He dreamed of a vast open plain, rocky and lifeless. All the way to the horizon, only scrubby, stunted plants grew. Gnarled, leafless trees clutched to the edges of rocks and dusty, ragged bushes pushed through cracks in the dry ground. Dark clouds roiled overhead, but no rain fell. In the distance, lightning flashed.

“How I long for spring,” a voice rasped, as dry as the ground below.

He turned.

A man stood tall beside him, dressed in rags. He only reached the man’s knee, and when he reached up toward the man, stubby arms and stumpy fingers thrust up from chubby hands. The man bent and picked him up, propping him on his hip.

From his higher vantage point, he peered out at the world. Seeing nothing worth note there, he quickly lost interest and turned to the man instead.

A childish face. Short black hair that curled and tumbled over his head. A flash of white.

He blinked.

Long blond hair, straight but unruly, ragged strands falling in his face, the ends reaching his hips. Dark eyes.

Xenozar? Twain tried to say the man’s name, but his lips remained motionless.

“Is this our lot in life? Is this barren wasteland all we can hope for, merely because of the circumstances of our birth?” the man whispered, almost to himself.

Lightning flashed again, this strike further out on the horizon, but brighter than the first. In the man’s arms, he turned, startled. For a brief moment, the lightning lit a blue bubble, shimmering, vibrant, delicate as soap. A battle raged around it. Two armies clashed, horns blaring, fires blazing. Stones hurtled through the air. Spells ignited in flashes of multicolored light, giant arrays lighting the sky for mere moments before they faded away. Dragons swooped in and out of the bubble, tinier than ants, blasting nameless, hideous creatures dozens of time their size with their breaths before returning to safety.

“This endless war… there has to be a better solution,” Xenozar muttered to himself.

The child in his arms squealed and reached his hands up, smiling broadly. Xenozar turned and smiled back, gently bumping the child on his hip. “There must be, right? We’ll figure something out. You and me.”

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Twain sat up in bed, bored. His leg chains pulled taut, legs stretched out as far as they could go, which afforded him a few inches of slack in the wrists. He watched the door expectantly, waiting.

At last, Cel appeared, carrying a tray of porridge. A sour expression on her face, she twisted the key aggressively in the lock before she turned to him. “Alright, you basket case, it’s time for brekkies.”

“Good morning to you, too, Cel,” Twain greeted her.

She glanced up. “Shit, it’s almost like he knows I’m here.”

“I do know you’re here. I can hear you, you know.”

Taken aback, she stared at him. “You really are awake, aren’t you?”

Twain smiled. “Yes. I’ve been awake all morning. I’d say I’m bored out of my mind, but you might take me at my word.”

Cel smirked. She reached out a spoonful of porridge. “Princey says ahhhh.”

Twain grimaced. Turns out I actually prefer Dayander feeding me. “Could you loosen the chains so I can feed myself?”

“Dayander said you went nuts last time,” Cel said. Businesslike, she blew on the spoonful, cooling it.

“I’m not asking you to unlock me. Just give me an inch or two of slack. Enough to put a spoon in my mouth. Come on, Cel, what am I going to do with a few more inches of chain? I can’t even get off the bed to piss right now, for goddess’ sake. If I get aggressive, just take a step back and let me flail myself to exhaustion.”

She twisted her lips and hesitated.

Seeing an opening, Twain pushed. “I know you don’t like playing nursemaid. You’d rather be fighting on the border, right? So would I, honestly. Let me feed myself. That way, we both retain a little of our dignity.”

“Alright, alright. Don’t tell Dayander.”

“Cross my heart,” Twain pledged.

She reached up and fiddled with something over his head. Twain’s right hand came loose. He jerked at his left hand as well and gave her a pleading look.

“Don’t try your luck. You only need one hand to eat porridge.”

Sighing dramatically, Twain took the bowl and set it in his lap. The porridge looked bland, and tasted worse. He made a face. “Is there no sugar in the entire palace? Some spices? Salt, anything?”

“You know, I almost prefer crazy you. He doesn’t complain half as much,” Cel commented dryly.

“Just eats his porridge like a good little Princey?” Twain asked.

“Throws it all over the room like a three year old, more often,” Cel sighed.

Twain winced. “I’m sorry.”

She waved her hand. “It’s not… well, it is your fault. But it’s not like you have control over yourself.”

Twain ducked his head. He glanced at Cel. “What’s going on? What happened to me? Aside from almost turning into a darkfoe… or turning into one, and back? Or… what?”

Cel shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows, except maybe His Majesty the Mage Emperor. He locked you up in here, and he’s been visiting every week to purify you personally. There’s, er… everyone isn’t happy about it.”

“Sabelyn, for one,” Twain grumbled.

“That’s for sure,” Cel chuckled.