The next thing he knew, he was flying through the air. Weightlessness gripped his body as he hurtled forth at terrifying speed. The dragon had discarded him, literally, flinging him across the city to be dashed against some rock or another. Handy had never been so afraid in his life. He could not even scream, his mind too busy processing the chaos as his body flailed to grab onto something, anything, to slow his flight. He didn’t see what he hit. He only knew that one minute he was flying and the next he was wet and there was broken glass about him. He lay there for a moment, flicking between consciousness and the void, the nothingness he experienced when he slept. He pushed himself up, groaning. His body protested at his movements, but he had to know. How did he survive the fall? That should have killed him outright. He heard the rushing noise of water and the footfalls and roars of the dead dragon which sounded so distant now. Looking around him, he was somewhere dark. The walls and floor were smooth and clean, almost reflective. There were three windows of stained glass behind him and a black iron door before him. It was shaped and decorative, as were the walls, inlaid as they were with silver and gold threads depicting scenes and… changelings, he thought. It was dark, and the only light entering the room was the iridescent light of the ceiling fungi, which seemed really bright now, pouring into the room.