Jason had once been a squire to the greatest knight in all of the land. Taken off the streets, he'd had a brilliant future ahead of him. For a few months, his new life had been enough to make him forget that his parents hadn't wanted him, that they'd called him worthless and useless and a burden. It had given him a sense of belonging, of family.

And then, while on border patrol, he'd witnessed the neighboring empire's soldiers brutalizing their own people. Jason, young and with a fire in his belly, defied his orders and attempted to help—but all he'd managed was to get himself taken prisoner.

In his captivity he'd been tortured, humiliated, made to eat rotten food. His innocence and loyalty had been cruelly beaten out of him, replaced with a twisted sense of duty toward his captors. His bright-eyed hope for the future had turned into a seething, pervasive sense of hatred toward those who had left him to this fate.

Gone was the boy who had wanted to make a difference in the world, to save people, to be a hero. In his place rose an avatar of vengeance, whose sole mission was to bring low the man who had abandoned him. To take down any who stood in his way.

When the court wizard, his torturer, offered to make Jason a dragon rider and put him in charge of guarding the imperial heir, he had readily agreed. Such a position would bring him closer to his goal. The dragon, his steed, Jason had bonded with. It was a majestic beast, with black and gold scales that easily struck fear in the hearts of those who beheld it. An orphan like him. Forced into servitude, like him. Harboring a deep hatred, like him.

The rest, however? He cared little for the courtly song and dance, and less still for his charge—this was a means to an end and nothing more.

"Hurry up," he said harshly to his charge, the heir. A clumsy, frail thing that wouldn't last five minutes in actual combat. He hated these swordplay lessons—but for his goal, he'd do anything. "Pick your weapon back up. Strike at me again. And try to actually hit this time."