Shame flowed through him. His wings were severed, the thorns digging into his wrists were a constant reminder. It was true, what Gallagher had told him. He was no more than a tool in the Dreammaster's game, only kept around until he served his purpose and could be discarded. Penacony was once a prison, and as cycles would suggest, it once again became a prison to hold the very person who had once tasted control of the dream. The golden birdcage that now held Sunday was a rusted version of the one that held the Charmony dove. He was too blind to see that he was the dove that went crashing from the sky. Over, and over, and over again. His body was bent into a position that was all too familiar- on his knees, palms pressed together, praying for forgiveness. The vines were calm for now. But the second he moved, they would be writhing around his body, forcing him to be still.

Heels clacking on stone made him look up, but the vines forced his head back down. They dug into the back of his neck. "Your sentence has been reduced, Mr. Sunday." The sickly sweet voiced stoneheart says to him, and the plant's tendrils retract themselves from his body until only the ones on his wrists remained, tracing back to the rose that grew from his blood. He got to his feet as the door to his birdcage creaked open.

"I thought I declined your deal." Sunday spoke. It made his throat burn.

"Your sister defended you in court. The Family has reconsidered. Your new sentence is five years of living among the common people, taking the form of someone else."

Not having a choice, he stood in front of a mirror, taking in his reflection for what could felt like the very last time. His wings were neglected, the feathers sticking together with blood that crusted behind his ears, his face was swollen, rivaling the symmetry that he held so dear. And whatever Jade did, his blue hair was suddenly blonde, his eyes suddenly green, and the person staring back at him was unrecognizable. And then he blacked out, waking up in an unfamiliar place.