwen noticed but did not react. "I don't want to scare them any longer, so let's compromise. I'll switch my gun for something smaller, and leave everything else."

The dragoness, her fangs bared, snorted and uttered a low, rumbling growl. Still, she turned her snout away and put the cloth band over her jaws. A sign of assent, Charles interpreted, proceeding to adjust his concealed inventory as mutually agreed. He noticed her tension and the sharpness in her gaze. Clearly, Chanteirwen didn't fully trust him; nonetheless, the fact they were making good crumbs was leaps and bounds compared to before.

"Tearry." When Charles was finished, he called the reptile by the nickname he'd given her. He found it much easier to verbalize than her true name and, for some reason, using it had a tendency to blunt her wildness a little. He was curious about that, but not enough to ask. "Need help with the door?"

Chanteirwen snorted. It sounded derisive, as if the very question was insulting. The dragoness reached for the handle, pulled it, and effortlessly pushed the door open. 

"Virgin Mary, I was just asking," Charles murmured to himself and finally shut the car off. 

The two of them got out. While Charles went to fetch Chanteirwen's bindings, she took the time to stretch after sitting for hours in a cramped vehicle. She moved like an overgrown cat, flexing her sleek, scaly body, extending her forelegs first, then her hindlegs second. She spread her wings last, stretching the bones for as much as possible, to the point it started to shake and quiver, and she made a satisfied growl.

"You finished?" Charles asked. "We need to put these things back on. They won't let us in otherwise."

Charles waited until she nodded and gave her consent. As the Graham scion started strapping on the ankle weights and loosely tying her wings, he felt Chanteirwen stiffen.

Albert had approached them, his M14 slung over his shoulder. The gun was a good reason for her apprehension—it was a variant designed specifically for use against dragons. He raised his hands, fixing his gaze on the large reptile before addressing his principal. "Boss Charles, I admit, I'm uncomfortable seeing you alone with Wild Red. I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

"I know what I said before is hard to accept," Charles replied, "But have you tried talking to her at home?" He paused. "...Shit, has anyone in the house tried at all!?"

Albert shifted uncomfortably and shook his head. "I'm sorry. None of us feel safe! I still remember what happened to Gerry when Boss Stephen had us subdue this dragon. Yet you allow it"—he suddenly withered under Charles' glare and coughed—"you allow her to roam freely around the house with nothing restricting her body! ¿¡Puta madre, what if she eats one of the maids!?"

"We already talked about this, Bert. You guys need to stop viewing Tearry as a wild animal. Remember the saying: a cat with gloves doesn't catch mice."

The dragoness suddenly grunted. Charles not so much squeezed her withers as he pinched it. "And you should give the people at home a chance!" he said with a scalding tone. "Humans—Forgers are not all as heartless as you think they are."

However, there were far too many of those cruel, ruthless ojete in Henrico. Charles kept this last bit to himself and finished affixing the restraints on her. He found the work tedious, having had to dodge a few slaps to the face while he was wrapping her second wing. He had a feeling Chanteirwen was a bit irritated after he scolded her.

"Okay, done!" He wiped the sweat off his brow. Heavenly Father, it was hot today! "Let's go." 

Albert made a few gestures in the air. Charles heard the other men get out of the SUV and get into formation behind him and Chanteirwen as they strolled towards the Laguna Country Club. It was a luxurious building in its own right, exuding an aura of affluence and power that rivaled even the mansions of his social peers in Metro Magallanes.

The pristine, well-kept condition of the parking lot didn't escape his notice. There was plenty of space, even with the event being held today. Parking lanes were bright, flush with color and easy to notice. Same for the signages.

Manicured gardens surrounded the parking lot, hiding much of the perimeter wall and the security monitoring the lands outside. The green lawns appeared regularly cut, planted with exotic flora imported from other nations. A grandiose water fountain, carved with intricate French designs, stood in front of the entrance. Beside it was a block of wrought iron cemented on stone, prominently displaying the country club's name. It was written in cursive, and made with gold. 

The group went around the fountain and arrived at the porte-cochere. As though testifying to the immaculate safety and security of the country club, there found no one standing beside the entrance. Not even another dragon. 

Charles and Chanteirwen headed to the glass entrance and stepped inside the foyer. A reception area awaited them inside. Four people eyed the group, gripping their Kalashnikovs tightly. Two dragons that had been asleep by the walls shook themselves awake, rising to all fours and adopting an alert position. 

The display was impressive to watch. Whoever owned the country club took security seriously.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Graham," the receptionist at the desk greeted them with a light and charming voice. She was a beautiful woman, with shapely curves and a hefty bosom to match. Her tone was casual and sweet—a stark contrast to the serious air around the club security. She glanced at the Vatran trailing beside Charles. "I presume you are here for the annual celebration this afternoon?"

Charles noticed a small short-wave radio on the desk. That explained how the receptionist knew his identity. "We are," he replied. "I apologize if we're uninvited guests. My father and I aren't even members of the country club, but—

"Excuse my interruption, Sir Charles! That will not be a problem." She subserviently bowed her head at him. "We'd be stupid to turn away someone of your status for a petty reason like that." She eyed Albert and the other men who had entered the foyer with Charles. "However, I must request that your bodyguards wait in one of our waiting lounges. We've previously had incidents involving unstable individuals and would like to avoid a repeat occurrence." She glanced at the club's security forces in the reception area, as though accentuating their presence. "Hence, all the safety measures enforced by the club."

Albert raised his voice in protest. "Boss Charles! We can't just leave you alone—

"It's fine," Charles reassured him. Instinctively, he patted Chanteirwen's withers, reminding Albert that he was with a fire-breathing dragon. "Just keep your beeper on and stay alert."

The receptionist cleared her throat. "Ahem! Normally, I'd also ask you to leave your dragon in the animal pens, but my manager instructed me to exempt you from this policy as you are as much a special guest as the other VVIP joining us today."

Charles was intrigued. "Oh, there's someone else like that here?"

"Yes! He's a rare guest from Germany, and related to the Porsche family. Perhaps you've heard of him, Aaron Strauss?"

Charles shook his head. "Sorry, never heard of the guy."

"Really? His domesticate, Aeris, is quite famous. Very well-trained, and a rare species of Glass too—

Charles scowled. "Ma'am, I've been away for a few years. It would be surprising if you haven't heard about my kidnapping in FDRA…"

The receptionist gasped, as if finally forming the puzzle together. "S-Sir Charles, that was you!? M-my apologies! I, I must've forgotten. It's been a long time. I-I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable—

The urge to lash out at the receptionist for her ignorance surged in Charles. It was tempting to fall into the sweet trap of anger. Then his eyes fell on Chanteirwen, on the many scars adorning her burgundy scales. He stared at the big one above her right eye in particular.

The sight reminded him of the younger, terrified creature that she'd been decades ago. An innocent thing that had just lost her family, trembling in a cage and tightly wrapped in chains. It also brought back memories of the ordeal he survived in Sierra Morena. Memories of wretched people screaming at him, using him as a scapegoat in place of all the other men of power in the Federative Republic.

Charles felt his rage deflate, then vanish. "It's alright." He forced himself to smile. "Maybe forgetting it is also a good thing. Can you please guide me and my dragon to the function hall?"

The receptionist audibly breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you. Unfortunately, I cannot leave the reception desk." She turned towards the guards—Charles saw an ugly, black bruise on the back of her neck—and gestured to them. "The guards will guide you to the event."

"And my escorts?"

"Someone's already coming to fetch them."

"Good." 

One of the men the receptionist had pointed to approached them. Without sparing a single glance at his scaly companion, he beckoned Charles to follow him through the elegant corridors. 

The Laguna Country Club exuded unimaginable wealth and privilege, with its high ceilings and large open spaces. The floors were made of polished marble that reflected the glint of the chandeliers made of Bohemian crystal that hung above. They cast a golden glow on everything below. All the furniture, tables, and chairs were carved out of endangered wood and upholstered with silk and leather. 

Expensive native plants lined the hallways, meticulously pruned and arranged to create the ambiance of an indoor garden. The air was filled with the subtle fragrance of these tropical plants, evoking a sense of relaxation and indulgence.

Exquisite paintings made by Renaissance artists adorned the walls, encased in thick fiberglass to protect the precious works from the elements. Display cases showcased collections of ancient artifacts and precious gems from all around the world. They passed various sculptures—marble figures from Catholic mythology and Henrico's precolonial history, each resting on pedestals of the finest granite. One sculpture caught Chanteirwen's eye—a dragon crafted from Chinese jade, with intricate details and lifelike form.

Charles and Chanteirwen were led towards a pair of wooden doors. A beautiful and extensively detailed relief was carved upon them. It depicted several people working together on a single document, a scene that Charles recognized from his old history lessons. It was a creative interpretation of Philippine and Henrican delegations collaborating with two Democratic congressmen in Washington, D.C. This moment had led to the passage of the Tydings-Mcduffie Act, cementing the path of both nations to official independence from the United States of America. Behind the doors, he could hear the sounds of people talking, of classical music being played by a live band.

Charles didn't know what to expect. Ever since he'd won Best Hitter with that HTIRS presentation on training dragons, he and Pops received invitations to the Laguna Dragon Banquet every year, and both had also dismissed every single one in favor of more important tasks at the company. 

Much like the "furry convention" he had visited last week, he regretted not attending one of these parties even once. Charles didn't know when exactly it began, but ever since he'd returned from Sierra Morena, he despised the feeling of uncertainty. In the past, though he disliked what he'd become, he was confident, unafraid to face the world. Now, the thought of fumbling in the dark, of feeling lost, made his skin crawl and his heart palpitate. 

A wave of panic consumed him. Hostia puta, he couldn't mess this up. They had shown up here unannounced, and while his name and past reputation had gotten them through the doors, there was no telling whether they would succeed in finding the person they were looking for.

While their ad hoc guide sauntered to the doors, Charles glanced at Chanteirwen, only for the both of them to flinch in surprise. The dragoness had also swung her snout in his direction, anxiety ostensible in her body language. 

It dawned on Charles that, unlike him, she had so much more to lose if she mounted a chicken during the banquet. While he would only be ostracized by a group of people that mattered to him as much as radishes, the dragon might even be shot if people discovered she was a Wildborn pretending to be a domesticate. 

Charles suppressed his growing panic and rubbed Chanteirwen's head, scratching behind her ears. His attempt to assuage her fears worked, and he could sense her fidgeting less, shivering less, as the security guard turned to them. 

"Welcome to the Laguna Dragon Banquet."