Sweeping his eyes over the area, he realized he’d made it; he had escaped the tower and was standing in the streets. In all directions city folk were fleeing in terror, but he ignored them. He rushed back to Isobel. Now he needed to become a dragon, and he prayed she would know what to do and leap onto his back.

Something sharp and painful kicked into his thigh.

Whirling, he saw that two more soldiers had rushed from the tower, both with crossbows in their hands. Dion lumbered toward them, but his injured leg failed him and agony shivered through his body as he fell to one knee. A moment later the second crossbow thrummed, sending a flash of black iron through the air before a powerful blow punched into the left side of his abdomen.

Glancing down, he saw two thick black shafts protruding from his body. Compared with his size, they were like harpoons embedded in the hide of a whale, but the pain was crippling. He reached down and grabbed the shaft in his leg, gasping as he pulled. He felt it tear, and then he plucked it out, tossing it away and reaching for the shaft in his lower chest. With a sharp grunt, he dealt with it like the other, ripping it from his abdomen and throwing the iron bolt to the ground.

Pain now mingled with fatigue. Panting, he stood, before falling to his knees again. He involuntarily felt his shape slipping away from him.

No. Hold on. You have to hold on.

Panic filled him. The soldiers had fired their crossbows; he still had some time. The priority was to get Isobel free.

He distantly heard the sound of swords being drawn, but he ignored the soldiers as he tried to drag himself back toward Isobel. His chest heaved as his face screwed up. He now tried to imagine himself as a flying creature. The sky was his element. He had wings that would carry Isobel to safety.

But when he felt himself changing, he knew he didn’t have the strength. His size grew smaller, his body withdrawing into itself, collapsing like a wineskin with a hole in it. As gray mist clouded his vision, despair sank into his gut.

He’d planned to fly away with Isobel. But now he was on the ground, returned to his normal shape. He looked up to meet her eyes.

‘Go,’ he said.

Her wide, frightened eyes cast him a final plaintive look, before she turned and started to run.

But Isobel took no more than three steps before Dion heard a twang.

A metal bolt darted through the air. Strong enough to pierce a dragon’s hide, it speared her in the very center of her back. As it struck it made a sound like a fist punching a pillow, knocking her forward before sending her falling face down onto the stone.