Dion’s eyes were thin slits, breath rumbling in his chest as he watched yet another dragon herded into a cell. Confused ramblings washed over him, feelings of terror and bewilderment crashing through his mind. For a time, he believed they were his own thoughts, but then he realized they were coming from the new occupants of the other cells.

Why did they do this to me?

Can anyone hear me? I think I can hear you. Please, someone talk to me.

No, no, no, no . . .

She’s dead. And now . . . this . . . I truly hope she’s in a better place.

Please, Helios, help me.

The flood of terror eventually subsided, then faded altogether.

He was still exhausted from his flight all the way to the far side of the Shadrian Passage. Palemon had urged speed, and the enthrallment of the chains gave Dion no choice but to obey.

And now he was starving, intentionally taking neither food nor water.

Eventually his eyes closed. Time passed as he slept.

He lifted his head as two sorcerers, both carrying staffs, approached the gate to his cell. One of them was short and had savage burn marks on his face. He remembered his name: Tarik. The other was also a magus, a tall, lean man in a gray robe.

‘The king wants six of them ready to depart,’ Tarik was saying.

‘This one isn’t eating.’ The lean man stopped outside Dion’s cell, rubbing his chin as he looked through the bars. ‘It’s weak.’

The pair regarded him for a time.

‘We have others now to take its place,’ the scar-faced magus finally said. ‘We already have more dragons than chains.’ He nodded as he made a decision. ‘Take its chains; we’ll use them on another.’

The lean sorcerer threw the bolt and opened the creaking iron gate. Some property of the magical shackles meant that Dion was unable to do anything as he watched the magus come in close and begin to unfasten them.

But then the chains were gone.

He was still frozen into this form, but he could no longer be controlled with a thought. His eyes narrowed as he watched the magus beside him, gathering the chains in his arms. He wanted more than anything to open his jaws and bite the man in two. Instead, he lowered his head to the ground and glared at the two sorcerers. He glanced at the hunk of cooked goat meat in the corner of the cell. He was hungry, but he had to trust that his plan would work; if they wanted to talk to him they would have to let him change back to his normal form.

Taking the copper chains, the lean sorcerer walked over to inspect the uneaten food. A moment later Tarik entered the cell and spoke to his companion. ‘Why do you think he isn’t eating?’

The sorcerer shrugged. ‘Nothing wrong with the food. The others all ate.’