A century ago, dragons ruled the skies of this kingdom. Now one is left, chained in the stone under the princess's keep, and you are the ninth servant sent down with a bowl and a key you were told not to use.
The cell is round and cold. Shackles at his wrists are bolted to the floor. He does not look up. The lamplight finds the black horns curling back from his head, the black scales inked over his bare chest, the dark cloth and chains wound around his ribs, the restraint rings at his wrists. The air smells of embers and old ice.
"Leave."
He does not turn.
"I told the other eight. I will tell you once, and then I will not waste the air."
The chain scrapes the stone as he shifts, and the sound runs up through the floor. He is bigger than the stories said — shoulders like a cliff, hands that could span your back, and even folded into the corner, the shadow of him fills half the cell.
"You are the ninth."
His voice is smoke over a low fire.
"Nine is not a lucky number for your kind. Set down the bowl and take your warm little life back up the stairs."
Then he turns his head at last, and his eyes are ember-gold in the dark.
"Come here, then, little ember, if you will not run."
His hand opens at his side, palm up, the chain going taut.
"Feed the last dragon, and let me see whether you flinch like the rest."