"Let's see. Shall I slice your throat open? No, that would be too quick and easy. Maybe, I'll—"

"Woah, hold on, Algers," says the one in the sling, while Marta and Gabin stand to the side, marveling at the craftsmanship of my dagger. "Let's not gut her so quickly. She's a princess."

"Come on," growls the man still clutching a blade to my throat, "don't be so foolish. She was just another one of those pathetic farmers. The only thing she's good for is bleeding."

"I think Gregor's right." Marta rejoins her companion's side, giving him my blade to replace the one I had kicked out into the street. "The blond brute following her around kept calling her Princess Taliyah. I remember that name from the papers. She's the Akarnan brat that was sacrificed to the dragon."

"Probably the same dragon that killed Dread." Gabin shakes his head and sighs, his eyes turning to the ground. I can't imagine how that vicious bandit king engendered such loyalty, but it seems these four truly miss their leader.

"That's right," I say, the words jumping out of me before I can think through my plan of attack. I hesitate, waiting for Algers to contradict me, but nothing comes. So I press forward, hoping to gain more time. "I'm the Akarnan princess sacrificed for this year's tribute, and I tamed the dragon. He'll come for you if you don't release me."

Gabin tenses and looks around the alley with fresh eyes.

"Do you think it's here now?" he asks his colleagues.

"Did they hit you too hard on the head, Gabin?" Algers asks his question with a snarl that rumbles in my ear. "Do you think she can just hide a beast that big without drawing attention? She didn't have the dragon with her when she took off. Probably left it back with the Glade to protect it. Which means she's on her own."

"Except she's not," countered the female bandit. "She's got those two blokes. The dark-haired one may be injured, but the blond isn't. He had a sword on him, and he's got a lot more bulk on him than the other one. We can dispatch the injured fella, but if the bigger guard finds us, he may have the upper hand."

How very wrong you are, I think to myself. Even injured, Cephias is a far more terrifying threat than my chivalrous knight.

Ignorant of her dangerous miscalculation, Marta lets her companions ruminate on her concerns. Gregor sighs, using his good hand to massage his brow, while Algers tightens his grip around me.

"Then, we are wasting time!" Algers' voice is so harsh that it rings inside my ear and I cringe against the pain. "Let's cut off her head and leave it outside the Glade. Then they'll know what a mistake they made."

"But we might be able to ransom her," suggests Gabin. "Especially if we contact one of the guards. We could send him back to notify the king and queen."

"Yes," I say, careful not to speak too quickly or else the blade might skirt my already nicked throat. "Bartholomew is an Akarnan knight. He swore to protect me at all costs. If my life is threatened, he'll do whatever it takes to make sure I stay alive, including getting whatever funds you want."

"Awful big claim to make, seeing as your family failed to provide the tribute." Gregor raises his brow, challenging me. I can't admit that I agree with him. My parents are broke liars.

"You won't get a dragon's trove worth of gold, but you will get paid handsomely for my release."

"It might be worth trying, Gregor," whispers Marta. "We could really use the money to rebuild and—"

I spot a passerby a block away, stepping out of a dark alley. Instinct propels me and I call out, not considering what consequences it might have.

"Help! Please get the authorities! These people are—"

The world blinks into darkness and when I return to the present, I am on the ground with a throbbing pain in my temple. I push myself up onto my knees, only to receive a swift kick to my side.

I topple over and scrape against the rough cobblestone road before taking another kick to the hip. The pain peels my lips apart in a scream, which is quickly muffled by a greasy rag placed between my teeth. I cough and sputter while the gag is tied behind my head, the knot catching my hair and tugging.

"I told you we should have just killed her!"

I reach for the gag as Algers growls at his comrades. However, I only graze the soiled cloth with my fingertips before a searing pain burns the top of my hand.

"Hurts, don't it?" There's a dark chuckle in Gregor's voice as he waves my blade in my face, which is now dripping with my blood. I glance down at my hand, which shakes with pain. Red slides across my skin, dripping over the edge and splattering my clothes.

"Save it for later," demands Marta, who grabs my wrists and binds them with another dirtied rag. "We need to get out of the street."

Despite their many disagreements, this is a point they all agree on. And unfortunately for me, the person I called to either didn't hear me, didn't care, or didn't want to get themselves entangled with the ruffians beating me.

Gabin grabs the binding around my wrist and tugs me off balance. Marta and Algers move ahead into a dark alleyway, and my captor follows, dragging me along so the rough road scrapes at my skirt and booted feet. Gregor picks up the rear, glancing around before diving into the slim, putrid space lined with discarded garbage.

It's hard to breathe with the gag blocking my mouth and the stench assaulting my nose. My sore, exhausted body is winning against my desperate need to stay awake. I blink away tears and focus instead on the pain radiating from my hand. Though the bindings work as a tourniquet, I'm able to squeeze my fist and push some drops from the wound. If I can get just a few to land on the cobblestone, then Cephias might pick up my scent and Bartholomew might even be able to track me.

But the more we lurch on, the harder it is to stay conscious. Especially in the pitch black engulfing us. The only light is the stars twinkling above.

However, the bandits give me another shot of adrenaline when they throw me against a brick wall. It isn't nearly as painful as the developing bruises on my side and the burning cuts on my neck and hand, but it rattles me enough to push away the alluring promises of sleep.

They strike a match and then a wick flares. The meager stub of a candle doesn't provide much light. All it manages is to outline the sharp features of my captors and highlight the dark menace in their eyes.

"We need to kill her."

"We know what your feelings are, Algers," says Marta, with what I think might be a roll of her eyes. "You haven't shut up about it."

"She killed our brethren, of course I haven't shut up about it!"

"The dragon did, really," corrects Gabin in a quieter voice. "What if we were to use her to draw out the dragon—"

"And do what?" hollered Algers. "Ask it nicely to hand over its hide? Whether we try to barter with a monster or ransom her to her parents, we are only four bodies strong. We don't have the might to protect ourselves from retribution. Which is why we should just kill her!"

"So short-sighted, Algers." This time I'm sure Marta rolls her eyes.

"Enough," snaps Gregor, before crouching down to look me level in the eye while the candlelight dances off my old dagger. "Algers is right, we don't have enough protection to withstand a counterstrike. So all she's good for is leaving a message."

"What kind of message?" asks the female bandit, her arms crossed over her chest.

"The kind," their leader continues with the tip of my dagger drawing closer and closer to my heart, "that we can carve into the skin."

"Now we're talking." My most vehement opponent rubs his hands together like a kid about to get a new toy. "And I know just the word to write all over her—Dread."

"Aye," says Gabin with a nod. "It's for the best and the world will know it was Dread's band that slayed the princess."

"Fine," concedes Marta. "You boys have your fun. Best start somewhere safe. Don't want her bleeding out too fast."

"My thoughts exactly." Gregor thrusts the blade forward and digs beneath the strings tying up my blouse's neckline. With a flick, the newly sharpened knife cuts through the ties with ease, revealing the expanse of my collarbone. "I think this shall do nicely."

And without further fanfare, he drives the tip into my skin.

In that moment, the gag is a blessing.

I bite down hard as the blade slices downward, forming the first stroke of the D. I can feel my flesh peeling apart and the kiss of cold air against my moist insides. Blood spills down my chest and pools between my breasts.

Breaths come quick and shallow, my head spinning as dots form in my vision, marring my view of the fiends surrounding me. A ringing in my ears rises to a fevered pitch and I can't even hear my own whimpers.

The tip pulls away, and for a brief moment, I relish the reprieve. But then the dagger drives into me again, back at the start of the initial line. I feel a special kind of pain when they stab back into my fresh wound. It causes my muscles to spasm and I think I hear laughter.

Then the blade falls away.

Screams fill the air, only to be cut short by a wet, squelching stroke. There's a scuffle of feet, and something heavy falls across my legs. The weight is removed, though there's still more thrashing beyond my vision, which is narrowing down with each labored beat of my heart.

I hear a roar. It's guttural, primal, feral. Yet so very, very comforting.

"Cephias."

The word is lost to the rag in my mouth, but I still smile against the cloth, my body slouching with relief.

"Taliyah!"

It's gotten quieter, and the light has dimmed. Either the candle was knocked over, or my vision is fading.

"Taliyah! Are you okay? Please, talk. Those vermin, what have they done to you?"

I feel hands dancing around me. The gentle, warm touch is familiar, but there's a new sharpness to it. One that is leaving little nicks on my skin as his frenzied hands work to undo my gag.

"There," my sweet dragon says, his voice still rough with emotion. "Now tell me you are still here with me. Tell me you are okay."

"Okay."

That's all that comes out and even that hurts.

"This is my fault. Gods, why did I storm off? I should have just confronted you—"

"Cephias, it's not..." I pause, the breath I draw in raspy and slow. "Not what you think."

"No, no," he says, his trembling hands stroking my cheeks. "Don't talk."

"But..."

I blink my eyes, desperate to look into Cephias's eyes and show him all the remorse and gratitude that is swirling through my crumbling body. What I find, however, isn't the Cephias I know.

I've seen him as a dragon and as a human, but the man standing before me is a mixture of both.

His red eyes are fire licked, the whites replaced by a glossy black. His hair is missing along his temples, instead horns have grown out from his skull and swoop across the crown of his head. His lush lips are now thin, the skin pulled over the array of sharp teeth filling his mouth. Patches of orange scales dot his skin and long-fingered hands have even longer claws.

"Cephias, you're not supposed to transform."

"I know, I'm sorry. I just got so..."

He can't finish his words. The growl in his chest is as deep and consuming as thunder. He clenches his teeth and turns from me. In profile, I can see his horns elongating, though it may just be the candlelight or blood loss imagining the barely contained rage pushing his body toward his beastly side.

"I can't believe what they did to you. I need to get you back. Once you're cleaned and bandaged, I'll—"

He hisses and jumps away as a new blade flashes into my hazy vision.

"What now?" I shake with a whimper and a groan. My head pounds with the relentless assault of the day's events.

"Keep back, you monster!"

Ah, it's another voice I recognize.

Seems both of the boys have found me, and if I can't keep myself awake long enough to explain things, there may be another dead body at my feet.