Everything was hazy. Dane's head throbbed, and he felt the last of the poison detox from his Dragon essence. He looked at the timer that was leading to the crucible, and he had lost a week in his delerium.

  The iron bars that surrounded him started to close in as panic began to take hold.

  Dane took deep breaths and regained his composure. Then he felt metal rubbing on his old scars from where his old suppression collar was. This new one that had been placed around his neck was thinner, but it hummed with power that the old one couldn't match.

  He was lying on cold, packed dirt, with straw stuck to his face. He rolled to his side with effort and saw Zeph in the neighboring cage, wings pinned awkwardly. The eagle's head tilted once in his direction, a single golden eye blinking slowly.

  "This is your fault. Just because they are your people doesn't mean they aren't Bandits." Dane said in a deadpan tone.

  "He knew my grandma, how was I supposed to know that he was a slaver for the coliseum?" Zeph said defensively

  Dane touched the collar.

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  Without another word, the collar began to feel weak, and the metal became brittle. He didn't want to alert the guards that anything was wrong with his suppression collar, so he moved slowly, trying hard not to break the crumbling collar.

  He now had full access to his character sheets, and he felt his mana start to cyclone inside of his body. Without the channels to guide it, the pain he felt was immense as the power poured out of his core.

  After he was able to open his eyes and the pain had mostly subsided, Dane took in his surroundings. Everything was chaos. When they had arrived at the "druid" camp, it was a welcoming place with women and children, but now it was clear that all of that was a veil to hide the Bandit camp.

  Torches ringed a wide clearing, their light spilling over a dozen cages arranged like livestock pens. There were men and women. Human, beastman, and even a few monsters, Dane didn't recognize any of them, but they huddled inside their cages, some weeping quietly, others sitting blank-eyed.

  Beyond the cages, slavers drank and sang around a roaring bonfire. One strummed a lute badly. Another tossed bones in a gambling circle. Half a dozen more wrestled shirtless in the dirt, jeered on by their comrades.

  A voice cut through the commotion, low and commanding.

  "Enough squawking. The stock doesn't need to know how pathetic you are."

  The camp stilled. Slavers shifted, straightening spines, muting their laughter. Through the crowd walked a figure in roughspun robes of green and brown, a staff tapping against the ground with each step. His fur was the color of ash, and his eyes gleamed like wet stone.

  Faeron.

  Even before anyone spoke his name, Dane knew. Authority clung to him like a cloak.

  "Boss," one of the slaver guards said, nearly stumbling in his rush to salute.

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  Faeron ignored him. He stopped before Dane's cage and crouched, studying him the way a butcher might eye a carcass. Then he smiled, a sharp and humorless expression.

  "This one is fresh," Faeron said. "He's got a pretty face and strong muscles. He'll fetch quite a price."

  Dane didn't respond. His throat was raw, but he wasn't about to give the man the satisfaction of a groan.

  Faeron tapped the bars with his staff. "See the bruising? Wasteful. You don't bring me half-rotten meat. Heal him. Damaged goods don't sell.”

  The slaver guard hesitated. "But..."

  Faeron's gaze flicked sideways, and the man shut his mouth. Another hurried forward, muttering an incantation. Warmth spread through Dane's limbs, knitting torn flesh, dulling the worst of the pain. Not enough to restore him, but enough to keep him alive.

  "Better," Faeron said, standing. He looked at Zeph next. "And this one? He is like a Grandson to me. Make your family proud when you get to the coliseum. I'll have my money on you.”

  Zeph tried to spit, which was a funny sight since birds didn't have lips. The collar at his throat glowed, and he slumped, body forced still.

  Faeron let out a large belly laugh as he watched Zeph being brought to heel. Dane's hands curled into fists. He forced himself to unclench them. Patience. Rage wouldn't free him.

  The bandit leader strolled back toward the fire, his staff tapping in rhythm with the drumbeat that resumed. Slavers relaxed, laughter spilling once more into the night.

  Dane lay back against the bars. He entered his soul space, stirred faintly at the edges of his mind, shards scattered where they didn't belong. He tried to picture them aligned, ordered, but the image dissolved into chaos. The same way everything had since the Snake.

  A rattle drew him out of his meditation. Across the way, a beastman tried to fight the collar's grip, muscles bulging as he strained against invisible chains. The slavers laughed. One pressed a sigil on the collar, and the beastman screamed as light seared across his throat. He collapsed, twitching.

  The laughter grew louder.

  Zeph gave a low croak of disgust. Dane met his eye and gave the smallest shake of his head.

  Hours bled away in firelight and song. Slavers passed by the cages, tossing scraps of bread, mocking the prisoners. A drunk staggered close enough for Dane to smell his sour breath. He jabbed at Dane's ribs with a stick. "This one's mine when he's broken in."

  Faeron's staff cracked across the man's shoulders. "You touch my stock again, and I'll sell you instead." The slaver stumbled back, muttering apologies.

  Dane stored the moment away. Faeron ruled through fear. He'd have to use that.

  Later, when most of the camp had drunk themselves stupid, Faeron returned. He ordered two guards to drag Dane from the cage. The collar pulled at his neck and almost shattered. He stumbled forward, making sure that the metal didn't get pulled any tighter. He feigned weakness, letting them think him no different from the others.

  Faeron stood before the largest fire, a crude stage of logs at his back. Behind him hung trophies: collars, beast hides, weapons taken from the captured. Dane saw his Fang of the Megalodon hanging with the rest. The bonfire's light painted Faeron monstrous.

  "Tomorrow," Faeron said, his voice carrying over the revelers, "we take the road. By week's end, this lot will fetch coin enough to drown in. The coliseum bleeds for beasts like these."

  Slavers roared their approval, mugs raised.

  Faeron turned his gaze on Dane. "And this one," he said, "is prime. Strong. Stubborn. He'll make the pits sing."

  Dane straightened slowly, meeting his eyes. Pain still laced his every nerve, but he held the stare. He let the silence stretch until the fire popped between them.

  Inside, he whispered a vow. I will not die in chains. I will not be sold.

  Faeron smiled, as though he'd heard the thought.

  "Put him back," he ordered. "Tomorrow, we set out for the capital."

  The guards shoved Dane toward the cages. His knees buckled once, deliberately, but he caught himself on the bars. Zeph hissed in their shared tongue, wings rustling weakly.

  Back in the dark, with the firelight casting monstrous shapes on the canvas of the camp, Dane lay on his side and watched Faeron laugh with his men.

  The collar weighed heavily on his throat. He would wait. He was almost fully healed after one more morning treatment; he'd be ready. And when the moment came, he would burn this camp to ash.

  For now, he closed his eyes and listened to the slavers celebrate, every laugh a nail hammered into the promise he'd made.

  He heard a faint laugh that he knew to be the captain's, almost in response to his internal monologue, like Faeron dared him to try.