There is no handling her, Aeriel thinks. Her gaze unfocuses, slips back to the roiling tank, the dark water hiding the bulk of the worm as it lashes about, though from time to time its segmented side brushes against the glass. It is too little space, she thinks absently; room enough for a school of gargoyles, but cruel to the cruel creature it now houses.

"I will not have you harm her in my name,"

she says evenly, warningly. She does not know what he intends, but she cannot stand the idea that this violence might continue, might be carried on and on.