Dragon shoved a wad of damp clothes into Tarit's chest and squelched angrily into the spotlights, dripping water as he went. His hair hung in wet white tendrils; his tunic and breeches stuck to him, soaked.

Feathers, wolf fur and bone dust stuck to his waterlogged shoes. Parts of the ring had been singed, frozen, thawed and electrocuted. He had missed almost the entire show while trying to escape Nora's water-torture. He snarled under his breath at the applause and laughter of the human audience -- Nora would not get away with this.

Speak of the she-devil, Nora's voice rose up in announcement from across the ring: "I knew you were all washed up!"

A slow, fangy grin slithered across his face.

"Ladies and gentlemen." It was a dangerous tone of voice that amplified throughout the tent. He reached behind a pillar and drew out a shining dwarven axe.

"At the end of the show, I promise I will cut the still-beating silver heart out of Nora's chest and feed it to the wolves for your exclusive entertainment." The axe flashed in his expert hands, and his odd-colored eyes gleamed murderously.

Nora interjected once again with a pleasant smile: "Do be careful! I would hate to break your fragile glassjaw."

Dragon's eye twitched. He blatantly ignored her, though he was prepared to attack, and he spoke to the audience: "But you're all here to see Atla, aren't you?" he hissed, and the audience cheered and whistled. Atla, the princess. Atla, the sweetheart. Atla, the adored and perfect angel. Nora's pride and joy, the star of the show and the only reason tickets sold out each night. Dragon's fist clenched around the axe.

Nora's gloating voice rose above the swell of hoots and hollers: "You know they are."