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Well... at least why, since he didn’t quite remember the rest of his battle against the Demonslayers, nor when they’d managed to bind him. His rage had been so blinding that all he remembered was he felt pain, the smell of blood, and the sounds of people fighting... and dying.

I should not have come here.

When he’d approached the closest Demonslayer stronghold to Merikh’s cave, he’d done so cautiously. With his head lowered, showing a submissive stance, he’d come upon the gate.

There had been many eyes peering down at him from the wall of their stronghold. The shining moon behind the hazy clouds had highlighted the sharp glints of metal attached to wooden shafts – he didn’t know the name of the tools, but they appeared to require the use of string to propel them forward.

A bell had rung loudly and annoyingly from within the keep.

I just wanted to speak with them.

Was it him bashing on the gate that incited their rage, or was it fear? He just wanted to be invited inside, like he and Aleron had watched other humans do for each other at their human huts.Knocking,he thought it might be called.

It mattered naught. A pointy stick had launched straight into his chest.

Startled by the suddenness of it, the pain of it, and the betrayal of it, he’d let loose a bellow. Then more rained down upon him.

He’d never gotten the chance to speak, and he remembered very little after that.

One thing he was acutely aware of was... he’d eaten a lot. And the more he’d eaten, the dizzier he got, the more energetic he became, and the harder he ruthlessly fought. The more they hurt him, the more he sought to replenish himself with their meat.

He’d been battling his fury, his confusion, his body changes, and random straying thoughtsbludgeoningtheir way into his expanding mind as much as the attacking humans.

Their identical uniforms ensured he remembered no faces, and at one point, he’d begun to see them as Demons.

The Witch Owl was right. There are no friends here.

Bound and alone in a windowless stone room, he let out a whine with his sight a morose shade of blue.Aleron...

He wished he could move. He couldn’t even turn his head to fully take in what captured him so totally in place.

Currently, he was trapped on his knees, part of his back flush against some sort of board and mechanism, with his arms stretched backwards. It was obvious he was too tall for this contraption, and his legs had been tucked underneath the board to accommodate his large frame. Chains had been threaded around the length of his biceps and forearms, and his shoulders were turned so far back that he worried any tension would dislocate one.

His legs were chained to his tail. Any attempt to move them brought pain up his spine. Even his neck and horns weren’t spared, linked to each other. He hoped they hadn’t damaged his horns; he was rather proud of their stout lengths.

Every attempt to get free was in vain. Although he was large and daunting in this small room, he felt undeniably helpless.

All he’d wanted was help. He’d intended no harm to the Demonslayers, and yet they hadn’t even given him a chance.

Why?

Strange thoughts pressed into his mind, jumbled and heavy. He wasn’t accustomed to so much internal chatter. He wasn’t used to this level of humanity.

He groaned, wishing he could lay his aching head down so he could remove some of the weight. His brain felt hot and swollen within his skull.

Any time he’d gained humanity in the past, it’d been slowly. One stray and random human at a time – occasionally a second. Those humans had been shared between him and his kindred, slowing their progression.

How many humans had he eaten this night?Why does my stomach continue to grumble?Why wouldn’t the hunger cease? Even now, he could smell the blood of the humans he’d killed beyond the walls.

The coppery, tangy scent threatened to pull him back under the swallowing waves of his bloodlust and hunger. This windowless room was just enough to keep it at bay, the smell not so strong where he was being held deep underground.

His throat was parched, despite the well of liquid trapped within his beak. He swallowed.

The wooden door in front of him creaked open, and four Demon-looking uniformed humans piled into the circular room with him.

They also brought firelit torches, which they placed in metal rings bolted to the dirt-stained grey walls. Ingram hadn’t needed the light, perfectly capable of seeing without it, but he was sure it was easier for them to see his battered and helpless form.

His injuries screamed against his unusual position when he lunged – and barely achieved a centimetre of movement.