PROLOGUE
YRIAN

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Yrian. I never wanted this to happen. Not this way. Not now.”
Amice’s voice broke through the abyss that embraced him with tight bands, prohibiting movement.
“What have you done?” The voice that spoke was his, but it seemed to come from a long distance, and he realized that he was hearing an echo of the past. Guilt, the pain of betrayal, and hopelessness crashed over him, threatening to drown him in regret.
Again.
“She did what was needed to be done,” a man’s voice drawled the answer, filled with amusement that made Yrian want to roar with fury. “And now, I will end your pain. It is the least I can do for a brother.”
“Kashi is right,” the voice of Amice said, fading as she backed away. “We did what was needed. The dragons … they are wrong, Yrian. You are wrong. You should not be, not the way you were made. The First Dragon tried, but it was a mistake. A deadly mistake. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. …”
“They are dead? The sept is gone?” he heard his voice ask, the words spoken a few millennia ago, but the pain just as stark in his breast as it had been when Amice—and Kashi, the betrayer—all but ripped out his heart.
At least that was what it had felt like at the time. Now? He struggled to contain his fire, to force it to his will, to shape and use it, but the guilt from the betrayal washed over him, and he knew it was useless to try.
And to be honest, he didn’t care. Not anymore. Why should he when there was no hope?
“This is the one?” The voice was male but was that of a stranger. “Why is the room on fire? I thought prohibitions had been placed on the interior?”
Yrian realized the voice was not one from the past that tormented him nightly, and opened his eyes, turning to look at the people who stood clustered at the doorway of his prison. One was a tall man with washed-out blue eyes, obviously a mage, since he was surrounded by an aura of arcane magic. Two others, both women, stood behind the mage, one clutching a device that Yrian remembered was called a tablet, the other bearing a small container with syringes.
“They are. It was,” one of the women said, gazing into the room with overt dismay. “Nothing in here should burn. I … I’ll call the team to reapply the prohibitions.”
She hurried off, a phone held to her ear.
“No more drugs.” The voice that emerged from Yrian was more of a croak than anything else, but he paid no mind to that. “They bring back the past.”
“If you would stop attacking the staff when they bring you meals, perhaps you would not need to be drugged,” the tall man said, his expression an odd mixture of contempt and wariness.
Yrian couldn’t help but smile to himself, the movement stiff as if the muscles in his face had forgotten how to do so. He struggled to sit up, aware that at some point while he was drugged, the attendants had bound his arms to his body with several straps. He made sure to hold the mage’s gaze as he allowed his fire to crawl down his body, the sting of it a familiar companion as it obliterated the straps. He took a deep breath, relishing the freedom as he wiggled his fingers to get the blood back into them. “You fear me. Who are you?”
“I fear no man,” the mage answered, but he lied. Yrian stood slowly, his head lowered as he locked his eyes on the man, summoning power from the shadows that lurked around all living things.
Arcane magic crackled around the man in a protective shield even as he stepped backward. “There, you see? This is why you are drugged, why you have been deemed a danger to the denizens of this facility as well as the L’au-dela. Have the arrangements been made?”
The second woman, who was more or less hiding behind the mage, peered over his shoulder at Yrian. Her expression displayed fear and what looked very much like hatred. “Yes, Dr. Kostich. The Sovereign has arranged for transport tomorrow. She assures me that fresh Hashmallim have been summoned, and that a suitable gaol in the Thirteenth Hour has been readied to receive this demonic being.”
“I am no demon!” Yrian roared, rage filling him and sending him forward on a flood of dragon fire, the pain of it enough to bring him to his knees if he hadn’t been so furious at the accusation.
A blue-white arcane light lit up the confines of his cell, knocking him back two steps, but it was enough for the mage to slam the door just as he reached it. Fingers that were now tipped in silver claws curled into fists, the dark gray scales that rippled up his arms warning he’d shifted into dragon form.
He fought the need to destroy, to punish those who dared confine him, to wreak havoc, instead pushing down the violent emotions, knowing he had to soothe the part of his mind that owed its chaos to his dam, and struggled to slow his breathing.
“Fukka,” he swore once he had his emotions in control again, invoking his favorite oath from the Norsemen of his past. He knew from experience there was little use to attack the door. It had been especially protected against his powers and dragon fire, most likely due to the fact that a week prior he had almost broken free.
“And now,” he said, puffing smoke as he spun around and kicked a merrily burning wooden table against the wall with such force that it shattered into charcoal and wood dust. He glared at his scale-covered arm. “I have to deal with this.”
He focused his attention on his form, and slowly, painful second by second, he reclaimed the human body that he had borne since adulthood. The dark scales that seemed to mirror all the colors shifted to an uninspiring tan skin. He gazed at his hands with a curl of his lip, then proceeded to tamp down the fire that still burned around him.
“Next time,” he promised himself, glaring at the door. “Next time I will free myself. And then …” He stopped, wanting to swear to vengeance against those who confined him, but they were not the ones responsible for his situation.
No, that sin lay on another’s shoulders, and at last, his mind was calm enough that he could make plans.
“Kashi will pay,” he announced as he paced the confines of his cell. “The world will suffer by his hands no more. And then I will finally be free.”
The pain of the past pierced him like daggers, but he ignored it just as he always had.
This time, he would succeed. He had to, given that the mage was intending on confining him to the Thirteenth Hour. To fail meant the death of the dragonkin.
And he couldn’t bear that guilt. Not again.