Nestled at the feet of two mountains and enclosed by steep cliffs, the prison camp is supposed to be inescapable. We’ll see about that.

From this vantage point, the valley spreads out before us. Tiny cabins squat in rows on the far end of the grounds. The earth is dry and sparse, packed down by the feet of hundreds of prisoners, possibly thousands. Distant figures push carts in and out of a hole in the mountainside. Working alone or in clusters, they haul lumber from the forests, water from the stream that trickles through, and rocks cleared from the mines. Everything from the buildings to the people is coated in tawny dust.

Uncertainty digs talons into my stomach, but I force myself to keep looking. The only bits of liveliness in the whole place are the gardens beside the cabins, rows of sowed earth that have just begun to sprout. A low stone wall forms the base of the prison’s enclosure. Above that, thick iron bars rise to twice my height.

Prince Meilek leads us toward a drab-looking building with a large gate, outside of which I’m horrified to find the party Saengo and I abandoned yesterday. The hatchlets are already lined up, their satchels at their backs. The wyverns haven’t mounted their drakes yet, still clustered behind the now empty wagon and Officit Boldis. Beside him is a guard dressed in the dark green and silver uniform of the Evewynian Royal Army, but they’ve abandoned their conversation in favor of gawking at our arrival.

Upon recognizing me, Officit Boldis’s surprise transforms into smug satisfaction. The urge to kick him in the face almost wins out against my better judgment. Anyway, the satisfaction is ultimately mine when I pass him on my drake and he meets my changed eyes. His ruddy face pales, and his mouth drops open.

I grin, relishing his shock. At least until my gaze passes over the hatchlets and their accompanying wyverns. They’ve noticed my eyes as well, and their expressions are a chilling reminder of how things have changed. They shrink away in fear and revulsion. I’m relieved when Prince Meilek leads me inside the building.

We enter a large courtyard. At the opposite end sits a closed iron gate topped with spikes—the only entrance into the prison. Through it, the grounds are a filthy brown stretch, the mountains a beautiful but jarring backdrop. The shamanborn shamble about their work, wearing their exhaustion like weights around their necks.

They’re a reminder of what happens when the queen decides you’re an enemy. My stomach turns in dismay.