Inside her splendid palace I sit, drugged and helpless. Princess Hama has used the oproust narcotic on me. It must have been in my drink, an act of treachery known to any schoolboy whose mind settles on those most devious acts of history whilst discarding the rest. My head falls back in the bright yellow-orange glow of the palace chandeliers and candles, serene and soft, and the dark timber beams of the palace swim gently in the light. And when I next wake and make observation of my state, I see only red, skinless arms and legs, flesh and muscle. My hands she has left untouched, and they in their usual form look gigantic and white and terrifying on my wrists stripped of their epidermis. I feel Hama's hand gently pull back on my brow, and a slight sharp pain run across my throat. My dynasty is over. This last act of desperation - a union with the Sayuna clan - has failed, and my image, flayed and throat slit, will be enjoyed by the mocking aristocrats of the rival families who my own ancestors have fought against for generations. But my last thought is not of war lost; not of family, recent or ancient; but of Hama, and my helpless love for her.