Owen's ribs healed slower than expected.
The specialist's disruption effect lingered in his system for three days, a constant itch beneath his scales that made it difficult to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of the refugees who had died at Camp Solace. Thirty-seven. He had memorized their names, their classifications, the reasons they had fled the tier system.
Most of them had not wanted to be heroes. They had wanted to be safe.
Lord visited him every evening. They sat together in the palace courtyard, watching the five juvenile dragons circle the Tower of Royals. The new generation of hatchlings slept in the Hatchery, their small forms pulsing with the rhythm of growth.
"The specialist was not Valorin's only weapon," Lord said on the third night.
Owen looked at his son. "What do you mean?"
