Once upon a time, the Dragons wandered the cosmos searching for a new home. These masters of flesh and magic flew from star to star in search of ideas, of life, of hope. For millennia they flew and found nothing but dead worlds and silent stars…until they found us. They found humanity playing in the mud, unable to speak, to think, to even be aware of ourselves. They lifted us up and gave our collective thoughts forms; the fae. The dragons taught humanity and fae the nature of our world. How to hunt, to farm, to make meaning where there was none.

This peace would not last.

Yannis the Demon, Mother of Monsters, Rage of the World, awakened once more to destroy all life upon the surface of the planet that trapped her. From the cracks in the earth surged her children, monsters of flesh and fang, magic and soul, feasting upon the twin races. The Dragons destroyed most of them and rushed to combat Yannis, sealing the cracks in the world with walls of Rainbow Fire, which now separate the world. But before they left, they gave us gifts. For the fae, it was the Essence of Magic. For us, it was the Word of Magic: The Tomes.

From Rael’s meager experience, they were quite sure nobody would ever want to be a slave. But Rael had been wrong before. The inside of the sloop was smaller than it looked like from the outside, though that may have been because the cargo lined the walls. When Rael was taken inside, they had gone down a set of stairs below deck into the first hold. It smelled musky and humid, but there were still enough portholes for the afternoon light to shine though, with a few loose ropes and tools lying about. Then they were taken down another level, with far larger crates, and the type of smell one would associate with a seldom visited room. Rael had been bound to the starboard wall, with only meager light peeking through the stairway. The chains were heavy; not of a typical weight of despair, but the type that drained one’s magic. Chains enchanted to keep someone from summoning their Tome and casting spells. At least, most people.

Rael knew that one’s Tome was a manifestation of a person’s means of acquiring ‘knowledge’. Rael learned as much from when their own Tome manifested a few years ago in class as a bit of sheepskin parchment akin to the ones the community master used to teach them letters, numbers, and history. People were taught in many different ways: the Tomes of those living within the swampy chiefdoms to the northwest manifested as a mixture of the people that taught them to fight, hunt, and gamble, since they lacked knowledge of letters. Just as those living in the dense forests to the south had Tomes like wands, those living by the desert rivers in the far West had Tomes in the shapes of papyrus scrolls, and rich nobles had Tomes that would be summoned as the expensive, heavy books they learned from.

What Rael hadn’t known was that some of the life’s harsher lessons could change one’s Tome. They flinched as their Tome came to be, lodged within their back. While a Tome could take a variety of forms, the universal rule was that it could never injure its user; just make it feel like the wielder had been injured. Rael grimaced, tears blurring their vision as the dagger in their back dug right through their heart and out through their chest. The pain made it hard to breathe, but it was dwarfed by the emotional pain that accompanied it. After all, their changed Tome had manifested after Rael had learned the most heart-wrenching lesson of them all, one Rael had learned the day after they discovered Rael was a Meta. Never trust anyone. Rael’s Tome was a manifestation of that sentiment, appearing in the world as a dagger in their back.

The Tome-dagger hovered in front of their breast as Rael took labored breaths, swirling words etched onto the blade, mocking Rael. The knife was familiar; a hunting knife with a handle of bone wrapped in leather, single-edged blade curved backwards into a sharp, clipped point. It used to be a sheepskin scroll with eight spells written in the elegant script of a scholar. Now, nine spells were etched on a knife’s blade in the hasty, panicked scrawl of a desperate woman. Nine of the ten a Meta could learn in their lifetime, compared to dozens, sometimes hundreds, everybody else could learn. And while the spells a Meta could cast were more powerful and efficient than any others within the same Circle, few Meta would learn spells beyond the First Circle. Because of course, higher Circle spells often needed lower Circles as a foundation. Rael’s eyes trailed down the manacles binding their hands meant to suppress their Tome, down to the self-inflicted scar below their navel and let a macabre grin light up their features. A testament to their last act of free will. When they had abandoned their gender. Rael had heard rumors of what happened to Meta women sold to the Bergin Empire. Forced to learn an unusually potent fertility spell only Meta could cast, made into a mass-producer of troops. A fate Rael had narrowly avoided before being brought to the ship.

Thankfully, there was a lot of space in the cargo space of the airship, as the traders chose to move the cargo away from Rael’s area, packing it to the port of the ship to prevent any escape attempts, or worse, destruction of their goods. It took some time with the magic chains, but Rael managed to summon their Tome with regularity. The chains made it harder for Rael to manifest their Tome, but either the traders had been cheap about it and bought the chains from an unreliable enchanter, or Meta needed a different type of enchantments. Either way, Rael took advantage of this limited freedom to devise means of escape. Looking over their spells, Rael frowned. Only a few of their spells were of a high tier, denoting Rael’s ability in those spells. And while Rael had attempted to use the Tome-dagger itself to cut or even file through the chains, the blade itself was hopelessly dull.

‘Create water, tier six. Shape water, tier eight. Minor heal, tier five. Minor Mend, tier five. Ember, tier seven. Minor chill, tier three. Minor cut, tier four. Minor Sense life, tier five. Minor light, tier seven. What can I do with these spells?’ Rael bit their lip in thought. ‘Maybe I could set some of the cargo on fire. Ember does have some range…No, I want to escape, not simply spite the traders. Whatever I do, I need to be stealthy. I can’t fight so many people. Hells, I probably can’t fight any of them. Sense Life should help me figure out when any of them are getting close. But how do I get out? Step one is freeing myself from these chains.’

Rael secluded themselves in deep thought. A series of memories came to them. When Rael was much younger, one of the bigger brick houses collapsed into the nearby river. And as the years passed, Rael would find pieces of rounded brick and mortar, eroded by the running water into the same shape and smoothness as the pebbles surrounding them. Just as the water of the river had eroded the foundations of the house, it had shaped away the harsh square bricks into smooth and rounded stones. It would take time, but Rael had plenty. At least, they thought so. Rael had seen light come and go five times since they’d been chained here, so they were about five days away from their former village, Tulip’s Hold. Still, Tulip’s Hold was about ten days by airship away from the larger cities of the country.

‘But who knows how long from the capital, or worse, the Empire.’ Rael had spent enough time wallowing in misery, enough time in tears. They looked over the heavy manacles inscribed with dim runes, joined to the heavy chains connected to the wall by a single ring. This ring was as thick as Rael’s thumb and about as wide as their clenched fist. But it was the link that must break before freedom could become possible. Grasping onto the Tome-dagger, Rael cast Minor Sense Life, and their vision faded to gray…save for the blobs of blue moving above them. With the spell at tier five, it should be able to last on its own for about ten minutes for Rael. Next, they cast Create Water and Shape Water one after another, feeling a bit more tired from the spells cast in such quick succession.

‘Must remember to be efficient. Don’t want to end up like Laurie.’ Rael shuddered at the memory of the overenthusiastic teen, who’d managed to cast a series of powerful spells to show off, only to end up as a desiccated corpse. Rael struggled to finagle the targeted ring up so they could get a clear view, sticking their tongue up in concentration. With that, Rael willed the water to move in a loop through one spot on the ring, speeding up the water with every turn, until a frothing river the size of their head ran across the ring.

Rael grinned. Progress.

Six days later, there was a significant roadblock: the other people chained up in the hold. It happened a few hours earlier. Rael felt their ears pop as the airship descended to land. Desperately, they tried to rush the water to erode the deteriorating ring faster, even as their stomach roiled and turned, as if it was attempting to digest itself. They had fed Rael, true, but not enough to be casting magic every waking moment. And when they landed, Rael saw someone approaching the hold, so they hid the water the same way they’d done so every other time; by chugging it all down. By now, the water tasted heavily of rust, the bitterness of tentative victory nestling on their tongue like a bloody reminder of how close freedom was. The man came down leading many others in chains down into the hold. A large bald man who might have been clean-shaven once, but no more…a woman, eyes red from crying…so many stories, so many people brought low…until the last of the two dozen were brought in. A withered old man with a limp, helping support the head of what seemed to be a heavily bandaged child in a badly made iron mask. The mask itself seemed to have been made in a hurry, with wrought edges and holes for the eyes and mouth added in afterthought. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be metal formed around the child’s head; Rael could spot hinges on the sides that would allow the mask to be opened from the back. The child whined as his head was weighed down, and the old man whispered words of comfort near his eye holes.

The new occupants were chained to the wall next to Rael, where they sordidly sat. The closest to Rael were the first to enter, the woman who ran out tears and the bald man. There was some commotion on the deck above before a young man was dragged down as well, though not in chains.

“Boy, you’ll have to earn your keep for passage. So, you’ll take care of the living cargo.” Rael recognized the man dragging him as the first mate, the one who’d inspected her.

“Living cargo-oooh?” The newly minted cabin boy looked over the crowd in the hold. He flinched at some of the stares Rael and the others gave him.

“Aye. Normally we’d only have the one until we’d’ve reached Ganor.” The first mate waved a hand at Rael. “But the debt collectors in Nize look like they had their work cut out for them.” Despite his words, Rael saw his eyes linger on the masked boy for a while longer.

‘With one exception, perhaps?’

“In my experience boyo, fresh living cargo can be difficult to deal with. Within a couple days, they’d try to fling their shit at ya like animals, so be careful with the bucket. Thankfully, that one,” again, he waved at Rael, “has been quite decent. Haven’t had to kick it or anything. If it weren’t for the damage, the Meta’d fetch a hefty price.”

At the mention of Rael being a Meta, some of the slaves frowned, as if they were in a higher position that Rael themselves. ‘Typical.’ Rael ignored them, just as Rael had ignored the crew of the ship. Any action taken against the crewmates, even as small as a glare, could be construed as an excuse to come beat Rael.

The young man nodded somberly as his eyes passed over the ‘cargo’, lingering somewhat on Rael themself. He cleared his throat before clasping his hands together and smiling awkwardly.

“For your information, this isn’t how things are done in the Empire. But I guess I can’t blame you folk; born in Marnesia, separated by an ocean from a more enlightened country, you wouldn’t know any better. So, to make things more comfortable, how about I get your names? A happy servant is an obedient one, after all. I’ll start. My name is Caldon Calvados Carcassonne, traveler and student of the world.” Now that he spoke more, there was a twinge of a Bergin accent, though his words already made it obvious.

Nearly immediately, the bald man bowed his head.

“Young Master, this one’s name is Lorry Thierrson. I defended my sister and injured a man, which landed me in a prison, then slavery.”

‘Kissass.’ Rael thought. The man reminded them of their former older sister, the second person to find out Rael was a Meta, after Rael themself. The one who told their parents. She’d seen Rael’s panicked look after Rael had learnt their most recent spell, the labored breath indicative of a person reaching their Tome’s limit. And Rael was seventeen; they were supposed to have a spell slot for every solstice they’d lived through. Over thrice as much as the measly nine Rael had managed to learn before they began to hit their limit.

Caldon beamed and clapped his hands before turning to Rael expectantly, breaking them out of their dark memory. Unwilling to cause trouble, Rael restrained a sigh and answered in monotone.

“Rael. Meta enslaved to feed a family.”

“How noble!” Caldon praised. “If only there were more people like you!” Caldon seemed to interpret Rael’s enslavement as act of self-sacrifice. His smile stayed focused on Rael for a bit longer before moving onto the trembling woman next to Thierrson.

“M-m-mila Uriel, m’lord,” she stammered. “Debt-slave to pay off inherited debts.” And quite silently, she whispered a prayer under her breath. “Please, by the Dragons, have mercy…”

Caldon shrugged, and down the line he went, answered with replies between reverent, like Thierrson’s, or outright hostile. Rael caught the twitch in Caldon’s eyes at every glare, every spat remark. Though Rael pitied them, Rael remembered these poor fools to avoid being caught talking to them…not that Rael would be talking much to them. Finally, Caldon had reached the last two in line, the old man and the child in the iron mask.

“Wollow I. Zellus, former Spellmaster at your service!” The old man responded in a weak, albeit chipper, voice.

There were a few gasps, Caldon himself gaping. For good reason. Spellmasters were those that devoted years towards studying magic, having filled their Tomes with the most exclusive and elusive spells. Often, they were those that had both a deep understanding of magic and the fortune of having more spell slot unlocks per year than most people. Rael had heard rumors of a recent Spellmaster having over two hundred spells at age fifty. Furthermore, the title itself could not be claimed lightly; one must have been recognized for a spell they’d created by a significant authority. The authority could be anything from a major church or prominent noble house. But, Wollow did not care, moving to talk to the boy clasped to his side.

“Introduce yourself, little one.” Wollow smiled gently.

“Umm…” A tiny voice echoed from within the mask. “Hi!” A voice crack caused the child to stumble over his words, looking at Wollow for encouragement. He nodded, and the child went on. “I’m Azmond…the woman who sold me said that…I was ugly.” There was a sniff. “But rare! She gave me away to a bunch of men who put these ribbons all over me and gave me this heavy mask.”

“Poor thing…” Caldon sighed, wiping a tear away from his face. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be found by a wonderful family. The Empire protects the innocent, after all. Hold on!” He perked up and turned to Wollow. “You almost distracted me! How did an esteemed person like yourself fall into slavery?”

“How indeed?” Wollow sighed, eyes looking into the darkness that hid Azmond’s own. “Let’s just say that after reaching attaining my title, I made promises in developing spells. Many, many promises that I could not keep. I had risen high, but I have fallen quite far.” Wollow helped move Azmond into a position where his mask was no longer only supported by his spindly body, but also by the wall of the cargo hold.

“Pity…” Caldon shook his head. There was a silence in the hold as the ship unmoored and began to rise once again. The young man looked around for a moment before exclaiming. “Ah! Mugs! You should be hydrated.”

Caldon went up the stairs, leaving the inhabitants of the hold to stare after him. As the airship rose in altitude, Azmond began to whine in pain. Some of the others also began to grimace in discomfort from the changing air pressure, including Wollow.

“Swallow.” Rael called out before they could help themself. The other slaves-to-be turned their heads to Rael in surprise. Rael decided to just explain. “Or moved your jaw around. It should help relieve the pressure.” It was a trick Rael learned very quickly on this journey, as the airship’s balloon was initially unstable due to inclement weather. Some comments of gratitude were sent their way, but Rael could feel the blinding smile encased within the mask when Azmond yelled “THANK YOU!”.

Caldon came back quickly with a pitcher, and a bunch of mugs. He pulled a box to sit on and poured water into the mugs before passing them out. Rael raised an eyebrow as one was passed to them. This was the first time they’d been given something to drink from on this trip. They usually just sprayed Rael with water and gave them some hard bread and maybe a fruit if they had stopped by a settlement. Once everyone was served, Caldon sat down on the box once more and began prattling on.

Turns out, he was seventeen (like Rael), and was a late bloomer since he hadn’t gotten his Tome until recently (also like Rael). Unlike Rael, however, he was the son of some aristocrat within the empire and lived a life of ease and luxury surrounded by servants, teachers, and guards. Of course, he said, the servants and the guards may have been slaves, but they were a part of the family, they wanted to be there! They were treated so well, given their own rooms, and even allowed to marry and keep their children.

Rael closed their eyes to avoid being caught rolling them, taking comfort in tracing their fingers across the brittle, rusty ring that kept the manacles chained to the wall.

‘Only a bit more.’

Caldon continued talking, claiming he’d decided he wasn’t learning enough from his teachers, so he petitioned his father to be allowed to explore other, less civilized countries. When he said no, Caldon went anyways, using his meager allowance to rent a boat for himself, wisely leaving enough for the trip back, had he not been robbed of most of his money by some ‘dirty Doubs’ halfway through his journey, forcing him to use the last of his money to rent a horse to the nearest port city, and volunteer on the quickest airship back to the Empire, no matter how dirty it was.

While some, like Thierrson, paid attention, Rael just wanted the fop to shut up and leave so that they could work at destroying the ring. ‘Though now, it might be a bit more difficult to escape.’ Rael’s gaze jumped from person to person, remembering those that flattered and spoke happily to Caldon, eyes alight with the hope of gaining his favor. ‘These ‘loyalists’ will prove to be more difficult to escape from than any of the crew. Five of them, twenty of us. Of course, all they must do is yell out and it’ll be twenty of us against nearly fifty of them.’

There seemed to be no solution. Thierrson may have no magic, but he towered over Rael. No spell Rael could use would put him down before he had a chance to cave in Rael’s head with his heavy manacles.

The only option was to work at night, Rael’s back to them. And that’s what Rael did. Night, after night, the iron ring was eroded by rushing water. Someone once asked what the noise was, but Rael managed to convince them that it was the sound of the airship that could only be heard now that Caldon wasn’t talking their ears off. The argument was surprisingly effective, since it was only heard in the dead of night, when most were asleep. By day, water wore away the chain link, and by day, Caldon talked for hours on end, trying to get everyone, especially Rael, talking, most likely on account of how little Rael spoke. Such was the tedium… until it wasn’t.

It’s been eight days since the ship picked up Caldon and the rest of the living cargo. Three since the smell of meadows and forests faded to be replaced by that of brine and sea. The ring was completely rusted by now and could probably be broken by a swift (and very loud) slam.

“Boy!” The first mate called Caldon from the deck. “We’re approaching the Edge of the World. We’ll need all hands on deck!”

“The Edge?!” Caldon yelped. “But doesn’t the wall of fire cause massive updrafts? We could be blown into the sea from the imbalance, or worse, the Edge itself!” The first mate’s heavy laughter echoed throughout the ship.

“Aye! Which makes it perfect for smugglers avoiding the Empire’s own airships, as well as putting more wind in our sails. Worry not, boy, we’ve done this voyage since before you came off the teat.”

“Smuggl—” Caldon stopped for a moment before mumbling something under his breath about taxes and tariffs serving the Empire’s greater good. His head rose in a jolt, as it so often did when he thought of something that he often thought was clever. “What about gases? We haven’t stopped to refill the balloons!” Caldon gave a smug smile, likely thinking he’d avoided going to the Edge with his statement.

“And pay some grifter by the skin of our bollocks? Nah, lad, there’s a field of wild Calidaerum a few hundred leagues north.”

Slumping, Caldon climbed up the stairs to the deck.

“Cali-day-rum?” Azmond asked a tense Wollow.

“Ah, yes.” Wollow hemmed, welcoming the distraction from the thought of flying so close to the wall of rainbow fire that reached the heavens. “Calidaerum is a type of plant that grows to be quite tall, taller than some mountains, because the bulbous tip fills up with the same stuff we put into our airship balloons. It’s a very volatile gas—erm…it isn’t safe to be around, though, so never use a light when close to them.”

Azmond was probably the only one in the hold who was unafraid. Everyone else was at least tense. Others, like Mila, were crying softly. Well, as softly as crying while puking from fear can be. Wollow seemed to stare at the stairs for a while before finally talking once more.

“Now that the jabber mouth is gone, who is up for a good old prison break?”

Stunned silence.

“Excuse me?” Someone asked.

“Well,” Wollow gave his all too familiar gentle smile. “I’m not sure any of us are fond of slavery. And despite the chatty man’s speeches, I know that life in the Empire is only a good life for the rich and powerful, or those chosen by their ‘Immortal’ Emperor.”

“This is ridiculous, old man.” Thierrson huffed. “If we act well, we’ll be treated well.”

“How’s that boot taste, asshole?!” Someone murmured from a few yards away from Thierrson.

“Shut up!” Thierrson growled. “How do you know anyways? Their religion is metaphorical, anyways. Nothing but the Dragons are immortal.”

“Then why not ask our dear friend if his beloved Emperor is really immortal?” Wollow said. Thierrson grumbled but had no response.

“And how do you think we can escape?” Another loyalist asked. “Nobody is strong enough to break these chains, and they sap our magic like crazy. You’re just asking for trouble!”

“Did you know,” Wollow began with a familiar smile, “that those trained extensively in magic can sense magic without relying on magic? For some, they see the air waver a bit, much like on a hot day. Others can hear a high-pitched whine. But I? I can smell it…it smells like raspberries, yet not. A smell that I find not most in the chains we wear, but every night, right by Miss Rael.”

Rael was frozen in place as all eyes turned towards them.

“Just Rael, please.” They rasped.

“Apologies.” Wollow said. “But I am right aren’t I? These are normal anti-magic chains. And while Meta are as rare as the scaled Children of Dragons, their magic is the most potent of all, save of the Dragons and fae. Mere anti-magic chains cannot contain them.” Wollow sighed. “A pity that such power comes at a price.”

“I can only learn one more spell before my Tome reaches its limit.” Rael said somberly, defeated. Rael hated being in this position, within the power of another, but Wollow had garnered the respect of everyone there; he was the only one that could convince them all to work together. So, Rael decided to open up. A bit. “All of my spells are of the First Circle, since I didn’t know I was Meta until I learned my last spell. I don’t think it’s worth it.”

“It’s true then?” Thierrson rose to his full height and lumbered towards Rael, chains clinking as they dragged against the rugged, wooden floor. “You’re the one who’s going to cause us so much trouble?”

‘Now or never. Stupid Wollow—’

In one swift movement, Rael swung the ring down onto the floor, breaking it in half, freeing Rael’s manacles from each other and the chain bound to the wall. However, Thierrson rushed forwards, far faster than a man his size seemed capable of moving, heading right towards Rael. Rael jumped backwards, tripping over their own chain as Thierrson swept his arm forwards. The two looked at one another, Theirrson looming over Rael…before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. Mila stood behind him, face red, huffing as she cradled her broken mug.

“Take…that…you…bitch!” She glowered at the bald man’s unconscious form.

‘That’s probably why they didn’t originally give us mugs.’

Looking behind her, Rael saw that the loyalists were in various chokeholds.

‘Now what? They can’t hold them down until Caldon comes back’

“Rael, if you could?” Wollow called, his weak voice piercing through the silence. “I may have a solution to get everyone to cooperate.”

Tentatively approaching the old man, Rael looked him over to see him gently push Azmond so that the back of his head was visible.

“Freeing Azmond’s head would solve our problems?” Rael rose an eyebrow.

“Undoing his bandages would probably have the same effect, though they seem to be tied underneath the mask.”

“I don’t think I can…it took me weeks to bore through the ring with the few spells I have. And this—” Rael knocked on the iron mask, eliciting a ‘Hey!’ from Azmond. “–Is much thicker than that little chain link.”

“Perhaps if you told me your spells, I could help.”

The phantom pain in Rael’s back flared up.

“Fuck no.”

The old man simply smiled and began rambling off spells. A few moments of confusion later, he stopped, gave a big grin and rambled off a series of spells. A few which Rael recognized. Fewer still that Rael had. After a good minute of rambling, Wollow creased his brow and listed nine particular spells.

“Create water, Shape water, Ember, Minor chill, Minor cut, Minor light, Minor heal, Minor Mend, and Minor Sense Life.”

“Wha—”

“You don’t get to be a successful Spellmaster just by reading books. You have to learn how to read people as well.” Wollow licked his lips for a moment before nodding. “Very clever use of Shape Water. You used it to weather down an important link in the chain. This will be a bit more complicated. Create some water and shape it into a ball.”

Rael frowned but did as they were told. The dagger appeared in their back and slowly emerged from their chest. Wollow’s face darkened at the sight of the dagger emerging from Rael’s chest, whereupon they grabbed it by the handle and began to concentrate.

“Who hurt you so in such a way…” Wollow cleared his throat after muttering. “Now push the water into the mask’s lock, forming a bubble on the inside so that you would be able to stick a key in without getting it wet.”

This getting tricky, but Rael managed to do so. Luckily, the lock was quite big. Too big for fingers, but big enough for what Rael was trying.

“Chill until frozen, while keeping the bubble of air from collapsing.”

Puzzled, Rael stuck their tongue out in concentration, only for their eyes to widen when they saw the water was expanding as it formed into ice…while leaving a hole big enough for another bit of water.

“I see you understand what I am attempting to do.” Wollow hummed like a content teacher. “Hopefully you see now how a versatile spell can accomplish nearly anything you need.”

“I understood that,” Rael said as they repeated the process, causing the lock to creak under the stress. “But it’s hard to have versatility when you only have ten spells. Much harder if you wasted slots because there’s no way to tell if someone is a Meta until they’ve almost filled those ten slots.”

“Perhaps…Say, do you know how new spells are learnt?”

“Of course.” Rael snorted as they formed their third ball of water. “You either understand the mechanics behind the spell, meditate for a long time on the aspects of a spell you need, or, easiest of all, have someone sacrifice a tier of their own spell to give it to you. I knew a guy once, his name was Laurie, he spent a lot of money that—”

“And, boop.”

There was a rush of information in Rael’s head as they saw a new spell etch itself on their dagger. Synthesis.

“WHAT THE F—”

“Concentrate!” Wollow’s voice, while soft, held such authority that Rael continued to freeze the third ball. “This…is my life’s work. Originally supposed to be of the Transmutation school, I delved too deep into its meaning upon its creation. It contains a hint of True magic, that of Dragons, and to a lesser degree, Fae. The Word has approached the Essence. Knowing the abilities of Meta, it will save you…and him.” His eyes pointed to the fidgeting child in front of Rael. “I had given up hope. I was ready to die with my spell. But…”

There was a pause as the last bubble expanded, breaking the lock once and for all. The hinges swung open, the heavy mask thudding onto the floor. The slaves-to-be gaped, before they all, even the loyalists, bowed. All Rael could see was Azmond’s bushy white hair…and a pair of horns growing from his skull, bowed forwards over his brow.

“Never had I thought I would see a noble Child of Dragons in chains.”

Azmond turned around, with a bright, sharp-toothed smile, and yelled.

“THANK YOU!”