The evening mist clung to the cobblestones of Greenest like a burial shroud, and Matthias Goldweaver pulled his merchant's cloak tighter against the autumn chill. The streets that had once bustled with the cheerful commerce of the Greenfields now whispered with tension, and shadows seemed to dance where none should fall.

"Ah, the anomaly," the Dracopriest said, his voice carrying the weight of falling stones. "Tell me, little one, why do you resist the gifts we have brought to your clan?" Pip's mouth went dry. Around the chamber, other kobolds watched with their newly brightened eyes, and he could feel their hunger for violence like heat from a forge. "I... I don't understand, Tall Dark One."

Above, Lennithon fought a battle that was invisible to mortal eyes. Each time Mondath's commands pressed against his will, he pushed back with memories of freedom—the taste of storm clouds, the feel of wind beneath his wings without purpose or destination, the simple joy of soaring through mountain passes just to see what lay beyond.