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“Surely a great drakon like you could just fly away.” . “Just because you do not see a tether or a lock does not mean we are free to move,” I say, weaving my head, a sign of dismissal. I will forgive you this time for not knowing the rules.” “This is a prison,” the woman snaps. I have employed my name in Drakon-het before, and it costs me little.

Allowing us this view cuts just as deep as her knives. Like her temper, the mistress keeps herself restrained within walls upon walls.

I feel it in my guts; it is the voice which will help me leave this place.

Therefore, the voice of no consequence that brings me out of my sundream of the embrace of my beloved ocean must be a trick.

That is my trick; not sunlight, or ocean, or vomited fire.

A person’s truth lies not in their heart, but in their guts. She tips her head as if examining me from another angle will reveal my true secret.

This calculation, like her innards, tells me nothing.

The mistress carefully shields herself in the steel flame of orimos so it is impossible to look within her.

“I can leave the room, but you cannot.” Shrugging would disturb the furnishings and old voices.