The fae arrived in a shipping crate stamped with Shavynel's crest. She rested in a bed of hay, wings banded close to her body to prevent thrashing and injury. A blind covered her eyes, keeping Diemre docile.

Taking her out, Master turned the bound form over in his paws.

"There is much to do," he said to the jesters flanking him.

"You will be still, or you will be hurt," Master told the fae as he freed her wings, and here the assassin loomed into view, his grin vicious at the idea of showing off his skills. But she did not move. Could not, for shock.

"What do you fancy, Za?" one jester asked, quill in hand.

"Crystallize her," Master said. He pulled one of the fae's wings open, stretching the ligaments and sinews wide. The journey was enough trauma for the fae. There was no resistance. "Body, wings," Master said as the jester scribbled to keep up. He ran the pad of his paw down the center of Diemre's belly. "And here."

"What of her form, Za?" the jester asked.

"That will change, in time," Master said. "Perhaps when she has recovered from the genetic metamorphosis."

He turned the fae over, inspecting her conformation, more than pleased with the resonance her eyes had with her colors. She was perfect. Or she would be, once he was through with her.

"I will start now," Master said, still holding the fae as he went towards his chambers. "I am not to be disturbed."

In his chambers, Master poured over his mirrors, testing the combinations he desired. At every turn, he found Diemre's current form... distasteful. How could he appreciate the crystals of her hide on such a minuscule creature?

First things first, he decided.

Transforming a dragon was no easy task. He embedded hooks into Diemre's wings to keep her still, bound her to the stakes outlining his ritual circle. His fingers flit across his library of scrolls, found one marked with a nocturne's crest.

Diemre was just now becoming afraid. Just now realizing she could not flee. An itch grew deep within her bones as runes lifted from the scroll at Master's command and began to sink through her hide.

Her muscles rearranged themselves with sickening lurches. She should have died, mercy would have been to die, but no relief came, not even the safety of unconsciousness. Her skeleton ripped through tissue and reformed. Her throat tore from screaming until she could do nothing but gape her jaw in silent horror.

And then it was over. The pain vanished as if it had never been.

There was only Diemre, and she was changed.

The changes came quickly after that.

Three scrolls, three excruciating hours. Master crystallized her skin: the chocolate of her body, the teal of her wings, the deeper aqua of her belly. When it was finished, Diemre was a living jewel, a shimmering labradorite shaped like a dragon, flashing in the sea-green light of the deep ice caverns.

“Now you will thank me,” Master told the dragon, removing the iron cuffs that held her to the circle. Diemre was too weak to move. No matter how hard she tried to flee it manifested only as a sad flutter of her wingtips. A twitch in her claws. The golden tundra loomed. His paws moved across her body like he owned it, fastening aquamarine adornments to her.

“Say it,” Master said.

Diemre stared at the creature that had done this to her.

“Thank you, Za,” he fed her the line. His eyes bore into hers, far more invasive than his paws.

“Thank you, Za,” she whispered, and wept.