Chapter 1

Caspian

Awareness returns as a brutal, crashing wave of agony. Every part of my body is a canvas of pain, a symphony of aching bruises, sharp cuts, and the deep, grinding protest of at least one broken rib. I try to move, to sit up, but my limbs are heavy, unresponsive things, and a cage of rough-hewn, splintered wood presses in on me from all sides. The stench is the next thing I register—a foul, thick miasma of unwashed bodies, filth, and old blood. It is the smell of despair.

My mind, usually a quick and silver thing, struggles to piece together the fractured memories. The storm. The impossible, living shadow in the clouds that the others had called the Devourer. The splintering of the Minotaur ship. I remember the chaos of the black, churning water, the desperate fight for air, the feeling of my strength finally, completely, giving out. I remember washing ashore on a beach of black sand, my body battered but my spirit, foolishly, still intact.

And then… them. The slavers. I open my eyes, the dim, slatted light that filters into the cage doing little to pierce the gloom. I am in a cage, a filthy, cramped box that is barely large enough for me to lie in. My usual confidence, the easy charm that has been my shield and my sword for my entire life, is a distant, hollow echo. In its place, a creeping, unfamiliar poison begins to seep into my veins. It is a feeling I have never truly known before. It is dread.

The memory returns with humiliating clarity. I had dragged myself from the surf onto the black sand of a desolate beach, my body screaming in protest. I was alone, my brothers nowhere in sight. Before I could even begin to assess my situation, they were upon me—three brutish, bearded humans, their eyes dull with a low, animal cunning and a deep, ingrained cruelty. They carried crude iron weapons and smelled of stale sweat and cheap ale. They were slavers.

Even then, wounded and exhausted, my instinct took over. I gave them my most disarming smile, the one that had won over suspicious foreign dignitaries and calmed angry monarchs.

“My friends,” I had said. “A misunderstanding.It would seem. I am a traveler of some import. Help me, and I can promise you a reward that will make you kings.”

They had simply stared at me for a moment, their expressions uncomprehending. Then, the largest of them laughed, a short, ugly bark. He saw me not as a person, but as a talking beast, a rare and valuable prize. He backhanded me across the face, the blow a stunning, brutal rebuttal to my lifetime of successful diplomacy. My charm, my wit, my words—they were utterly, completely useless here. They saw only my manticore features, the latent power in my frame, and the potential profit I represented. They beat me into submission, their laughter the soundtrack to the shattering of my confidence.

I am in a stifling, windowless caravan wagon, the cage my whole world. The journey has been an eternity of jolting, agonizing movement, of heat, and of a thirst so profound my tongue feels like a dry, swollen piece of wood in my mouth. The wagon rattles over a rough, unseen road, each bump and lurch sending a fresh spike of fire through my broken rib. I am not the only prisoner. In the darkness, I can hear the whimpers and cries of other creatures in other cages, a symphony of misery that does little to soothe my own growing despair.

I have been stripped of everything that makes me who I am. My ability to negotiate, to persuade, to charm my way out of any situation—it has all been rendered meaningless. Here, in this rolling, dark prison, I am no longer Caspian Maelric, a warrior of Osiris, a trusted advisor to a king. I am cargo. I am a beast. A piece of exotic meat being transported to market. The thought is a hollowing, terrifying thing.

The dread that had been a creeping poison is now a flood, a black tide that threatens to drown my spirit. This is a kind of helplessness I have never known. On the battlefield, I have my speed, my blades, my wits. In a throne room, I have my words. But here, caged and broken, I have nothing. There is no one to persuade, no one to charm. There is only the darkness, the pain, and the slow, grinding realization that my life is no longer my own.

The caravan lurches to a final, jarring halt. I hear the heavy bars being lifted, of shouted commands in a dozen different, harsh languages. Then, the doors of the wagon are thrown open, and the world explodes in a wave of sensory violence. I am assaulted by a wall of sound—the roar of a thousand different voices, the screech of strange animals, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer. A stench, a hundred times worse than the one in the wagon, fills my lungs—a mixture of exotic spices, rotting flesh, raw sewage, and a strange, metallic tang that I instinctively recognize as dark magic.

I am dragged from the wagon, my cage thrown onto a muddy, crowded street. Through the bars, I see it. The Dark Market. It is a chaotic, depraved, and overwhelming city of tents, crude shacks, and looming, black-stoned buildings, all crammed together under a sky that is a permanent, sickly yellow-green from the smoke and the foul enchantments that hang in the air. I see creatures of every shape and size, their faces a mixture of greed, cruelty, and desperation. I am put on display in a holding pen with a dozen other miserable creatures, a piece of living property to be gawked at by potential buyers. My confidence is gone, my charm is a forgotten memory. All that is left is the raw, primal fear of a caged and wounded animal.