Jett lay on the hard floor of a windowless stone room completely bereft of furniture: no bed, no chair, no nothing. There was also no door. Instead, in the empty space of the doorway was an invisible force field of Air.

In the hallway beyond, the two witches who maintained the field watched him. Their duty shifts lasted six hours, at which point they swapped out with another two so that he was under 24/7 observation. There would be no escape under a vigil like that.

There were more witches guarding the hallway on either side, just out of view. He knew they were there because of the quiet words they occasionally exchanged. At least he thought they were witches, as he doubted there would be any of those rifle-totting soldiers he had seen on the grounds outside. The Wayfarers weren’t going to take any chances with him: they knew that soldiers-for-hire with rifles were useless against a dragon.

His arms and legs were shackled with steel binds that he couldn’t break, not with the magical collar wrapped around his neck. He hadn’t eaten since the night before and he was ravenous. But he doubted any food was forthcoming. That was how dragon prisoners were usually handled: starve them first to weaken them.

He had slept fitfully, the hard stone underneath him a far cry from the luxuriously soft sheets he was used to. As far as he knew, he was on the third floor of the tower somewhere—assuming the indicators on the elevator they had used to take him here were correct, and he had no reason to believe they weren’t. The Steel Tower had a dungeon below its basement, but apparently his captors had decided to keep him closer at hand, in the more modern sections of the tower. Probably a good idea on their part, as he had heard they’d never really updated the security systems in their basement.

He thought of Ariel often. He was worried sick about her. He had asked to see her, but none of the guards would answer him. He had no idea if she was even in the Steel Tower anymore. Maybe she had gone on liberty after all and this whole thing was a trick. No, if they had her sat-phone, she had to be here somewhere. Probably a prisoner like him.

He heard footsteps in the hallway, then a runt of a witch stepped into view. Dressed in the blazer and jeans of business casual, he had a blunt nose and tiny little protuberances for eyes. He wore his receding black hair slicked back in a partial mullet.

“President wants to see you, Dragon,” the witch said. “Come on then, get up. Or I’ll force you to.”

Jett felt an invisible whip strike him in the side and he glared at the man in outrage.

I am a king, little bitch-man.

Growling, Jett hardened his skin and forced himself upright until he stood on wobbly feet. He felt extremely stiff. Sleeping on a stone floor would do that.

“I want to see Ariel,” Jett intoned.

“Shut up,” the runt said.

Once more Jett felt the whip, this time directly on his buttocks. The blow had to be extremely powerful, because he felt the sting even through his hardened skin.

Jett’s eyes widened in rage and he flexed his arms, attempting to break through the shackles that fettered him. He ran at the witch at the same time, moving his legs as much as the binds allowed, and struck the Air field. He bounced off harmlessly, his behind landing squarely on the hard stone.

He stiffly clambered to his feet; when he looked at the witch once more, the futility of it all hit him and he slumped.

I was a king.

“That’s right,” the runt said. “You’re nothing. Less than a man.”

Those words riled him once again, feeding strength into his muscles, but he chose to save the energy for when he really needed it and said nothing.

The runt nodded to himself in self satisfaction, then beckoned toward the witches who maintained the field.

The invisible Weave of Air fell away. Jett emerged, and two witches escorted him on either side as the runt led the way to the elevator area.

Inside the elevator, he stared at the floor indicator, listening to the soft ding it made with each level that passed by. It sounded like a clock ticking down to his doom.

Then the doors opened and he was walking through the ornate hall on the top level, and a moment later he was standing before the desk of the president herself. Binds of Air instantly wrapped around him, trapping him in his shackles so that he couldn’t move at all. Only his head was left unbound, so that he could talk and look about.

Savanna Kettleburn studied him with an amused expression on her face.

Jett glared at her in defiance; his eyes instinctively fell to the silver band at her neck. Even dragon witches had to be collared. Especially witches. Uncollared, they were too much of a threat to Wayfarer elites, as dragon witches were some of the most powerful in the world, especially in their native form, because they could Siphon an amount of the Strength commensurate with the size of their own bones, which of course were much larger in the dragon state. He wondered if Savanna ever resented her Wayfarer masters.

He noticed an odd smell then, and was about to comment when the president spoke.

“Well well well,” Savanna said. “Look who has chosen to grace us with his presence. The former Dragon King of Midnight himself.”

“What have you done with Ariel?” Jett said.

Savanna’s eyes twinkled. “She will be dealt with in due time.”

Was that doubt he sensed in the president? Did he dare to hope?

“You don’t have her, do you?” Jett said.

“Of course we do,” the president said, a bit too curtly. “She rots in the dungeons at this very moment.”

Jett was very good at reading people. That was one of the side effects of dealing with intrigue as a king for two hundred years. By the way Savanna had so quickly dismissed his question, he knew he was right. Ariel was safe, at least for the time being.

His knees almost buckled.

My lioness.

All he cared about was that she was all right. They could do whatever they wanted to him, as long as they left her alone.

“What do you want with me?” Jett said. “Or did you bring me up here only to gloat?”

“Mostly to gloat,” Savanna said. “Though I have decided you deserve to learn your fate directly from me. Your former stature grants you that much. But first I want to know, what did you learn during your spying here? Surely you don’t think I’m so daft as to believe you were here simply to see lion shifter?”

“Actually, yes I do,” Jett said. “Because that’s the truth. I wasn’t here to spy. I don’t care about your tower, or the politics of the Council of Seven anymore. I was here only for her.”

“Oh really?” Savanna said. “Then what about your other spies. Tell me what they’ve learned about our facility then?” When he didn’t answer, she repeated: “Tell me.”

He felt bands of compulsion attempt to penetrate his mind. He was immune, of course.

“I’m not king of Midnight anymore, woman…” Jett said.

“Then I want you to name all the spies you know of that Midnight has in our midst,” Savanna tried again.

Jett glared at her. “Your compulsion won’t work on me.”

Savanna seemed unperturbed. “It was worth a try. There’s always torture…”

“That won’t work, either,” Jett said.

“The Strength can pierce your dragon-hardened skin,” Savanna said.

“I know that,” Jett said. “But I meant, I won’t break. You might as well give me to your queen and be done with it.”

Savanna raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m giving you to Queen Yvonne? As a gift?”

“That would be the most politically expedient choice,” Jett said.

Savanna smiled cruelly. “Like you, I don’t have many political aspirations. No, I intend to follow the law to the letter in this case. Unless newly awakened, and thus unaware of our laws, any dragon caught wandering our domain without a collar is to be executed.”

“Your Queen will never allow it,” Jett said calmly. “She knows my brother would avenge my death.”

“That may be true,” Savanna said. “But she won’t find out until after the fact.”

Jett stared at her in alarm. “You would start a war with Midnight?”

“If that’s what it takes to preserve the rule of law,” Savanna said. “You will be an example to all dragons. We can’t allow any of you to wander our domain unfettered. And I mean any. No one is above the law.” She sat straighter. “I hereby sentence you, Jeddah Flavius Vespasianus III, to public execution by Strength Guillotine at dawn tomorrow morning.”

* * *

The day passed extremely slowly. Jett’s binds were composed of an extremely hard material—they had to be to hold a dragon—and he noticed early on that when he pressed the edges into the stone, he could scuff the surface. With that discovery, Jett soon found himself passing the time by scratching markings into the stone with his shackles.

Most of the marks were variations on Ariel’s name. Ari. Ariel. Lioness. Warrior. Witch. In some of them he gave the “A” at the front a stylistic flourish, applying decorative curls to both sides and dotting the “i” with an endearing heart symbol. In others he merely printed the words as neatly as he could, given his primitive tools.

There was something calming about seeing her name and the other words he associated with her, something that made him forget about the ignominious and very public end that was coming. He hoped Ariel wouldn’t see his death, but he had no doubt that Savanna would be recording it. And it would be war, whether the president believed him or not. Somehow Jett doubted Savanna would remain at the head of the Steel Tower for very long, as the queen of the Wayfarers, Yvonne, would definitely not be pleased. Unless of course Savanna was plotting to break away from the other Wayfarers and form her own faction. That was the only explanation that really made much sense: Savanna resented her masters and wanted to remove her collar to unleash her true power on the world. If that was true, the Wayfarers would be at war not only with the dragons of Midnight, but themselves.

Jett could only hope that Ariel was far away from here. Very far away. Because the Steel Tower would become ground zero for both wars.

He had left Flame behind outside the tower. The White Sword would have realized something was wrong hours ago. Jett harbored a faint hope that Flame would return to the pride and rally them in a rescue attempt, but in all honesty, what could the White Swords and the lions hope to do against a whole school of trained witches? Even if Flame and Brazen broke free of their collars to unleash their dragons, they would still be no match. And the lions, while they would fight bravely, were essentially useless: they’d be incapacitated in the first few minutes of the fight. If not killed.

In fact, their chances were so bad that soon Jett found himself hoping the pride would do nothing. He didn’t need them to throw away their lives for nothing. He preferred that they live to fight another day. Live, and protect Ariel.

He just wished he could somehow get a message out. They had confiscated his sat-phone and everything else of value on his person of course, though they had allowed him to keep his fashionable dress shirt, jeans, and boots.

He chuckled ironically at that.

At least I get to die in style.

He couldn’t tell what time of day it was. The harsh LED lights shone remorselessly from the ceiling of his prison and the hallway outside. The witches cruelly let him starve, and the hunger ate at him, worsening by the hour, until eventually he found himself slobbering at the guards maintaining the Weaves of Air outside; he imagined changing into his dragon and devouring them whole in two rapid bites. He hadn’t eaten a human in so long. It had been what, over four hundred years ago? Before his first Sleep? It was about time he dined on human flesh again…

Jett shook his head. He gazed at the scratchings he had made on the floor and walls.

Ariel.

I must stay focused. Think of her. Forget my hunger.

He grew wearier as the day dragged on, a combination of the lethargy induced by his starvation and how poorly he had slept the night before. Eventually he was barely able to keep his eyes open. He figured it must be nighttime by then, but he didn’t want to sleep. He was going to die tomorrow at dawn, and he wanted to drag out every last living moment he had left on this earth.

He filled those moments with thoughts of Ariel. Her touch. Her beauty. Their talks. Her innocence. How alive she made him feel.

Ariel. My lioness.

His only regret was that he couldn’t see her at least one last time.

He crawled to the entrance.

“Guards!” Jett said.

The two in his line of sight ignored him.

“Guards,” he pleaded.

Finally another witch appeared from down the hall.

“What?” the witch said.

“Get my phone,” Jett said.

“I can’t,” the witch told him.

“Please,” Jett said. “I’m not asking you to give it to me. I just want you to open up the photos. Let me see the woman I love one last time. I’m going to die tomorrow. Can’t you grant me this last wish?”

“I can’t,” the witch repeated and stepped from view.

Jett collapsed on the stone and wept.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained prostrate like that, but eventually he forced himself onto one side and began marking Ariel’s name again. At least, he was trying to mark her name. But his scratchings were basically illegible.

He paused, breathing hard.

I’m too weak even to write her name.

He heard the subtle sound of paper brushing against stone. Glancing up, he realized someone had shoved a black and white photo underneath the Weaves of Air and into the cell.

Curious, Jett crawled to it. When he picked it up, he saw that it was photo from his phone. Ariel, standing behind their cabin in the Blue Hurricane camp. Dressed in a T shirt and flexing her bicep. Laughing.

Jett smiled, his eyes wet. He slowly traced her face with one finger and then he hugged the photo to his chest.

My love.

The weariness at last took over and he couldn’t help himself: though he dearly wanted to stay awake, he closed his eyes and surrendered, falling into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

He had a smile on his face.