Dragon King's Harem Chapter 407. You’re Not a Prisoner I

Dragon King's Harem Chapter 407. You’re Not a Prisoner I

The walk to Glasha’s chambers felt longer than usual. My steps echoed down the corridor. My thoughts swirled with fragments of how this would play out.

Would she lash out? Would she stay silent? Would she look at me with that fire in her eyes—the one that reminded me why I’d married her—or with the resentment I knew I deserved?

When I arrived, the guards stationed outside her chamber straightened immediately, their hands pressed to their chests in salute. Glasha’s room was like any of my other wives’—spacious, elegant, and carefully tailored to her tastes. I didn’t play favorites when it came to their living quarters. Still, her chamber had one key difference, the special guards posted to ensure she didn’t… cause trouble.

Not that she ever had. In the time she’d been here, I hadn’t heard of her throwing any tantrums or stirring up trouble with the others.

“Your Majesty,” one of the guards said, bowing slightly as I approached.

I gave him a curt nod, and they stepped aside, opening the heavy door for me.

Inside, the room was quiet—almost oppressively so. The air was tinged with the faint scent of wildflowers, but there was no warmth to it. It was just… still. At the far end of the room, by the wide window that overlooked the city, sat Glasha. She was hunched over slightly, embroidering something in her lap. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving the needle and thread with practiced precision.

She didn’t look up when I entered. Didn’t greet me. Hell, she didn’t even acknowledge me.

I glanced around the room. No maids. Of course. She’d probably sent them away. She always preferred to be alone.

And yeah, my pride as a Dragon King flared at that. I wasn’t used to being ignored, let alone by someone under my roof. But I hadn’t come here for a fight. I’d told Evelina I’d keep it civil, and I wasn’t about to break that promise now.

So, I walked further in, my boots softly thudding against the carpeted floor. I pulled a chair up next to her and sat down without a word. For a moment, I just watched her work. Her hands moved with a strange elegance, threading the needle through the fabric in smooth, deliberate motions.

Curiosity got the better of me. I leaned forward slightly, peering at what she was embroidering. The pattern was unmistakable. It was the crest of the Orc tribe. It was intricately designed, the kind of craftsmanship that came from years of practice.

“I didn’t know you could embroider so well,” I said finally, breaking the silence.

Her hands didn’t falter, but her jaw tightened ever so slightly. “There are many things you don’t know about me,” she replied, her voice low and even. She didn’t look at me, her gaze fixed firmly on her work.

I leaned back, folding my arms over my chest. “Fair enough,” I admitted. “Is this the orc tribe tradition or something?"

Still, no glance in my direction. She just kept working, her movements calm and methodical. “It’s tradition,” she said simply. “Orc women learn to embroider from a young age. It’s one of the few ways we’re taught to express ourselves.”

The way she said it made my chest tighten. There was something raw beneath her words, something that cut deeper than I expected. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to figure out how to steer this conversation in a direction that wouldn’t end with her throwing that embroidery hoop at my head.

“I’ve… never seen you work on anything like this before,” I said, carefully choosing my words. “Why now?”

She paused for the first time, her needle hovering over the fabric. Slowly, she turned her head to look at me. Her eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes that could freeze a wyvern in its tracks—locked onto mine. “Because I finally have time,” she said, her tone flat but loaded with unspoken meaning. “Here, in this cage, I have all the time in the world.”

The word ‘cage’ hit like a hammer to the chest. I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. She wasn’t wrong, and we both knew it.

“I didn’t bring you here to—” I started, but she cut me off.

“To what? To be locked away? To be paraded around as a symbol of your conquest?” Her voice was still calm, but the edge in it was unmistakable. “I know why I’m here, Your Majesty. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

I let out a slow breath, forcing myself to stay calm. “I married you, Glasha. You’re not a prisoner.”

Her laugh was bitter, sharp, and short. “Oh, I see. Because the mark on my neck and a title suddenly erased everything else. Do you think that makes me free? Do you think that makes me yours?”

I frowned, leaning forward. “No, but it gives you a status—respect among the tribes.”

“Respect?” she repeated, shaking her head with a wry smile. “The only respect I’ve gained is from people who see me as an ornament in your collection. To them, I’m just the Orc wife of the Dragon King. Nothing more.”

Her words stung more than I wanted to admit. But I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way. She wasn’t wrong, and the truth of it sat heavily in the air between us.

“I know I’ve hurt your pride,” I said quietly, my tone softer now. “I know what I did wasn’t fair for you. It was your father and brother’s crimes, yet you are the ones who pay it. I won’t sugarcoat it. But Glasha… you’re not here just to fill some political void. You’re here because I saw something in you—something that made me think we could be more than just allies.”

She stared at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she set the embroidery aside and stood, turning to face me fully. “Do you even understand what you’ve taken from me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know what it feels like to lose everything—your people, your freedom, your pride—just so someone else can gain a victory?”