"Prince Leander," said the voice, which had an almost mechanical weariness to it.

"Who, now?" he replied, his tone immediately changing from one of cautious neutrality to scorn. He did not look up. He was not good at diplomacy; he would not be able to keep a straight face if he met the man's eyes. Instead, he held his lantern to the ground and checked one of his traps, trying to keep up the appearance of a busy, annoyingly unsuccessful hunter who did not appreciate being interrupted just as he was settling down for the night. His pet pseudodragon, Burgundy, had also been woken up by the noise, and scurried out of the door after him. Wary of strangers, it curled around his leg and hissed at the intruder.

"Prince Leander of Molbrew," he repeated, "I have an urgent message for you from King Terian."

"Do I look like a Prince to you?" he snarled, "Be off with you, and find the right man, before that King of yours has your fool head on a spike."

It was true; he did not look a like a Prince any more. The clothes he had fled Ishmeria in had long since gone to rags and he had bought himself something plainer and more suitable for forest life with the last of the money he had managed to pocket. He had also made himself a nice bearskin cloak. Combined with his unruly mane of golden hair and scraggly beard that refused to grow in a manly or impressive way, but made him look like some kind of were-goat (Lars had pointed out that it did a good job of preserving his anonymity, though), he looked just about as far away as possible from anything that would be invited into a royal court. He wasn't even all that physically powerful – he was aging too quickly - so he wouldn't make a convincing royal guard captain. Possibly a deranged jailer, although he didn't suppose the castle dungeon saw much use these days.

"My mission requires me to pass this message on to every former Ishmerian Prince who is currently alive and in exile," he continued on as though he hadn't even heard the man's protests, "My intelligence network tells me that many of the exiles, including Leander of Molbrew, are still in contact with each other and have organised an alliance in order to pursue the mutual goal of returning to Ishmeria. If I pass the message on to one of them, it will undoubtedly reach the others."

"Sounds like a good way to get yourself stabbed in the back, messing about in those kinds of affairs," he growled. Burgundy hissed his agreement.

"Which is exactly why you are hiding your identities," replied the man, walking past him, towards the front door of his hut. He would have had a crossbow bolt in the head of any other man who approached his property without his permission but something about the stranger made him uneasy. Maybe it was the casual arrogance of his intrusion and the demands he made, or the simple fact that he was from Ishmeria and therefore meant big trouble. The man stopped at a bench he had made from half a log, next to the remains of a campfire. He bent down and pulled something from underneath the bench; a newspaper.

"The Ishmerian Times. It must be hard to acquire foreign newspapers in a forest in the middle of nowhere," he said, "I need your promise that you will relay this message to all of your contacts who are on the list, including both Erin and Ander, no matter how often one threatens you with death if you inform the other."

He blinked, almost amused by the man's shrewd observation of the two. Erin and Ander had once been the strongest powers in Ishmeria besides the throne itself, and had always used their power to do nothing but bicker at each other. Even now, they fought over things they had both decisively lost. Am I the only one who even bloody realises we've lost?

"I might know someone who knows someone who has the first idea what the hell you're talking about," he admitted, feeling proud at himself at such a diplomatic turn of phrase.

"Then it is agreed," he said, pressing the message into Leander's arms.

"Wait a minute, why don't you deliver the bloody thing yourself? They don't exactly live next door!" he yelled, annoyed at the man's assumption that Leander would go along with the task he was given, as though he was a messenger boy; worse, a messenger boy for another messenger boy who was evidently too lazy to do his own work.

"I... have run out of time," he said, his voice suddenly distant, "Please be careful."

"Be careful? Why should I be careful? Of what?" he yelled, but the man had already dashed off into the night without making a sound. Leander's instinct was to chase after him, to grab him and force a straight answer out of him, but it would be foolish to go running off into the forest now that night had fallen. He could always just read the letter. Muttering a curse to himself, he sat down on the bench and set the lantern down beside him to illuminate the battered-looking scroll case. The royal seal was genuine. As he carefully unwrapped the scroll, he realised that nothing about the man had felt right. Not in a supernatural manner – although there were all sorts of odd things living on the magic-saturated isle of Ishmeria, and he hadn't seen any other human run quite that fast before – but there was something forced about the calm in his voice and the preciseness of his movements. As if he was hiding something, and he was in a lot more trouble than he appeared to be. Trouble that would come after Leander, undoubtedly, for owning the stupid bloody message.

Trouble that might be coming after them all. The messenger had known a lot more about them than he ought to, and he had mentioned others. 'Be careful', he had warned.

Having the information before any of the others made him more of a target, but it also gave him more of an idea of what was going on, and therefore what kind of danger he could expect. He carried on reading to the end of the letter, then went inside to rest until first daylight, when it would be safer to cross the forest. However, he didn't fall asleep. Even if he could, after reading the contents of that letter, he would not have slept on a night like this. He wouldn't have dared. Something more was stirring in the forest than wolves and bears; something deadlier.

Unknown Location, Ishmeria

Be reborn, Dragon...

He remembered the colours. The flames, leaping and twirling in the sky, their trails burning imprints of light into the deep, dark night sky like the tails of comets. The hooded robes, swirling around as the seven dancers chanted and spun in ever more rapid and tighter circles, their words ancient and commanding.

Your life returns...

Your strength returns...

The wisps of light flare, growing larger and brighter, dancing around each other like planets in a map of the cosmos gone crazy. He can only lie on the forest bed, breathing in the primal scents, feeling the power of the land flow through him, anchoring him to something larger... something he was eternally bound to...

Be reborn...

Dragon...

He blinked, confused to have woken up in such a place and surprised to even be alive. The infirmary was a sharp contrast to the forest where he had lost consciousness; sheer white walls, the smell of disinfectant, the busy scurrying of the doctors, one of whom flashed him a comforting smile as they caught his eye and realised he was awake.

"I'm surprised you recovered so fast," commented the doctor, immediately picking up instruments to probe him with, testing that he really was fully healed, "Even for... one of you... at your level of conditioning... that was a very strong poison. It would have killed an ordinary man instantly."

"I'm surprised to be alive at all," he replied, no hint of weakness in his voice.

"You were recovered by Scylla, who happened to discover that you were in danger and pinpoint your location," said the doctor, "Had you been brought here any later, I would not have been able to heal you."

"I need to speak to Skulryk," he said.

"Your superior has already been called for. Please try and rest. You aren't well enough to leave."

Although he didn't feel at all weak, he nodded and leaned back against the pillows, trying to peer past the doctor to see what was written on the charts and clipboards hung above his bed. Although he was no doctor himself and therefore probably wouldn't understand most of the jargon, he might be able to glean a rough idea of whether he was going to live through the day, or any other glaring inconsistencies in what the doctor was telling him. After a few minutes of this distraction, the door swung open and a dark-haired young man in a rather fetching but old-fashioned suit and tailcoat walked towards him, brandishing a clipboard.

"The wards of silence have been cast," the doctor assured him, "You can talk here. We will leave while you discuss your private matters, of course."

He nodded, then turned to the man in the hospital bed.

"We apologise for placing you in such danger without backup. We were not fully aware of the situation," he said.

"It is my duty to carry out all missions assigned to me, and my honour to serve," he inclined his head respectfully, "I was warned there might be assassins. I accept responsibility for any failure on my part."

"Have you failed your mission, then?" his tone promised neither pardon nor punishment.

He shook his head, "The message is in the hands of those who were meant to receive it. Although I cannot completely guarantee that everyone on the list will receive the message, it is likely to be passed on to at least a few. I apologise for my lack of thoroughness."

"If one knows, the rest will find out. You should trust our intelligence more," replied Skulryk, "Also, we do not expect a one hundred per cent turnout. Situations change. There are some situations that would make a man impossible to track down."

"I am still in favour?"

"You have performed your duties admirably, under the circumstances. Your loyalty will be noted," he said, "And we have valuable information as a result. Our worst fears are confirmed."

"Then the ones who sent the assassins were really...?"

Skulryk nodded, "We sent you in place of the regular messenger as soon as we realised that the guards assigned to protect him had been switched at some point. To send more than one agent would have been noticed, and interpreted as a breach of impartiality, if we were not absolutely sure we could prove the situation. I'm sure you can understand. But now we know they intend to openly attack even the strictly impartial Crown messengers..."

"We can begin a pre-emptive counter-attack?"

He shook his head, "There is a danger we would be forced to fight our own again. We might lose one of our number permanently this time. Or Ishmeria itself might be destroyed. The Island's infrastructure has still not recovered from the effects of the last incident. If we can avoid direct confrontation – if we can use any element of surprise we have left – we should do so."

"You mean our visitors? They'll just plunge Ishmeria into another war."

"They don't have the resources any more. They command nothing, and have no influence in Ishmeria. Even if they could start the war over again, they won't be so hasty, after losing the first time around," he said, "No, they will look for other ways. And we will be there for them, to make sure they find those other ways. Just as we were there for them before. Just as we are always there for Ishmeria. You ARE loyal to Ishmeria, aren't you, Dragon?"

Sweating slightly from the weight behind the question, as though it was a knife thrown deliberately to hit the space inches above his head, he nodded respectfully, "Of course, sir."

"Very good. How do you feel?"

"Like I'm recovering already."

"You will rest anyway, until the doctor is absolutely sure you are fit to return to service. You will report any other problems you experience. Understand?"

"Understood."

"As always, this mission, and everything discussed in this room, is classified top secret," he said, "Now get some rest."

With those words, he left the room and the doctor went back to performing uncomfortable tests on him. He wondered how he was expected to rest when this was happening. He also wondered how he was supposed to rest at all when his conditioning made it feel so unnatural for him not to be working for the defence of Ishmeria. He tried to imitate Master Pluvius, who could switch himself to a kind of standby mode when he was not needed, or when ordered to by his own superiors (he did, apparently, have superiors, although Dragon could not fathom the nature of such beings). Sometimes, he had been told, it was necessary to do so for years at a time. A true Agent of Gemfire was a machine, performing a function for the larger mechanism that was Ishmeria, like the cogs and wheels that drove the clock in the town hall of Londre.

To his surprise, he began to feel sleepy almost as soon as the doctor wandered away, still scribbling notes on his clipboard, and drew the bedcurtain so that he would not be disturbed. All the tension he had been holding within himself was released and he felt himself sinking into a sea of white mist that roared and crackled in his ears. It was not unpleasant. It wasn't his choice at all, he realised. Sometimes sleep just happened, and he could no more resist it than he could hold back the sea. It was real sleep as well, not the thing he was used to these days until he could enter true stasis; a few hours' wait where time passed too quickly for him to care.

Dreams came to him very shortly afterward.

He walked through the streets of Londre again. It was night and he was alone, despite the usual bustle of the capital city, with its tall buildings and wide streets. A pang of longing stabbed him through the heart, so excruciatingly euphoric and devastating at the same time that he wanted to fall to the ground and cling there as though he could fall off the next time the world spins around, to feel the soil of Ishmeria and be there in spirit, at least for one night. The powerful tremor through his whole body made him lose his balance and lurch forward but he caught himself on the railing of the bridge. He recognised Tower Bridge, built across the River Wenrock that divided Londre neatly in half. He leaned on it for support and looked out across the great river. The setting sun flickered across the water, setting both skies on fire. Below it, he saw the imposing sillhouette of the Town Hall. Its clock ticked, rhythmic and inexorable and his heartbeat in time with it. The hollow echo only reminded him of how utterly alone he was.

Where did all the people go, he whispered to himself in his head.

They can't be here if you're here, came the reply, and when they're here, you can't be. Its very simple.

Who are you? Why are you...?

Reading your thoughts? Because we're very close to each other. And there are certain things even they can't take away from us.

I don't think I should be talking to you. I don't think I should even be here.

Are you going to send me away, too? Please don't send me away. Please don't...

He threw himself out of the way just as the sunset exploded, taking out the bridge with it. He managed to scramble for cover moments before he was showered by burning masonry. The entire bridge had been torn apart as though it were paper. Through clouds of dust and ash, he saw its eyes; glowing red, piercing the darkness, utterly without mercy. It opened its reptilian jaws, bearing hundreds of serrated teeth, and shrieked its rage at the heavens. Unable to avert his gaze, he drew his sword, dropped into a fighting stance and waited.

Its futile to fight a losing battle, said the voice inside his head, let's die here, and be here forever.

He sprang bolt upright, sweat pouring down his face.

The room immediately buzzed into quiet panic. One of the doctors called for security. Two others grabbed a straitjacket, while another picked up a syringe from the table; tranquilisers strong enough to subdue a horse, no doubt. He wasn't supposed to show much emotion at all; they were worried that he was about to lose control entirely and fly into a berserk rage. He could probably kill everyone in this room without picking up a weapon. He wasn't angry, though; just confused. He sat on the edge of the bed, blinking and staring at the doctors as though he had never seen them before. After a very short time, Skulryk ran back inside.

"Dragon, is there a problem?" he asked, speaking to Dragon as if talking down a large, angry dog, "Are you hurting anywhere?"

"In my dream..."

"Gem Wizards don't have dreams. Is something wrong with your conditioning?"

"I don't know. I can't remember," he frowned, "I think I had a son. Do I have a son?"

"Your memory is coming back?" he frowned, "But that's not possible... the mind wipe is permanent..."

"He was fine two hours ago!" commented the doctor.

"I want to see my son," insisted Dragon. His tone wasn't aggressive but didn't leave room for argument.

"Dragon, yes, you have a son and we know where he is, but it isn't possible to see him at the moment. We'll bring him to see you soon, if you'll just calm down and please try not to kill everyone..."

"Why did you make me forget my son?" he looked genuinely pained.

"Some Agents have a past that would conflict with their ability to remain neutral in the defence of Ishmeria. Its important that you are not recognised, and you don't recognise anyone from your past. That's all. We haven't hurt anyone close to you," he promised.

"My son didn't sound well..."

"We'll look into it," he promised, "Please, something's gone wrong with your conditioning, and we need to fix it. It'll be because of the stress of fighting off the poison. You need to go into standby now. Properly."

"Is that wise?" asked the doctor.

"Can you suggest an alternative?" replied Skulryk.

"I saw something else in the dream," said Dragon, "Londre Tower Bridge was attacked. By a... I think it was a Wyvern. I know that we Fifth Units can sometimes have prophetic dreams. Like Scylla finding me. I'm worried the Capital is in danger."

"You are right. A rampaging Wyvern... would be a problem. We'll send someone over to watch the Capital right away. Doctor, could you guide Dragon through the shutdown procedure again? He's not fully trained yet. I've got other business to attend to."

The doctor nodded and Skulryk walked out of the clinic and down the corridor. It took him five minutes to reach Zendor's office, which was three floors up, as he was the second highest ranking Agent of Gemfire and therefore deserved a more impressive office. Of course, the old man was expecting Skulryk and had already spread the relevant files out over his enormous oak desk. He whistled as he wrote a few corrections and updates using his quill pen, which levitated upon his command.

"This is about Dragon, yes?" asked Zendor, his voice cracking with age but still stern, "There was an incident. I heard the commotion, and I felt a magical interference. Some kind of resonance, or signal from outside."

Skulryk explained what had happened, taking care not to leave out anything he thought might be an important detail.

"Very worrying, considering what happened to put him in the clinic in the first place," said Zendor.

"Do you think she knows?"

"Oh, no, she probably just didn't want that message to go anywhere," said the old wizard, deftly crossing a 't', "But if she finds out, she will accuse us of plotting against her."

"If she attacks our messengers again, I'll do more than plot against her," Skulryk snapped his fingers and a tiny purple wisp of poisonous smoke, no more dangerous than most substances people in Ishmeria tried to smoke on a regular basis but suitably menacing in a man who could make enough of it to rout a small army.

"That's for Pluvius to decide," replied Zendor, "And you need to worry more about Dragon. That wasn't just a dream. Nor was it prophetic. He was genuinely contacted."

"By his son? Are we witnessing an Awakening?"

"Quite possibly. And an unusually powerful one, at that. Memory wipes are powerful magic, and Dragon's was done by Pluvius, yet that boy just broke the spell effortlessly."

"It could be attributed to the... unusual nature of Dragon's new host. It has not been attempted before. You must also remember that the Dragon Gem was already malfunctioning, and took the most damage in the battle. It had to be damaged that much, to subdue it."

"If that Gem is still malfunctioning – and it had better not be, considering how long Pluvius and I spent repairing the dratted thing – then it will be a danger to all Ishmeria," warned the wizard, "Tighten the host's conditioning, keep him training and strengthening his powers, repeat the memory wipe if possible. And don't take your eyes off him for a moment."