He sat on the Oak Throne, gazed at the ruin of Requiem, and drank hot blood from the weredragon skull.

Three of Requiem's columns had shattered in the battle; they now lay fallen across the hall. Beyond the standing columns, most of the birches had burned; they now rose like charred skeletons, their leaves gone, their branches black. Blood still stained the marble tiles, and the scent of smoke still filled the air.

Hundreds of Widejaw warriors lounged across the hall. They sat upon the fallen columns, drinking from skulls. Mud stained their fur cloaks and tattooed faces, and the blood of their enemies stained their augmented mouths. Campfires burned upon the marble tiles of Requiem's hall, and upon them roasted the flesh of the enemy. Limbs and torsos of dead weredragons crackled and dripped their juices. In death, the creatures were like any other men and women—savory and delicious.

"Bring me meat!" Slyn roared. "You, the dark one. Fetch me a leg."

The dark-haired weredragon knelt by a campfire, a chain running from her ankle to a column. Bruises darkened her face. The chains would keep the wench from shifting. Three other women knelt at the feet of his throne, similarly chained.

"Meat, whore!" Slyn said, pointing at the raven-haired woman.

The weredragon nodded, too fearful to resist. She had tasted his fist the last time she had disobeyed him; her two missing front teeth served as a reminder. She stepped toward a campfire, her chain jangling. Her face was dead, expressionless, too hurt to show any more pain. She lifted one of the roasting weredragon legs—the leg of a child, small and soft—and carried it back toward the Oak Throne.

Slyn grabbed the meat from her. With his other hand, he backhanded the woman. "Now get back on your knees. You are a weredragon. You will kneel before your king." He stared at the rest of them. "That goes for all of you! You will remain kneeling in the presence of Slyn, King of Requiem." He stared at them one by one, savoring the sight of their cuts and bruises. "Aye . . . I know what you're thinking, you whores. You're craving the magic. Craving to shift into dragons, to burn me, to burn my men, to fly off to find your husbands." He barked a laugh. "I am your husband now. I am your only king. You are mine, and you will serve me, or I take more teeth."

He unslung the pouch that hung around his neck and tossed it toward the chained women. Teeth spilled out across the marble tiles—their teeth. The weredragons lowered their heads, shivering, struggling not to weep. They had learned that weeping meant more pain.

Slyn burst out laughing. All across the hall, his fellow Widejaws also laughed. Above in the sky, a dozen sphinxes flew in patrol, and their voices too boomed down with cruel mirth.