Drazek fainted face-first onto the royal commission.
Lucille reached across to rescue the papers from beneath his cheek.
"I think you've killed him."
"Who cares."
Veshara barely glanced at the man. Having finally found a solution, she was far more interested in the black helmet across the table.
"You can bring a dragonkin slave into Orathis. They sell us there as prime merchandise. Give me a collar and some papers, and we can go!"
Quinlan remained still while a very pleasant possibility began taking shape in his mind.
A level-one-hundred-and-sixty warrior. Strong enough to throw him through a building, tough enough to grin after fighting his entire family, and apparently determined to put herself into his possession.
For free.
"What sort of contract?" he asked.
"A simple one. You're my owner; I travel with you, and when we come home, it ends. I'll keep my freedoms, of course. Refusing orders, leaving if I want to, that sort of thing. The collar is for the drow."
