Inside was the body of Grald, the body the dragon inhabited. Tonight, the human would finally receive his release in death. Grald would tear out Ven’s heart and place it in the golden locket. He would seize the young, strong body, and when that was done, he would take what was left of Ven and place him inside the tomb. The dragon would lift the heavy lid of the coffin in his claws and seal Ven inside. There, the young man would continue to live, buried alive, his still-beating heart fueling the body the dragon had usurped. Ven might live for thirty or forty years, Grald calculated. The dragon would get thirty or forty years of good use from the young man’s body, maybe longer. And when that body eventually aged and died, the dragon would have many more bodies of his own children from which to choose.

“My offspring will be a force in this world,” he said proudly, placing his hands on the lid of the tomb and gazing at it with satisfaction. “My armies will conquer human nations. My children will rule them. We dragons will bring order to this world of humans, teach them to obey and respect their masters. I almost wish Ven could be at my side to see it.”

Grald imagined what it would be like to be trapped, suffering, inside this coffin; trapped for years without end, the minutes dropping so slowly, like the blood of the ravaged heart.

“A noble sacrifice, Ven,” said the dragon softly. “One that will be long remembered.”

Grald made certain that the illusion was still in place, that the tomb remained hidden to all eyes but his. Then, his thoughts going on to other matters, the dragon left to apprise Maristara and Anora that their plans had changed, that Draconas had been discovered alive, and that, of necessity, the war must go forward sooner than anticipated.

He did not expect the elder females to be happy about the situation, and he was right.

They weren’t.

The conversation between the three dragons was an explosion of color, blobs of anger hurled onto a mental canvas. Grald and Anora in particular went at each other, accusations sharp as claws tearing and ripping until the canvas was in shreds and came perilously close to being destroyed.

“Stop it!” ordered Maristara, her colors black as hoarfrost. “You both stink of fear.”

The battling dragons went silent, their colors subdued, though still smoldering.

“Not fear,” Grald returned. “Our own damnable reluctance to act.”

“He’s right,” Anora conceded grudgingly. Her colors were gray with fatigue. “We dragons will find any excuse to keep from taking that first step off the ledge.”

“The first step has been taken,” Maristara reminded them. “We must now either flap our wings or fall to our doom into the pit below. You, Anora. You have said that you walk among the humans.”