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Chapter Text

On a warm summer evening, when the Sorceress had finally recovered from one of her long, closed door research endeavours, she came across a dragon at her doorstep. Or more precisely, it lay wasting away in her garden, taking down with it half her spider-lilies and poppies. At least it spared her crops, winter would otherwise be quite difficult, and she refused to buy from the nearest market in town.

She suspected, from the deep blood tracks leading to the woods, that the dragon must have crashed somewhere near her hut, and having caught the wafts of incense burning at the window, dragged itself all the way here.

Bold of it to try out its luck on her. Most beasts of the forest avoided her, knew from a primordial instinct that she was not to be messed with. The trees rustled with a passing breeze, bringing in the metallic scent of blood. She took in where the creature bled—a shallow tear to the neck, stabs from the side, fractured talons and a sheared horn. No doubt it would bleed to death in less than half a night’s time. So vulnerable, yet fearless, something greater than mere desperation must have driven it to her doorstep. She contemplated the dragon’s broken body for a while, mildly fascinated.

What brought you here, little dragon? A strong will to live? She did not think so. Survival instinct should deter it from coming to her. But the Sorceress had never been one to understand this ‘survival instinct’ that all living things seemed to inherently inhabited, or so she called, ‘the absurd will to live’. Master had laughed it off, and with soft eyes, said it was ‘life’s beautiful form of resilience’. She resisted verbal contradiction, knew it would not make any difference.

Now, she contemplated long and hard at the dragon who had ruined not only her garden, but also her plans for an evening stroll. The Moon was in full, not a wisp of clouds interrupted her pale, lunar face. Moonlight, as molten silver, softened the dragon’s dark scales, making them glow, transulecent, as the most luminous shell. Incredibly fragile, as though she could ground them to dust simply by rubbing her fingers together. For a wicked, tantalising moment, she almost did.

Life’s beautiful form of resilience, or whatever this was, she would like to see how far it could go, where it would lead her to, and if it would go down like embers of a dying flame.

She heaved a long sigh and made up her mind.

Chalking out a rough magic circle, she teleported the creature into the house.

Chapter Text

The Dragon was on the run. He had tried to pass as a human boy, but with his growing horns and tail, and not to mention his wings, it was laughable to even attempt. And yet he held onto the small hope that perhaps this time, this family would take him in the way he was.

He ran on his two feet, because that was the only way he knew how. His wings, heavy and clipped, bore him down, dragging mud. Distant shouts followed, he was a prey to his childish dream. The cold moonlight guided him forward, leading him to a precipice, where an open, endless forest lay before him. A raven shot through the night sky with a sharp caw, its dark, flying form flitted across his eyes.

What was it like to fly? He was never able to put to test this thought, this primitive calling, even though it was on his mind always, until now.

He tried to take out one of the nails in his wings, hands slippery with blood. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the sharp pain that burst like little sparks burning up his veins. After a few tries, the nail came off, though the bleeding worsened. He was burning inside out, his skin feverish, sweats evaporated before they could even gather.

The people had he cornered now, axes and spade fork winking at him with a cold glint. A child, the one he approached on the street, who took him home and promised to bring him bread but instead turned him in the moment he crossed threshold, threw a stone at him, nicking his forehead.

“Die,” the child screamed.

There was nothing to hesitate.

He leapt off the cliff, broken wings working to stay airborne. It was at that moment the Dragon metamorphosed, the fever that was boiling him from the inside, as though he had swallowed a hundred blazing suns, seeped into every cell of his body. Talons tore out of his fingers and scales sprout from his skin, coating the limbs and all the way down his elongated spine. His vision shifted, and the rest of the world lost clarity. His immediate landscape was reduced to grey, obscure movements of light and shadow.

Fire arrows followed, they grazed past his neck, leaving a scorching sensation on his new scales. He wobbled—these bleeding wings did not take him far. Unable to support his weight, he began to fall.

The miracle he had been hoping for in all his times of despair happened late, or perhaps it happened right on time, just as he was on his sweet way to Death’s door, it happened now. Tree branches reached out to soften his descend, overgrowth spread themselves flat to cushion his landing, and with that the Dragon made it to the ground breathing.

The Moon, so bright and full on the verge of bursting, peered on with her usual glacial curiosity. The Dragon’s vision swam, and in his slanted vision, the Moon, for a moment, seemed to double herself.

He had to move soon, the townsmen, if they were mad enough, might hunt him down still. But where could he go? This forest might very well be as dangerous as the men up there, filled with unknown predators lurking in the shadows, sharpening their claws as they waited for the next prey to present themselves. The longer he dwell here, the more exposed he became. Dark magic, so thick it was palpable, hang in the air as haze, swelling in menace, clouding his thoughts.

A faint waft of incense broke through the haze and interrupted his thought, it was balsamic, resinous, and warm. Something stirred within him, as if an invisible hand was poking his heart raw with a stick, urging him to find its source. What could possibly be at the end of this drifting smoke, presumptuously luring and offending beasts in this full lunar hour?

Despite his dire circumstances, the Dragon let out a laugh.

Such territorial display of power and patent disregard for the rest of the forest’s predators amused him. The incense, deliberately spicy, provocative, and yet precariously alluring, betrayed a predacious intelligence. Whoever they were, the owner of this scent had to be the dictator of this land, who sat at the pinnacle of this savage wilderness asserting a quiet, distinct authority.

He knew, whoever this offender was, they would be his best chance at survival if he could bargain for a place to recover under their protection. It was this, or Death. And Death was not an easy friend, evasive, slippery as a fish, denying him always. Fortune too, had never been on his side, and he was not one to believe in Fate. But there was nothing else to lose.

The beginning of a plan was forming in his head as the Dragon sourced for this mysterious owner whom he was betting his life on.

Chapter Text

The Sorceress was beginning to regret bringing in the dragon. For one thing, she had no idea how to take care of one, let alone heal one. Her healing spells did not work. The scales, though so fragile-looking, were impenetrable, and refused to be mended by outside force. She had to do this the traditional way, that was, the herbal way of treatment.

Eying her herbal stocks in dismay, she knew without going through the jars and pots that they were running low in shortage. For the past season or so, she had not been able to spare a single shred of willpower to refill her supplies aside from keeping up with the absolute minimal chores to sustain the illusion of a functional life. She had begun her research since early spring, when there was still a shred of snow on the birches, and now the full-blown green of midsummer announced its presence on those very same birches.

The Sorceress was left with no other choice than to pay a discreet visit to the herbalist whom she knew resided on the outskirt of the nearest town. She dropped a few golden coins on her way out with her supplies refilled. The old man would know she had dropped by, the mysterious, faceless client who was known only by an alias R. They never met in person, not knowingly anyway, and she was contend to keep it that way.

After a night of disinfecting and patching up wounds, the bleeding had stopped. Should it continued, the Sorceress might have given up and just let Death have his own way. She would gladly knock on Master’s door first thing in the morning and informed her that ‘life’s beautiful form of resilience’ was a fabrication of the weak-willed to justify their abjection, so prone to wretchedness and degradation they were enslaved even by a linguistic delusion of their self-making. The death of a dragon—an immortal, mythical, and almighty creature would be her ultimate proof.

The water she left running had filled the bathtub to the brim, and when she sank herself fully into the waters, blood-covered to the arms, they spilled all over the ceramic tiles like flowing, crimson ribbons. Fingers drumming against the bathtub, her thoughts drifted to the dragon again, who was now softly snoring in the dining room. She thought of the velvet-like texture of its scales, tender as shells, luminous as moonlight, which seemed to shimmer upon her touch, and yet stubbornly resistant to her magic. How deceptive they were, appearing to be so delicate yet indestructible.

Up close, she could vouch with certainty that this was a young dragon, barely grown, perhaps only a child in human age, late into his days of boyhood. Did it even know how to fly? She doubted, having plucked up wooden splinters buried deep all over its wings. There was something peculiar about this dragon that made her uncomfortable, an omen she could not quite decipher yet.

Dragons, as the Sorceress understood it, were highly intelligent creatures. They were solitary, and often resided in selective, secluded areas from high mountains, deep gorges, to giant forests and great lakes that were remote to human civilisation. Territorial and reclusive, they remained a queer, mystifying object of curiosity even among the circle of sorceresses, and what was documented of them were scarce and few.

To have one appear at one’s doorstep was, therefore, nothing short of strange, and very much a surprise, for a self-possessed creature such as a dragon to seek help from another that was not even one of their own was stranger still.

What was more curious, however, was the peculiar timing. The Sorceress had a premonition, that the arrival of the Dragon at her doorstep was not coincidental. Fate, her worst enemy, fickle as light, deceptive as shadows, must have seen a cruel joke coming along the way, how she would love to see the Sorceress fall for her trick again.

She had pushed aside these thoughts as she busied herself with treating the dragon’s wounds, but now, in the moist quietness of a bath, apprehension reared its horns and gnawed at her unrelentingly.

She tightened her fingers. She would have to find out where the dragon came from, and what it wanted from her. But for now, she had all the time she needed, if there was anything that immortality had taught her, it was that Time was an old man who was always late, distracted by the most insignificant thing as night stars, or sand, but would come by eventually, and you need only to wait him out to reveal what was concealed along the way with a patience that could outrun even Time himself.

The first ray of blue was beginning to emerge. Clusters of stars, which had been previously outshone by the Moon, made their brief appearances before fading back into the gentle hues of blue. The Sorceress gazed afar, and let herself to be temporally distracted by these fading stars.

***

Later that day, her hunch was proven true. There was more to this mysterious little dragon than to what met the eyes, for in just a mere couple of hours, all the wounds the Dragon had sustained, vanished without a trace.

Certainly, her decisive tending to his wounds helped, but that would not explain fully the extraordinary speed in which they healed. While the young Dragon remained unconscious in her dining room, the Sorceress believed it was the best of opportunity for her to fulfill both her intellectual interest and curiosity.

Quick sketches done in charcoal sat among rolls of bandages, cottons and crushed herbs. A measure tape had rolled over to a chair’s leg, when the Sorceress was taking measurements of almost every measurable body parts of the Dragon, charting them rigorously on a pinboard. Of course, this was for research purpose only and strictly ethical. She convinced herself that she had not taken advantage of an unconscious subject and laid her hands on parts she ought not to venture.

While the Sorceress was deep in thoughts, it escaped her attention that the Dragon’s tail was twitching.

Chapter Text

Dragons did not dream, or so the Dragon thought. He had not been with his pack for long, if there was even one to begin with. For as long as he could remember, he had been alone, and dreams never came to him. In the moist darkness, he woke up to a familiar sensation, felt its tug urging him on. Hunger, unlike any he had ever experienced before, threatened to swallow him whole, its gaping mouth like that of a void, thirsting for flesh and desire and soul, but it was not physical. What was it that he wanted? He did not know. Waves of burning incense filled his senses, choking him, blinding him. He was underwater, in a moonlit pool, where someone was singing overhead, such a sad tune he wanted to weep and wipe the tears of the singer. This song, he knew, if only he could break out of water and hold the her hand and said, “Yes, I have met you before in another life.”

***

The Dragon woke to vague, blurry shapes shifting in the dark. When they settled into fixed forms, he reckoned he was in someone’s home. Floral ceramics filled up the kitchen counter, piles of bloodied bandages lie on the floor, and the air was heavy with a blend of herbal and charcoal scent.

He had feigned coma in the garden, sensed the way magic seemed to pulsate and crackle in the air, felt a subtle presence hovered over him as small, practiced hands moved about his body. Rationally, he knew he had to stay vigilant. Yet, there was something soothing and familiar about this place that lowered his guard, and when delayed exhaustion dawned on him, he was defenceless against the wave of drowsiness that spirited him to a dream he could no longer recall.

A flash of whiteness caught his attention. A striped cat leapt through the window, landing in a pool of moonlight.

She took a slow saunter before the Dragon, clear blue eyes glowing coolly in the dark. Licking her paw, the cat cleaned herself without further regard to her draconic companion.

The Dragon’s eyes narrowed into ruby slits. The owner of this house, the ruler of the dark forest, could not have been a cat, could it? Only one way to find out.

He stalked over to the cat, his shadow, long and towering, engulfed her in darkness. When the cat did not react, a low growl rumbled from his chest. This, to his satisfaction, caused her eyes to ripple. His satisfaction, however, was short-lived.

The cat craned her neck to meet his stare, and to his amazement, began to transform. Her form fizzled, enlarged, and refigured itself into that of a lady’s. Long, flowing hair spilled down her waist, bleached a luminous silver by the moonlight. Her skin, milky pale, was covered up by a delicate, modest ivory nightgown that swept the ground, and by the trick of the shifting lunar glow, seemed to soak in all the light in the room.

She continued to hold his gaze, her eyes, glazed and emotionless, was like that of a moonless lake. Glowing, foreign alphabets scorched the ground she was standing. They dimmed, and the scent of burnt wood and incense drifted about the air.

An eternity seemed to come and go, and at last, she broke away from the gaze and picked up a fig on the table. She plopped a piece into her mouth, then offered the rest to him.
An idea formulated in his head.

With feigned wariness and fright, the Dragon nibbled at the fruit, keeping a watch on her the entire time at the corner of his eye like a woeful, distrusting doe. Humans, as he understood it, tend to underestimate those who acted submissive and weak, feigning prey. While he was at the crumbs, she poured out a ceramic bowl with milk, honey, and some herbs, and in a quiet murmur, chanted out a spell.

He flinched, but nothing happened, not to him. A different set of glowing alphabets appeared, they engraved themselves on the bowl for a heartbeat before dissipating as smoke. Soft steam spiralled in the air, the milk was warmed and ready.

They locked eyes when she took a reassuring sip, a flash of pink tongue darting out, before she slid it across to him. He hesitated, thought better of it, and drank up the milk obediently. She carefully approached him, and with light hands, checked for his wounds.

He tensed, half to keep up with the act, and half because he was unused to having hands touching his body with such care and gentleness, as if he would break upon touch. A soft chill ran down his spine, he told himself it was the gale that entered the room.

The Dragon held down an unknown feeling bubbling inside his chest. When he was down to the last drop of milk, dawn had crept past the mountains at the far end of the horizon.

Chapter Text

The Dragon and the Sorceress observed each other with a cautious interest for the next few days to come. When the Sorceress returned to the dining room the following morning after their uneventful exchange, she was half expecting the Dragon to be gone. But he was still there, tail curled and eyes guarded as he took her in.

She had wondered, while she took in his measurements, the colour of his eyes, whether they would be emerald like the snakes Master used to keep, but when the Dragon rouse from his slumber, she found herself lost in his jewel-like gaze, the purest of rubies, the brightest spinel, that gleamed a vivid, rich crimson in the dark.

There was something lethal about them, not just in their bewitching beauty, but also in what lurked beneath his prey-like facade. She had seen eyes like these before, been enchanted, ensnared, and cursed by such. They fed on desires, craved dominance, and sought destruction. They were chaos in flesh, power in disguise, conquerer by nature.

The Sorceress knew she had to tread her way carefully with the Dragon, and unveil whatever he or Fate was scheming against her. She kept a distance from the Dragon, and so did he. Soon, they established a mutual understanding on boundary and routine. Each day, she brought over a new fruit for him. It was shameful to admit, for a great sorceress like her, she was, by all standards, not a very decent cook, and so early in their acquaintance when a flavourable impression was vital and she was keen on taking her time with him, she reckoned fresh fruits was the best option.

***

On a rather sluggish afternoon, she found the Dragon gone from the house. She was disappointed, but she had indeed left the doors unlocked on purpose, believing that if this was truly a play of Fate, she would see him again.

A raven’s caw drew her from her thoughts, she turned to find it holding a dead spider-lily in its beak.

Oh, the garden.

The Sorceress sighed, fed the bird some leftover nuts, and strode ahead with a plow and sickle in hand. Certainly she could have used a few spells to repair the damage, but when one had endless time in one’s hand, even acts of labour became a relief to pass time. She was almost done clearing the land and replanting her flowers when there was a rustle behind her.

To her surprise, the Dragon had come back, and in its jaw was a turkey. Nudging it by her feet, crimson eyes locked into hers in expectation. For a moment, the Sorceress could not decide if the turkey was a gift of gratitude or apology.

“Are you—?“

A low rumbling of the stomach confirmed that the Dragon simply had had enough of fruits.

“Let me have your name first,” said the Sorceress. “I am not cooking for strangers.”

The Dragon snorted. So he could understand the Common tongue, as she had speculated. She theorised that this Dragon, given its subtle awkwardness with his body, particularly in the way he trudged on four legs, that he had previously occupied another form. In fact, she had realised, in one of her discreet inspection of the Dragon, that there was something exceedingly odd about his being. The Dragon had a soul that predated his birth. The Sorceress, in her long, seemingly endless life, had never before seen anything like that before. Could it be possible that it was an ancient wandering soul that had claimed ownership to a dying dragon’s body as a new vessel?

She had several theories, and was happy to take her sweet time analysing and putting to test each of them as their relationship strengthened. Now, she could confirm the Dragon had a perfect understanding of human languages. The wounds he sustained previously were also made by manmade agricultural tools, it was likely that he had lived with humans for some time.

With a tentative talon, the Dragon wrote his name on the ground.

The Sorceress ran a finger over what he had written. As she traced each line, mouthing alphabets, testing shapes, a gentle wave of grief drizzled like an unexpected, morning rain. They gathered by the bottom of her heart, forming a silver pool that creased rings of tiny ripples.

Sylus.

It was written in draconic tongue, an ancient Philosian language. She had spoken draconic tongue before, a language etched to her soul from a lost time, in which she could never recall how she acquired it. Now, the language came to her naturally, just as it used to, like an old acquaintance she had not spoken with in a long time.

Sylus.
Sylus.

It was like speaking tongues of fire, a name that was forged by the hiss and licks of flames. She relished the way his name seemed to burn her lips, leaving a scorching thirst deep in her throat.

Sylus.

Sylus.

Sylus.

The ripples grew intense, stirring something deeper within the silver pool as she repeated the name again and again, her initial joy of speaking a familiar tongue dwindled. The pronouncement of his name seemed to rouse within her an immense sorrow, an urgency—but for what, and of what origin were they from?

Unaware of her dimmed mood, the Dragon seemed to delight in the way she gave voice to his name. Turning the name over and back in her head, as if to decipher a coded message within its complicated alphabet, the Sorceress attempted in vain.

The Dragon brushed the side of her leg with the barest of his tail, pulling her from thoughts. Dusk has descended upon them unnoticed, staining the sky with orange and indigo streaks of clouds. In the far distance, a tower bell rang hollow, producing a series of broken, indistinct jangles.

“Sylus,” she called the Dragon’s name, soft as a sigh. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

Sylus had always been quick to identify weaknesses—be it his own or others. The former he honed them into perfection with time, the latter he used to his advantage. He was perceptive, vigilant, and a natural predator when he wanted to be, and these traits had sustained him a long way. Humans now he knew full well were hostile to his kind, sorceresses he was not so certain.

In his weeks of observation of the Sorceress, he found her oddly fascinating. She liked to take long walks by the river when the sun was out and sat there doing nothing. Often, she picked a flat stone and held it down to her stomach as she sank beneath the riverbed, and let herself submerge for as long as her lungs allow, resisting air. Once, he thought she was not going to make it to the surface.

Most animals, furry little creatures in particular, seemed to be afraid of her, scurrying at the barest scent of her, but she did not mind. If she was in a good humour, she would conceal herself and draw sketches of them from afar, which were later compiled and tied with a string as stacks. She was not confident in cooking, preferring fruits and yogurt for most of her meals, though she made decent turkey cream strew.

She was a dedicated sorceress and an avid reader, lost often in piles of papers, scrolls and books, nimble fingers chalking away complex formulas and runes. Most of the time, she went days without leaving her study, until two red foxes scratched on her door and she would take a quick meal before locking herself up again. They seemed to be the one of the few animals that could get close to her.

The foxes, curious about the new visitor, studied Sylus with keen interest. They jabbed around the Dragon playfully, and had even attempted a mischievous attack on him while he was taking a nap, but with a swept of his tail, the Dragon flung them out the window. Ever since then, they tailed him like a shadow. They introduced themselves as Luke and Kieran, and told him they were rescued by the Sorceress on a stormy night in a collapsing tree hole where they were abandoned by their mother.

The foxes got along well enough with other animals, delighted in hunting back little mice and squirrels from time to time, and had a particular fondness for mud puddles and tree caves.

Another oddity he noticed about her was that there was a permanent bandage on her left arm, he saw the foxes nipped at it when she was dissecting jinx formula distractedly. A line of linen fell apart, revealing a flash of silver scales. He blinked, and they were gone. It was difficult to verify his suspicion, for the Sorceress had on long robes regardless of the weather.

In his stay at the Sorceress’s, they kept a wordless, precarious distance from each other, neither intruding the other’s space, indefinitely probing and sounding each other out in silence. While she did not send him off right away when his wounds healed, no confirmation of his right to stay have been communicated.

The only progress of their relationship dwelled in the subtle change of the Sorceress’s attitude towards him that sprang from the day when she first spoke to him and gave voice to his name. There was an unreadable emotion in her eyes whenever she looked at him since then. Where there was a faint sense of caution in her stoicism, a softness was breaking through, reflecting itself as the barest of light in her ever-cold eyes. So long as her inconclusive silence to going or staying persisted, he would not be able to trust her fully.

Past experiences with humans told him her indecisiveness mean she wanted something from him. She was not planning on experimenting on him, was she? Was that why she was in the study all the time? Or to make a profit of his draconic features?

In the past, a passing merchant had taken pity on him and almost adopted him as a son, for the man’s wife was barren. When they discovered his identity, though, they had drawn his blood in his sleep. Dragon’s blood was precious and rare. The couple would have been fat with golden coins if Sylus had not tore their throats out with his newly grown talons.
The Sorceress might not mean him harm now, but best assume the worst before the worst happened. He would have to get to the bottom of her sorcery, see for himself what she was capable of, and whether her magic was solely domestic or aggressive or both. He had an impression, a vague hunch, that she was withholding knowledge, concealing power, and like him, feigning ignorance.

So while the Sorceress was nose deep in whatever she was doing in the study, Sylus wasted no time exploring her hut, digging for helpful clues.

The more he ventured, however, the more his curiosity grew.

Though small at first glance, the interior of the Sorceress’s hut was massive, filled with endless, twisting corridors, staircases, and doors leading to all sorts of rooms. It was like a living maze, one with a thought of its own as it remoulded itself every hour.

He spent hours scouting her many rooms, going through inventories, studios, halls, training grounds, weaponry, among many other ambiguous ones. Luke and Kieran tagged along sometimes, nicking away a piece of jewellery or two whenever they stumbled upon another treasury. If the Sorceress knew, she said nothing of their thievery.

His scouting came up unfruitful. The only thing that pleased him was that he had stumbled upon her library, hidden behind a set of beautiful, walnut wood doors inlaid with turquoise shells and mosaic comprising intricate, colourful patterns.

Drawn by a pulsating tug of power, he pushed the doors open, and found himself staring at rows and rows of books that seemed to stretch on infinitely. And not just books, but manuscripts, scrolls, stone tablets, among other forms of writings he did not recognise on every genre possible.

The Sorceress had the most bizarre of books, from poetries composed in ancient fae language, obscure philosophical writings, to encyclopedias of centaurs and weapon history. From that day onwards, Sylus spent much of his time scouring books.

An opportunity presented itself when an unexpected visitor arrived at the house.

As Sylus hauled back the day’s hunt—a handful of fishes, two chickens and a basket of fruits for the Sorceress which he carefully looped over the basket handle with his tail on his way back, he found an old lady standing in the kitchen overlooking the oven.

His left wing slammed into the shelf, sending rows of porcelain wares crashing onto the floor. The lady glanced over in surprise, and almost instantly, the Sorceress materialised between them.

“Sylus,” she called, fingers reaching out, only to stop herself midair. He tilted his head. Certainly she did not believe mere porcelain could injure him.

“So, I presume this is the dragon you took under your wing?” The old lady asked, peering over the Sorceress’s shoulder with interest.

“Yes,” answered the Sorceress. He was glaring at the other person with wary eyes, body lowered in preparation of a lunge attack. When she noticed his tensed form, she explained, “Sylus. This is my Master of sorcery and potions. She will leave soon, don’t mind her.”

The old lady had a short bob cut and thick-rimmed golden glasses. She too, donned on a robe with golden embroidery. A crest of dark roses garlanding a pointed hat was pinned to her breast. He presumed this would be the crest for the society of sorceresses. Rather fashionably, the old lady had lime green stockings and a pumpkin orange heels with pumpkins indeed as the soles. Wrinkles were deepest around her eyes and mouth, and she had a cheerful, light-hearted demeanour that contradicted with the overflowing dark energy emanated from her being.

Sylus resisted the urge to snap at her.

The old lady protested, “I thought you were treating me to tea and pies.”

“Not anymore. Sylus has come back early so we are making supper ahead of time.”

“Well, we can still have our tea. I will have my share. Or he can have his own while we have ours. How long have we last conversed, it has to be eight hundred years!”

“Eight hundred and ninety-four days,” the Sorceress said, then gestured at his talons. “And how do you propose for a dragon to cook his meals?”
The old lady tapped a finger to her chin, then said, “I suppose he can eat those fish and chicken raw—“ When she noticed Sylus’s expression, she amended herself, “Or I can turn him into a monkey for better hands.”

He let out a snicker.

“Leave him be, Master. I will see you in another time.” The Sorceress began to steer the old lady towards the exit. But the old sorceress easily teleported herself to stand before Sylus, observing him with a cool, calculating look that sent shivers down his spine.

“Master—“

The old sorceress raised a hand to silence her student, and in the naked scrutiny that followed, Sylus had the uncomfortable impression she was stripping him down bone by bone.
Pinned by her cold, sifting gaze, a slow fury burned through him.

Then, Master laughed. “Very fascinating, dragon boy. Did you know you have a soul that predated that body of yours? A rather ancient, powerful soul.”

A soul that predated his body?

The old lady turned to her student and said, “Well, you knew, didn’t you? And thus you let him stay.”

The Sorceress said nothing.

The old lady shrugged, as if her silence was expected, and returned her attention to Sylus. “Now, now, I believe we can talk things out better if we just switch you up a bit,” she said with a smile. With a snap of fingers, before Sylus could even move a muscle, an agonising pain tore through his body.

He winced and crashed onto a wall, as if being poured over by molten steel. Talons disappeared, replaced by human fingers, and dark scales dug themselves underneath the skin. His wings fanned out as a shield in futile against the old sorceress’s spell. They shrank and flatten themselves out by his shoulder blades.

When the pain subsidised, only his horns and tail remained.

“This will have to do,” said Master, clapping her hands in glee.

He let out a low growl, sending daggers at the old witch before him. “What do you want from me?” His voice was hoarse, tongue heavy, he had not spoken in days.

An ivory cloak settled itself on him as the Sorceress moved to stand between Master and him. “Master, you do not have to do this. I would have—“

“Done it differently? Yes, you very well would have. And what, take another eight hundred years to make a move? This is why you are not making any progress in that research of yours.”

The Sorceress fisted her hands and said in a steel voice, “But not like this, Master.”

The elder sorceress sighed, and in a softer tone, said, “I am doing this for you, my darling. Let me just ask the dragon a few questions, I am not going to hurt him.”

The Sorceress remained immobile, shielding Sylus from view. Master scowled, summoned a chair and sat crossed-leg. “Fine, I am swearing on the Hex’s order, a sorceress’s oath, that I am not going to lay a finger on the Dragon. Good enough now?”

Sylus narrowed his eyes, observing the two sorceresses in confrontation.

The Sorceress nodded slowly. “Three questions only, and he gets three too.” She looked at him as if to seek his consent.

This was not a bad bargain. If what they said about him was true, he would need to know what happened to his previous body, and how he ended up as a child. He dipped his head slightly, and with that, the Sorceress moved to stand at the window a few paces from him.

“Very well, let’s begin,” said Master. Looking at him in the eye, she asked, “How long do you recall being in this body?”

“Thirteen years.”

“How did you end up here, at my student’s house?”

“Persecution by the village I stayed in, fell off a cliff, and made my way here.”

The old sorceress wore a thoughtful expression, a finger under the chin as she contemplated his words. He had deliberately kept his answers short, not wanting to give too much of himself away.

“Did you know there is a curse imprinted on your soul—no, don’t answer this,” the old sorceress broke off before he could speak, then continued, “This curse of yours, is very old and primitive. It must have been a thousand years at least. Do you know who cast this?”

He shook his head.

She did not seem surprised by his answer, but exhaled in mild disappointment regardless. “Alright, your turn.”

Sylus had a lot of questions about these sorceresses, who seemed to withhold immense knowledge not only about magic, curses, and the human world, but also that of dragons. He made up his mind to seek the most pressing ones first.

“This curse you mentioned, assuming it is reversible, what is the remedy to breaking it?”

A quick smirk quirked up the old sorceress’s lips. “So clever. Yes, it is reversible. Curses, unlike most spells, require immense energy output and precise ritualistic steps. The stronger and more long-lasting a curse is, the more complex and demanding it is for the caster’s magical prowess and the sacrifice they offered. Think of it this way.”

She reached out a hand to draw in the air. Scorching, orange lines, like the foreign burning alphabets Sylus saw before, rearranged themselves midair, forming a balance scale.“Magic is imagination given form, and it is not free. Well, nothing is in this world, and I am sure you will agree with me on this given your time in human society. We sorceresses are frequent practitioners, or as I like to put it, traders with magic. To trade for the ability to conjure spells, we pay not only in form of our internal flow of magna, which is of course the premise for a spell to be established, but also through specific objects with magical-properties for more complex spells. Certainly, simple, domestic spells require less from its caster, and are more lenient with its price, and thus we could easily settle the debt with our internal magna. In the same line of logic, spells with higher risks, and in your case, a millennial curse, demand higher returns—“

“Master, please cut to the point,” interrupted the Sorceress.

The old lady let out an apologetic chuckle. “Oh, a bad habit of mine, forgive me. Where was I?” She erased the scale in the air and continued, “As I said, for a highly complicated curse like yours that lasted for at least a thousand years, I can say without any doubt that there is a powerful medium offered as a price that sustained it for centuries after centuries. One that is, perhaps, still in active and reinforcing its placement daily.”

“You may ask what kind of medium there are that could be so powerful and lasting, and to save you from that question, let’s say magic, at the end of the day, is imagination. And thus historical family heirlooms or heroic weapons, just two of the many examples, filled with human imagination across time spin in form of stories, legends and myths, tend to be perfect medium to perform more complex spells or curses. I would suspect yours to be something more enduring and unbreakable—say a legendary sword known to slay dragons.”

A sly look overtook her face. She concluded with an easy smile, “To undo your curse, one would need only to track the medium, then destroy it at the place where the ritual was once carried out. That would remove the root of the curse at once.”

Sylus took a moment to digest what the elder sorceress said. Should her words be true, it would be no easy feat to break his curse on his own. That led to his next question.“Could you, or her, break the curse?”

“Oh certainly, though it would take some time tracing back where this curse was first placed and what medium was being offered.”

This would put him in their hands. Despite his reluctance, he had no choice but to rely on a sorceress’s aid, considering this fell exactly within their realm of power and knowledge. Even so, he would negotiate his way to maximum his gain.

For the final question, he turned to the Sorceress, who had on an unreadable expression as she listened. He asked, “Could you undo this curse for me?”

Astonishment flitted across her eyes as they snapped to meet his, her lips parted slightly as though she had never imagined he would ask this of her. As she oscillated, the elder sorceress laughed and nudged her student. “This is perfect, isn’t it? I have a feeling dragon boy could lend you insight in your research, shed you light on what has been clouding your mind all these times. I urge you, my child, to take on this journey.”

The Sorceress closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, they were once again void of emotions. In a soft but unyielding voice, she said, “You have my word on it, Sylus, I swear it on the Hex’s order that I will see you to the end of the curse.”

“And in return?” He prompted, not so naive to think she would offer her help without a price.

“In return, I ask for one thing from you—an oath that pledges your allegiance to me, in which for once only, you will submit your power to me willingly and unconditionally, and I shall overrule you in this single occasion by no means that would harm you nor your interest. Do you solemnly swear to this?”

While he had his doubts to the true agenda of the sorceresses and their suspicious research, this was the best bargain he could ask for in his current circumstances. A single, unconditional occasion to preside over him in exchange for an end to his millennial curse—the answer was simple enough.

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Sylus woke to the rustling of fabrics and metal clinking. The morning air was crisp and chilly, with a sweet, wet scent of fallen leaves and musky moss and woodsmoke as the beginning of autumn crept in. Kicking away the blankets, he poked his head out the tent’s flap and found the Sorceress was already up, her tent cleared away and the fire put out. Seeing that he was awake, she passed him a loaf of bread, a pot of honey and a slab of cheese.

“We should reach the town by noon today, we are running low on food,” she said as she went through their supplies in her drawstring bag, which had a capacity of three fully grown elephants, or perhaps more. He wondered what happened if you go inside the bag. Could you actually carry a person in it?

“How long are we staying in the town?” He asked, munching his breakfast.

“Two days at most, four if there are any additional errands to pick up.”
“And how long until we make it to the city?”

“Another moon’s time, and two more for the Empire’s capital city. We could get horses perhaps in the first city, that should cut the journey to the capital by half the time on foot. Do you ride?”

He shook his head.

“I suppose not. I will teach you on the way.”

They had left the Sorceress’s hut weeks ago in search of a cure to his curse, gathering information, refilling supplies and picking up errands as they passed by farmhouses, villages and towns. Their journey went smoothly so far, Sylus had to admit she made a rather good companion, taking care of supplies and equipment, navigating easily even in the dark, and tackling beasts that happened to cross their paths. The only thing that bothered Sylus was her constant silence. The Sorceress kept mostly to herself, speaking only when necessary, as if language was sacred and speaking freely would offend the gods. He was unsure what was on her mind half the time. Sometimes, he swore the Sorceress forgot he was there as she went about her routine. He sensed a deliberation in her withdrawal, something more than wariness guarded her eyes. Despite spending a season together, the Sorceress was as much a mystery to Sylus as the first day.

Her emotional withdrawal and reclusive attitude made him wonder who really was the dragon among the two of them. Still, with each day, he grew used to her presence, finding it at times soothing in the soft swooshing way she did her open air sketches in the low, dancing camp fire when they waited for their meat to be cooked, or the rhythmic clinking of her cloak’s clasps as she walked. She was the first person who accepted him as he was, dragon and all, though he was not so trusting that he would think she did not harbour a deeper agenda. But for now, he decided that she meant him no harm, as her oath had promised.

The only few opportunities they conversed was during their daily training session. She had begun giving him sword training classes a month before they departed to ensure he had the means to protect himself. He was not very inclined to use human weapons, but she had convinced him otherwise. “Until you can alternate freely between your two forms, you use a weapon,” said the Sorceress with finality. She tossed him a wooden sword and made him swing it from dawn till dusk. “This is heavier than wood,” he remarked breathlessly as the sun was setting, drenched in sweats.

“The core is steel, that is why,” she replied, lifting a cup of tea to lips.

“When do I use real steel?”

“Tomorrow you train on the manikin. When I deem it enough, you can spar with me. Nick me once, and you may have steel.”

“I never see you with a sword,” he challenged, a brow raised. “Are you even good with one?” That was true, she only ever used her staff, a silver rod with a crescent-shaped head emblazoned with a large opal in the middle. It looked like half staff and half scythe.

“Because there never was a need for it here,” she said evenly, not taking bait. The tea cup made a soft clink as she set it down and strode towards him. She reached out a hand to cover one of his horns, her touch light, barely caressing the tender base. He winced, and cursed himself silently, holding still. “This is the second part of the training. I will conceal your horns, see if you can summon them by will,” she instructed.

Gently, she rubbed his horn, and a warm, strange sensation spread from head to toe, filling him with an overflowing warmth. It was like bathing in the sunlight.

Without the horns, they were almost the same height, and she had not been this close to him since their first night when she tended to his wounds. Up close, he realised there were silver flecks in her pupils. They danced to the soft rays of the setting sun.

He snapped out of his trance when the Sorceress tilted her head, waiting patiently. Sylus shut his eyes. He could sense his dragon within him, it was now in slumber. Nudging and coaxing the dragon with some effort, he felt his horns protruding.

“Good. We continue tomorrow, now supper is waiting.” She spun on her heels without saying more.

By the final day of the month, he was able to spar with her. The Sorceress was as good with a sword as she was with a staff. She wielded it with a cat-like grace, her movement clean and lithe. The training ground sounded with rings of their wooden swords clashing. In a moment of distraction, she swept his legs off the ground, arm raised to deal the final blow.

But something flashed in her eyes, a split second of uncertainty. Sylus seized the opportunity to regain his footing and swing out his sword. She dodged his first blow, but his second one whistled out like a snake lurching at its prey, lightning fast. The Sorceress parried a beat too late, the tip of his wooden blade grazed her cheek.

A thin line of blood dripped down. Rubbing a finger over it, the wound vanished as smoke. “You have met the entry requirement to go. Rest well tonight, we set off first light of the day,” she declared in a soft voice.

“You held back,” he said, halting her tracks.

“I didn’t.”

“You faltered.”

“I did.” She turned her face slightly. “And that was enough to be fatal in a real battle. You earned your sword and the right to go.”

The next morning, she gave him a beautiful blade and a matching hunting knife wrapped in green silks. The hilt was encrusted with tiny rubies, the blade shone with a cool, blue sheen, like moonlight solidified. When he tested the blade’s point, it pierced right through his skin. It was the first thing he ever owned.

Now, he wore the blade by the side, the hunting knife sheathed in his boot. The Sorceress lifted a hand, and almost automatically, he placed his head under it, allowing her to hide his horns. “It is odd you can tuck away the tail but not the horns,” the Sorceress mused aloud, fingers combing his hair absently.

Sylus looked away and said nothing, worried she would see the truth in his eyes.

A flock of ravens caw overhead. She withdrew, almost startled, and turned away as Sylus donned on his cloak and pulled up the hood.

“Where is Mephisto?” he asked as they set off in the direction of the town. The Sorceress had permitted a raven to tag along, he was her messenger after all, plus he was a good scout. He came to understand that she named all her ravens Mephisto, every one of them.

“Since the first one?” He had asked, incredulous. “There has to be—over a thousand of them.”

“Since the first one,” she repeated. “They only respond to this name, from the first raven till the last.”

Sylus reckoned she was probably not very good with names. When was her beginning, how did she come to be, alone and peerless in a desolated house save for the ravens and the foxes—he left these questions unspoken, they would be for another day.

“There was an informant I would like to meet up, I have sent Mephisto ahead to deliver a note to let him know to expect us, ” she replied.

That piqued his interest. From what he gathered, the Sorceress barely had any social contacts. She had no peers, no family, no neighbours. The only other person she talked to was Master, and she visited like once in eight hundred years.

The one time she took him to the nearest town for his clothings, he noticed how nobody on the streets seemed to be able to see them. His suspicion grew when, later at the dressmaker’s store, she moved about ranks of sample clothing and fabrics with sure-footedness, as if she owned the place. She took his measurements, designed his outfits, and sew out full sets of clothes with a wave of her hand, the familiar burning runes floating in the air. She made him try them on in the dressing room, and at last satisfied, left a pouch of coins on the cashier on their way out, all the while without interacting with anyone. No one batted an eye when they left.

When Sylus voiced his skepticism, she explained, “Best not to meddle in the everyday of human affairs. No one will remember we visited.”

“How?”

“I erased us from their sight, and from their memories.”

“But you left the coins.”

“Sorceresses are many things but not thieves,” she answered, and that ended the topic.

Who could this informant be, useful enough for the Sorceress to let him keep his memory? His anticipation grew with each step they made towards the town, yet it shattered upon the first sight of burning houses.

Sylus unsheathed his sword while the Sorceress summoned her staff as they scouted what was remained of the town. Houses were burned down to rubbles and ashes, surrounding farmlands in ruins and corpses littered the streets.

The air was heavy with burned flesh, smoke and decay. Sylus lifted a hand to cover his nose as he surveyed the casualty. He was no friends of humans, but even he would not have done this to innocent civilians.

A sharp shriek caught their attention. Mephisto flew in circles above, then flew away, leading them deeper into the town. There, under a crumbling roof, they found a man struggling to climb out.

The Sorceress shattered the roof into fine dust with a single spell as Sylus pulled him out. They lay the man against a tree and let him catch his breath as the Sorceress worked to fix his broken legs.

“I knew you would come to us, you must be the Sorceress,” the man quirked up a tired smile.

“Gareth?”

“Gareth is my great-great-great-grandfather. They passed your formulas and message down the line. My grandfather used to tell me how someday you would return to collect a favour.”

The Sorceress lowered her head and said nothing. So Sylus asked, “What happened here?”

The man brushed his moustache and looked away. “The Church, they sent their Legion of Justitia here looking for a sorceress. They received an oracle that the fiend has returned, and the sorceress has a hand in it. They traced it all the way here. I swear no one of this town breathed a word of you, but somehow words got out that our family has had dealings with sorcery. When we refused to give in, they set off a fire at midnight and let loose beasts…” He took a shaky breath and continued, “I was too late, the message never reached you. The Legion of Justitia might still linger, you have to go. They are heading North.”

Sylus asked, “What about you?”

The man offered him a half, sloppy smile. “I have taken a slow-acting fatal poison, it should be any time now.” Turning to the Sorceress, he said, “This is not on you, I have always dreamed as a child to meet you. Our family would have died off centuries ago were it not for your medicine…”

The Sorceress held onto his hand in a tight grip. A soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead, sending mournful hushes. With her other hand, she brushed the man’s temple lightly. “Dream, you have laboured enough,” she murmured. And with that, she sent the man into a slumber as Death made his eventual claim.

For the rest of the day, against the man’s advice, the Sorceress stayed behind to bury all the dead. It appeared that the town had been evacuated, but there were still fourteen bodies they managed to find. The Sorceress buried them near a small hill where yarrows and cornflowers lay out a floral carpet.

She was quiet in her labour, and Sylus was at once lost for words as he helped her with the burial. Not knowing the names of the dead, they erected a simple stone piles for each grave as tombstone. When they were finally done, the crescent moon was high in the sky.

Sylus kindled a fire and barbecued some fish skewers. He took some to where the Sorceress remained with the tombstones. As he approached, he heard her singing to the wind. Her voice was low, bordering on a whisper, as though she was afraid to wake the dead. Gaze fixed on the distance, where shimmering lights of faraway cities dotted the horizon, her countenance was aloof and poignant as she hummed to the half moon.

He must have made a noise, for her eyes went to his and the song came to an end. “What is it,” he asked awkwardly, feeling as though he was intruding on an intimate moment. “The song you were singing.”

A strange light entered her gaze. She replied, “A requiem for the departed.”

“Sing it again,” he said.

She shook her head, and the strange light was gone. “Maybe another time, when there is an accompanying music instrument.”

Silence stretched between them, punctuated by incessant howls of a distant wolf pack and the sighing of the deep woods. Sylus did not feel a particular remorse for these people. While they had died an unjust and awful death, they were strangers to him.

New to the more complicated, tender side of human emotions, he was not able to share the Sorceress’s grief, if that was what she was experiencing.

Desire he knew well, they burned through his right eye like blazing coal whenever he detected them—they were easy and straightforward. Sometimes he gave in, sometimes he did not. Fear too was his old friend, when the children first saw his horns and screamed “Monster, monster!” at him, and chased him out from village to village. Anger followed him like a ghost wherever he went, a dark, greedy snake coiled at the bottom of his stomach, building and building as he channeled this resentment at himself, at his own vulnerability as he fled for life. But grief was a stranger, it was a foreign thing to him. He did not know what to say to soothe the Sorceress’s melancholy.

He seated himself behind the quiet sorceress, tail curling behind her. “This is not on you,” he echoed the words spoken by the dying man earlier.
The Sorceress lifted her head from folded arms, and asked, “Why did you think I do it, the burial?”

He fumbled for the appropriate word, “Kindness?” But even as he voiced it aloud, he did not believe it.

“No, that is not kindness. I did not do it out of kindness. I did it—for myself. There is nothing selfless in what I do, nothing kind.”

He contemplated her words for a moment, then said, “You can only feel pain when you are alive. When they died, nothing remained. Whether it was out of guilt or kindness, you have sent them off to a painless realm.”

She looked at him as if it was the first time she saw his face.

Clouds had drifted to block out the half moon, casting a shadow on her face. She lowered her gaze and whispered,“You are right, you can only feel pain when you are alive. In Death, perhaps there would be something gentler than in Life, rare, but there still.”

She said nothing more for the rest of the night, and he sat there with her for a long, long time—so long Sylus did not recall how he returned to the tent that night, only that when he dreamed, he dreamed of her soft tune scattered by the wind, following him into the moon-lit darkness.

Chapter Text

By the far edge of a land, where spring was eternal, there was a dark cathedral that stood overlooking the sea. Sunlight, pure and divine, penetrated an enormous stained glass nave, spilling the tiles a pool of iridescent shadows in colours of crimson and blue. Overhead, a bell toiled on endlessly, ringing hollow in the deserted hall. Across was a set of dull organ pipes, they sat at the corner, gathering rust.

This was a dreamscape the Sorceress returned to often, a reoccurring vision that came to her in the ambiguous state of half waking and half sleeping. She recognised a significance in its reoccurrence that must have been intimate, close to the heart, yet she understood not the meaning it held.

Every hundred years or so, the Sorceress habitually sealed away her memories—to preserve her sanity, the old Master had said. For Time’s labour was never in vain, and Eternity’s erosion fell justly upon those who gained immortality. While the body and soul were immortal, the mind was not. The Sorceress supposed they simply were not made for Eternity.

Obscure, prosaic, and non-linear, her memories came to her as a lost song, one that was at once ancient, fragmented and tuneless. She was the dumbfounded fish oblivious to the turbid water she came from, looking on with blank, unseeing eyes of a world filtered by the confusing, fogged engravings of her tank glass, mistaking their crooked silhouettes as reality. It was no easy feat trudging through these uncertain waters, the weight of a thousand years threatening to crush her at the slightest wrong probe. Part of her feared they would fracture her soul before the sifting and dissecting could be done, afraid she was unleashing centuries and centuries of forgotten agony, trauma, and guilt that should have been buried alongside her draconic ancestry. Yet, she pressed on night and day in discreet, resolved to uphold her ends of the oath to the Dragon named Sylus. And it was his name that broke the seal, like a dial of light, the gentlest, most radiant, kind of light, that illuminated the age-old contract she made with forgotten gods.

So familiar, the shape of his name on her tongue, as though she had murmured it a million times before, that joy and pain filled her voice before her mind registered their meanings. By an unknown conviction, as the blind might feel around a strange path trusting nothing but the hard land they stood, she knew he was the one she was waiting listlessly for in a thousand sunrise and a thousand sunsets. No, more than that. She had been waiting for a Time longer than Eternity. Like a slow but steady stream, her past was catching up to her presence, growing with clarity.

As she began the daunting, rigorous task of unsealing and sieving memories, her dreamscape too came to her in clearer, more lucid visions.

Sometimes, she would be in a brighter hall, the interior of which resembled the dark cathedral’s, but also varied in its ambiance and design. Everything was rigidly executed, clean cut obsidian tiles against pale marble pillars. Columns of sculptures and paintings filled either side of the hall, animated by flickering candle lights. They depicted unsightly, vile creatures with grotesque horns, chests gutted by a majestic, golden spear of the god-sent.

Other times, she found herself in a tiny room made up of a narrow bed and collapsing shelves, where the air always smelled dank and lonely. In her hands, she clasped an elegant, golden lamp. It was an old lamp, but you could never tell with its shiny polish. Whoever owned the lamp must have taken great care of it. Atop its spout was a little dragon, body curled the base like a thin tendril of black smoke.

A dull pain flared up in her chest whenever she dreamed of the bright hall or the clammy room, and strangely enough, it was always the dark cathedral and her dusty, empty hall that appealed to her most, its low, mournful bell resonating with her quivering heart. While she yearned to root out the cause of this odd heartache, the complete digestion of a thousand years worth of memories was not to be rushed. And thus she allowed herself to stray occasionally and dwell on one of the infinite mundane, meaningless snippets that conjured her long life.

Tonight, her dark, lovely cathedral laid itself bare before her mind’s eyes, with a distinctiveness as it never had before, a clarity so pellucid she could almost see specks of fine particles shimmering in the air. She investigated each tile and stone with great care. A few paces beside the organ, she found a stool, on which a book lie open, its yellow pages stirred by the invisible hand of a breeze. The Sorceress hovered by the book, finger tracing illegible writings. It was a book of poetry, unauthored, but the reader’s cursive writings, little notes scrambled here and there, hinted a limpid elegance.

By the stained glass panel, a portrait bust was positioned in the way of lights, the glistening shadows danced on its ambiguous, marble features, a coruscating blend of colours that gleamed like jewels. By the trick of light, one might even catch the beginning of a smirk ghosting those marble lips. She held its stone-cold gaze, and for a long, long time, was lost in a trance.

Could you dream within a dream, lose yourself within a reverie of a reverie? How do you wake from a reality you thought you knew, when reality was what the mind chose to tell you?

A sonorous toll of the bell broke her daze. Dawn was near. Dropping to a curtsy by the kaleidoscope of coloured shadows and light, the Sorceress seated herself before the organ and played.

***

The Sorceress did not find Sylus at their camp on the outskirt of a small market town at the agreed time. She was not surprised, for the boy excelled in everything other than timekeeping. He had a hundred splendid reasons for all the occasions he was late that by now, the Sorceress no longer bother to check for truths.

Their journey had continued well into the late autumn rather uneventfully, with a rare occasion or two of bypassing followers of the Justitia. While the size of the Church and the Legion of Justitia had shrunk formidably as far as the Sorceress could recall from her fragmented memory, she would rather not risk clashing swords with them. For most of her time, they were a bothersome bunch that was beneath her interference, crumbling and reforming and revolutionising only to crumble again over time. By an irking twist of humour, their founding name remained unchanged, and so were their vehemence in rooting out anything remotely demonic and magic-tainted.

The air vibrated with a whistling sound as a silver glint whizzed past. The Sorceress lifted a finger, to which the arrow point stilled mere inches from her face. Sylus emerged from his hiding spot with a crossbow in hand. He did not appear disappointed at his unsuccessful ambush. If anything, he was more amused than ever. These days, he had taken an interest in handcrafting bows and crossbows, and was more than happy to try them all against her. She reckoned he enjoyed learning about weaponry more than he cared to admit, and made a mental note to get him more books when they visited a city.

“Well, how was it?” He asked, cocking a brow. Before she could reply, he hauled his hunting knife, it breezed past her and buried itself in the tree behind, where a spider was lurking near. “And you are welcome.”

The Sorceress bit back the urge to roll her eyes. She did not know when, but Sylus had gained a mischievous, sly edge over time, or perhaps it was more apt to say he had discarded his prey-like facade entirely, and was expressing his moods openly. She could tell he was a dragon of unconstrained ambition, his appetite insatiable, a natural predator that was masked by a youthful appearance.

He was hungry for her compliments, not in the sense that he would do things to appease her, but that he delighted in her acknowledgment of his growing strength. His confidence too grew as he mastered more and more of what the Sorceress taught him—from horse riding, fishing, hunting to blade polishing, potion-making and healing. He was also a much better chef than she ever was, much to her dismay, and thus he had taken over the responsibility for preparing and cooking all their meals.

Aware that too much praises would feed into his ego, the Sorceress refrained from flowery remarks and expressed her approval in simple words, “Not bad, but it may work well with better range.” With a twirl of finger, the arrow burst into flames midair. “I can sense your presence long before the arrow was notched.”

Mephisto, who had returned with him, let out a shriek as if to agree. “Are you sure it’s not Mephisto you detected? He is loud for a bird that doesn’t talk,” the boy said as he set down two brown paper bags. The bird made a noise to protest, and flew to a branch to glare at him from above.

Sylus busied himself with the preparation of their supper. With deft hands, he skinned the boar clean, removed excess grease, and minced it with pepper and spices. Fresh mushrooms, potatoes and onions were chopped to pieces and tossed into the boiling pot. Stringing the boar, he let it roast for a time, turning and applying honey on both sides. The juice dripped to the leaping flames, producing a delightful sizzling which drew a gulp from the Sorceress. She had to confess that his presence had greatly improved the variety and quality of her meals.

“Supper will be ready soon,” he said when he caught her looking, amusement in his tone. She turned away and busied herself with laying out utensils.

As the waning dusk set fire to the lilac sky and swirls of blazing clouds burned low in the horizon, a wicked light danced in his red eyes like hungry little flames. He sliced the meat while she filled their bowls with stew.

“What is it?” She demanded, unable to resist a shiver as she held his scorching gaze, passing over his fill.

He smirked, mirth apparent. “It would be difficult for you to go back to simple fruits and yogurt after this journey.”

She scoffed. “I recall a certain dragon used to have them without complaint.”

“The injured could not complain. And I was thinking you were trying to slow my recovery through malnutrition,” Sylus chuckled.

Sylus had warmed up to her enough, seeming to revelled in sparring verbally with her the way they would spar with swords. She did not miss the guileful, impish look in his crimson eyes however docile he presented himself. They hinted at something more roguish, untamed, and primitive.

For the rest of the evening, they traded information gathered that day, and made minor adjustment to their route to loop around the chapel that was said to store a holy relic powerful enough to ward off the fiend.

“Shall we make a bet this time as well?” He asked, a smirk playing on his lips, eyes alight with a playful glint. They had been betting on small, harmless things, with little stakes such as taking up the first watch for a week, or running the first errand, whatever it was, listed on the local community board in town, or, as she mused in bewilderment, she would have to wear whatever hair accessory he chose for her that day—which sounded to her too trivial and odd a punishment.

“I say the holy relic in the chapel tomorrow is not the one we are looking for.”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch,” he said with a shrug.

She did not think it was a hunch, but said nothing to contradict. The flickering flames had soften his profile, giving it a warm, orange glow. For once, he looked a boy his age.

“What do you say, Miss Sorceress?” He prompted at her silence. “To make things more interesting, I propose we put higher stakes.”

She did not know what else she could offer that he might want. “Do tell.”

“This,” he gestured at her left arm, in which layers of gauze tightly coiled from the wrist. “Tell me about it, what you conceal underneath.” His heated gaze seemed to burn through the gauze. “Or if it is too personal, tell me about you.”

“What about me?”

“Anything that I do not already know. Your name, for a start. I cannot refer to you as Miss Sorceress the whole time in our journey, can I?”

“Can’t you?”

“I will have my answers from you either way, if not this time, then next time. You will find that I have more patience than you’d have liked to think.”

There was a steadiness about him, an easy confidence, that gave her the impression of a hunter setting his trap with all the intention of fooling his prey with an obvious bait. She would walk into this trap knowing full well of such intention, as he knew she would. And he was confident he could out trick her despite the poorly-disguised trap. That was the bit that irked her.

“A boy’s patience.”

“A boy’s patience,” he repeated, a half smile still on his lips. “And it suffices for now, for this.”

The Sorceress rose from her seat and tucked her bandaged arm into the folds of her cloak, away from his prying eyes. “If you could prove yourself tomorrow, I will show you. Should you fail, we will never speak of this again.”

Halfway to her tent, she added over her shoulder, “And do not expect my aid until we leave the town for good.”

“Sounds like a yes to me.”