The human squealed.

“Mountain goat,” the minotaur said proudly.

“Oh…” Rook let out an awkward chuckle. “I’ve never had goat before. Does it taste more like venison or beef?”

The minotaur snorted unhappily.

Rook grimaced.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean— Is a minotaur’s meat considered beef?”

“Want my hate, serpent?”

“Sorry.” Rook pressed his fingertips against his temples. “I’m not thinking clearly.”

“Eat,” she said, holding the meat out. He stared at her thick, furred fingers before dropping to the blood slowly gathering at the bottom of the slab. “Hunters catch. Common food for your kind.”

“It’s raw…” Rook hesitated.

“Yes! fresh.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t eat that.”

The minotaur’s grip tightened. The rich, tangy scent intensified.

Rook imagined the meat sizzling over a barbeque, coated in spices. His mouth flooded with saliva and he subconsciously licked his lips.

With a satisfied nod at his reaction, she shoved the meat into his hands.

Rook held onto it, his fingers sinking into the tender flesh, afraid the minotaur would knock his head off if he dropped it. His lips parted, his tongue practically tasting the goat as he breathed in.

“You waste, no pity again,” the minotaur warned before turning away.

The human hurried after her.

Some people eat raw steak, Rook reminded himself, only to swiftly parry with, but their steaks aren’t served by a Neanderthal cow.

A bead of blood swelled beneath the meat, demanding just one taste. Just one little lick.

The droplet fell onto his tongue. Flavour exploded across his palate, destroying any debate over its consumption.

Trembling with restraint—determined to cling to what little civility he had left—Rook forced himself to take small bites instead of tearing into it. When only a gnawed bone remained, he tossed it aside. His parents would have been horrified by what he’d done, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He hadn’t felt this satisfied after a meal in years.

Stretching out on the floor, he slowly licked the blood from his fingers. Another action that would have earned him a lecture back home.

I’ll probably get sick anyways. So, really, worrying about sanitation seems a little pointless.

---

Several hours passed before another shuffle of boots echoed down the passage. They stopped near the minotaur’s post. Rook counted five shadows stretching out from around the corner.

“Is the dragonling much trouble?” someone new asked. Their accent was similar to Thruin’s.

“Decent, for serpent,” the minotaur replied gruffly.

Rook sighed. He might have to first work with their belief that he wasn’t human, in order to change their minds.

“Decent?” the newcomer prompted.

“Meek. Civil. Talks. To self. To food runner. Funny.”

“A ruse,” Thruin cut in over one of the others' scoffs. “Dragons lack the voice of sirens, but they're every bit as manipulative. Don't converse with him. It'll only encourage whatever tricks he's planning. You three manage him. I’ve got the siren’s amputation to oversee.”

Three soldiers in heavy black armour rounded the corner and marched towards Rook. Their helms concealed their faces, and each carried an assortment of leather straps, chains, and rope. Strange scents mingled in the air—one was definitely a goblin—but none were as overpowering as the stale reek of old blood clinging to their armour.

Rook gulped.

One soldier barely reached his shoulder, which somehow made them even more unsettling. Especially with the crude hatchet they kept absentmindedly fingering at their belt. Tiny flakes of dried blood drifted from its edge.

“Belly on the ground,” the tallest ordered.

Unwilling to test this group, Rook obeyed without a word. A heavy knee drove between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the floor. He grunted and instinctively squirmed.

The soldier leaned harder.

“Try that again,” he dared Rook.

Rook forced himself completely still, taking shallow breaths as he struggled to draw enough air without moving. Apparently satisfied, the soldier eased off slightly.

His wrists were jerked behind his back and bound with rope. Rook frowned as it was threaded between each finger, forcing them apart before his forearms were lashed tightly together and the bindings finished around his elbows. It seemed excessive. His shoulders certainly thought so too when the tallest soldier hauled him upright. Gravity pulled painfully against the awkward position, sending sharp jolts through his back.

A thick iron collar clicked shut around his neck. A leash was clipped to it and handed to the shortest soldier.

Heel, doggy, Rook thought, as the tallest and third soldier each took one of his arms.

Led from his chamber, Rook gave the minotaur a questioning look as he passed her. Her lips parted, but the soldiers jerked him onward before she could speak. Had she believed Thruin’s claims? Or, had she finally realized he wasn’t whatever they believed him to be?

The tunnels seemed endless.

Rook strove memorized every turn, every doorway, every branching passage. The shortest soldier kept glancing over his shoulder. When he caught Rook subtly turning his head to study another corridor, the soldier twitched and picked up the pace.

Eventually they entered a broader corridor with a four-way intersection ahead. The floor was clear of any loose material, and the lights were spaced with deliberate regularity. This route clearly saw heavier traffic.

“We'll go left,” the tallest said. “The Green Passage will be quicker. If—”

A scream penetrated through the stone; agony, fear, and anguish. A youth’s plea for help.

Rook’s guards swore like drunken sailors, barely keeping their hold on Rook as they flailed to cover their helm-blocked ears.

Numerous cries joined the first; most distant, a couple near. Young voices.

Heart hammering, Rook searched frantically for the source. Some lungs, he admired as it kept going. Oddly, the cry didn’t seem to bother him as badly as the others.

Pretending to press one ear against his shoulder, Rook noted the left soldier’s grip had weakened considerably. Dare he try to break free?

“What are you doing to him?” a girl's voice shouted over the chaos.

Rook sucked in a sharp breath.

Dalia?

The original scream stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Slowly, the others faded too.

Only the girl kept shouting, demanding to know what was going on.

No, not Dalia. But the lack of accent…

“Bloody serpentine,” the tallest muttered, tightening his grip on Rook as though the teenager were somehow responsible.

The soldiers resumed walking. The shortest rubbed beneath his helmet while grumbling about checking whether his ears were bleeding.

Drama queen, Rook thought. The ringing in his ears was already fading.

“Hold your tongue!” an unseen guard barked.

The girl scoffed.

Reaching the intersection, Rook spotted a heavily cloaked guard standing outside a room several meters down the right turn.

“I will not!” the girl snapped. Even hoarse, her voice somehow retained an elitist tone. “At the very least, not until you learn an ounce of manners.”

“Oh, you’ll be the one learning manners!”

The cloaked guard spat into the room before reaching beneath his cloak.

“Gwendolyn?” Rook shouted.

Every guard, including his own, jumped.

Ripping free of the soldier on his left, he slammed his shoulder into the one on his right.

“Gwendolyn!”

“That’s me!” Gwendolyn cried from the room. “I’m here! Hello?”

Rook lashed out with his heel, striking the exposed joint behind the right-hand soldier's knee. The soldier buckled with a curse. Taking off in a limping run, Rook only managed a couple strides before the forgotten leash snapped taut. The collar crushed against his throat and he fell backwards, his bound arms taking the main impact.

Pain shot through his shoulders. Air refused to enter his lungs.

“Please help me!” Gwendolyn screamed. “They want to hurt me! Hello? Hello?”

The soldiers descended on him.

Rook kicked wildly, catching the same guard's injured leg a second time. He had to get free. Who knew what they’d do to him now! But more importantly, If Gwendolyn was here, then Dalia might be close too.

“Calm him!” someone barked.

A stained cloth was thrown over Rook’s face. Blinded, he failed to stop them from rolling him onto his stomach. One soldier sat on his back while another shoved Rook’s head against the ground hard enough to split his lip. Afraid his teeth might shatter, Rook clamped his jaw shut, even as Gwendolyn kept calling.

The cloth was tied tightly around his face before the pressure on his head eased.

The soldier on his back leaned closer. Stale breath washed across the back of Rook’s neck.

“Should we teach him a lesson?”

Rook threw his head backwards and heard a satisfying crunch as he caught the speaker squarely in the nose.

“Just knock him out,” the shortest soldier snapped.

Something hard crashed into the side of Rook’s head. Pain exploded through him.