It took fifteen agonizing hours to clear visitation with the highest-security prisoner at the Northwatch Detainment Facility. Even running at top speed (and lubricated by some carefully called-in favors), the bureaucracy moved like a beached whale.

Charles didn’t actually know anyone who’d met the prisoner — the one who had an entire building to himself and no less than a hundred officers assigned to his watch. It sounded like a lot, but according to a friend on the inside, this was just another example of the prison being painfully short-staffed.

Rotshard, if a hundred to one was considered short staffed…

“Ten minutes,” said the stony-faced correctional officer who met Charles and Captain Greyson at the front gates of Northwatch. “That’s as much as I can give you.”

Charles nodded gratefully, aware of all the extra work his visit was probably creating for this man. Not that he regretted it. He was past caring what he had to do to get Amelia back. And considering who he was about to meet, this was probably just the first in a long string of questionable decisions.

Captain Greyson waited at the gates, and Charles ventured into the facility on his own. He was frisked then passed through a metal detector and hex neutralizer. He was subjected to a polygraph test, administered by a pixie officer who double checked his answers with magic. Then a urine test for drugs and something that looked like thermal imaging but apparently checked for glamours.

“You do not tell him your name or anyone else’s,” said the stoic CO as he pressed a neatly folded stack of white cloth into Charles’ arms. “No details about your home, place of work, or family. Violations are punishable by up to six months for each offense.”

Charles nodded, then went into a small sterile-looking room to shower, shave, and dress in the plain white scrubs. The Ancient One was to be given no information about his life outside of these walls. So much as a strong scent or a worn shirtsleeve would offer insight that the prisoner could use to manipulate and psychologically torture. Charles would be arriving to the ninth level of Northwatch security as a blank slate of a man. The only thing he brought with him was a copy of the poem (which had gone through a dozen rounds of approval before it’d been cleared). This version had been typed up, sent to Northwatch via encrypted email, and printed by facility printers on charmed paper that would burn to ash if the prisoner so much as touched it.

“Do not attempt to mislead the prisoner,” said the officer as they ventured deeper into the facility. “He’s older and better at this than you’ll ever be. Don’t be a moron.”

Charles nodded and stopped as they neared a door. The officer scanned his badge, but the door didn’t open. Instead, a masculine voice came out of a speaker on the wall.

“The ravens of Fourth,” began the voice.

“Eat the ash of the flames,” finished the officer at Charles’ side.

Utter nonsense, so it was probably a password that changed every day.

At that, the doors opened, and they continued deeper into the block. Was it his imagination, or were the hallways getting brighter and brighter as they ventured deeper into the prison? Truly, it was excessive — almost as if no one wanted to risk a single shadow marring the smooth gray floors lest the prisoner find a place for his secrets to fester.

Superstitious? Perhaps. But Charles worked in a place where no one was allowed to say the word “quiet” on a slow day lest six robberies, four DWIs, and a shooting happen simultaneously.

They passed two more doors. One with a palm pad and another that scanned the officer’s irises. Each door took them in a sharply different direction, and by now Charles was well and truly lost. Lifeblood help him if he needed to make a quick escape.

Which… was probably the point.

The officer stopped walking abruptly in the middle of the hallway, so Charles did too. He was beyond antsy to keep going. Every minute he wasted was a minute that Tarraven knew what was happening to Amelia.

“Kevrinhart?” the officer asked under his breath — almost inaudibly — as if the prisoner really did have eyes and ears everywhere.

Charles nodded sharply but said nothing. They had not exchanged names thus far, and he’d assumed it was part of the prison’s strict security.

“Half of the guys in this place are here because you put ‘em behind bars,” the officer said.

Charles already knew that. He’d called in every favor he’d ever earned to be standing here right now, many of which had to do with filling the cells of Northwatch so those monsters would be off the streets.

“This isn’t… protocol, to discuss,” continued the officer quietly. “But those other guys are nothing compared to him. Whatever you’re picturing, it’s worse. I know you’re not here on a social call because no one ever is, and I don’t want to know.”

Charles nodded slowly, feeling both unsettled and confused. Why…

The CO spoke one last time as he resumed walking. “You took down the guy who assaulted my niece. You’re a hero to my family. Just… live to see another day, okay?”

Charles swallowed. He intended to do exactly that, if only to rescue his wife and bring her home with him where she belonged.

The final door between Charles and his quarry was flanked by twelve armed correctional officers. Knowing what he was about to face, he knew those guns wouldn’t shoot bullets. Military-grade elemental magic was his best guess, and he honestly hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

Four officers had to scan their credentials simultaneously to request the doors be unlocked, and Charles noticed a window set high in the wall where two men sat. They reached forward on their control panel at the same time, and the magically reinforced titanium doors opened with a heavy, ominous click.

The CO who had escorted Charles to the cell nodded at the door gravely, and Charles entered.

He pretended he wasn’t afraid as the doors shut behind him. He imagined the paper between his hands wasn’t already wrinkling with sweat. He’d fought vampires while disarmed. He’d gone toe to toe with a mountain troll who was high on fentanyl. He’d even faced Amelia’s dragon shifter father to ask for her hand in marriage. This should have been nothing.

Then again, none of them were creatures nearly as old as time itself, made of pure magic, and capable of creating a plague that had killed an entire realm and nearly all of the people inside it. If it hadn’t been for the Blood Bearer…

Charles shook his head slightly. Now was not the time to get distracted.

The prisoner’s cell was a room within a room — a clear, enchanted glass box. Just as brightly lit as the rest of the facility, the twelve-by-twelve enclosure in the middle of the larger white room was disturbing in its simplicity. There should have been more, he thought, even if only for the illusion of protection. Thankfully, several dozen officers ringed the room, each holding guns like the men outside had, and all wearing masks. To protect themselves from giving anything away, he’d assume. Nerves of steel, every last one of them.

And inside the box…

“You’re desperate,” said the creature.

How did you know, Charles wanted to reply. He said nothing. He could not afford to be desperate. Not here. Not while facing this thing.

“No one ever comes unless they’re truly desperate,” purred the monster.

He uncoiled like a snake rising from a box, and Charles swallowed hard at the sheer size of him — twelve-by-twelve had not been a generous enclosure.

The pewter-blue form towered above him, part man and part smoke, shirtless and vast, like he’d been chiseled from a mountain. His massive arms were manacled with gold cuffs, and his sharp features curled with amusement.

“I’m here for information,” Charles said coldly, refusing to be intimidated.

And the Djinn of Sovra’an — the maker of the Rot — grinned.

As a dragon shifter, Amelia had always healed much faster than any human.

Once while camping as a kid, she and Lucy had climbed to the top of a ragged hill overlooking a river. The hill was made of slick shale-like shards over vast, loose mounds of sand. The rocks in the river below had been jagged, turning the cold water white as it crashed against them.

And Amelia’s sparkly purple tennis shoes had not been intended for hiking.

She could still remember the way Lucy’s voice had sounded as she screamed, reaching one tiny, desperate hand down to catch her falling sister. She’d been too late and too small. Amelia had landed among those jagged river stones and twisted as the current battered her little body against them like a rag doll. Her father heard the girls screaming and came running. He dove in and plucked her out, carrying her to safety on the bank by the willows. She’d been a sopping bloody mess.

But by the time they arrived at camp just a short walk later, her wounds were scabbed over neatly and her bruises were the sickly yellow of nearly healed damage. Her mother had lost her mind, but after a quick wash with a full pack of baby wipes to remove the crusted blood, she’d relaxed. Amelia was fine, and both girls made it out unscathed — but for a stern talking-to by their parents about staying near camp. By morning, Amelia was practically new.

This time it wasn’t enough.

When Amelia came to, thin cotton was plastered to her body with cold sweat. She was freezing, and the shiver that wracked her body made her whimper with pain.

Her eyes fluttered open. Ever… so… slowly.

They felt gritty and worn out from the tears she’d cried as the blunt-eared fae asked her over and over again to give him details about an organization she’d never even heard of. Darkness colored the edges of her vision, and what she could see was harsh and tinted that same sickly greenish color from earlier. Where was she?

Her arm spasmed as she clawed back to awareness. She looked down at it, surprised to find herself clean and tucked in under neatly made flannel sheets. Not a trace of the blood she’d expected, and her forearm was carefully bandaged where the knife had pinned her to the chair.

The deep purple bruises, though…

“Good morning,” came a gentle voice from her left. “Hangin’ in there?”

Amelia jerked and winced as her alarm jostled her battered body. Merciful Tarraven, why did it hurt to breathe?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said that same soft, masculine voice. “Pinky promise.”

“Who…” Amelia coughed and gasped softly as it made her head pound. She tried again. “Who are you? Where are you?” She cast her eyes around at the room. It was impeccably clean and almost resembled a miniature hospital room on three sides. The fourth was steel bars that led out into a plain white hallway.

“The name’s Kalder,” continued the voice, “and I’m your neighbor to the left. Evrienne is to your right, but she’s not the welcoming basket type. More likely to weave the fibers into a noose. Handy little craft, that.”

“Shut up, Kal,” snapped a throaty female voice. Kalder appeared to be correct — it did sound like it came from Amelia’s other side. “New girl’s still trying to decide if she’s having a nightmare or just woke up in the worst hotel ever. I’ll save you some time, babe — it’s the hotel. Zero stars. Would not recommend. Sheets are nice, though.”

“So,” said the male voice after a moment of silence. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated for a moment before answering, eyes welling with tears as she spoke.

“Amelia.”

“Amelia,” repeated Kalder gently. “I won’t lie; I hate that you’re here. But it’s a pleasure to meet you.”