Rulan's eyes were cold. He watched Cyrus for a long, silent moment while he accustomed himself to standing on two feet. Finally he took a breath, opened his mouth, and showed the young prince his teeth: the sharpened teeth of the Casseion, filed to points on every child's sixteenth birthday. Just to drive the point home, he dropped the cloak to his waist and turned around in the dust, so Cyrus could see the faded tattoo of a gnarled old tree that stretched its roots over his back. The image had repeated throughout history, in every Casseion mural and sculpture, a symbol of ancestry, wisdom, honor and loyalty to the clan.

"I escaped my cell in Lothray the night before my execution," he said in a low voice, factual and unphased. It had happened so long ago, it only occurred to him as a passing memory. "But I was hunted. There was a dagger around every corner, an arrow on every rooftop, no matter where I hid. So I went to the Dragon." He shrugged the cloak over his shoulders again and turned to face Cyrus. "I offered her my memories in exchange for my safety, on the condition that I could continue the hunt. So she gave me claws and wings, and she took everything I knew before the night I escaped. I've been playing god to idiot villages ever since." He gave the young prince a sharp grin. "I might as well tell you this, because you're stuck with me for awhile. You just made an oath, in the old language, to never leave my side."