Prologue

The Everturning Wheel. A malicious game hosted by gods and demons, with the mortal realm at its mercy. With the world itself at the center, the Wheel was a whirlpool that dragged all existences into its clutches and forced them to serve as pieces on its board.

This "game," designed by the Maker, was simple. A never-ending loop in time, starting with chaos and ending in an apocalypse; a game that sentenced those who live in the world to suffer their annihilation for all eternity.

At the head of the wheel, the Maker chained the Seneschal, the benevolent god whose duty had been to watch over the mortal realm. Before the conception of the game, the Seneschal had grown to love the mortal realm and its inhabitants too much. He had interfered constantly in the mortal's lives and granted them whatever their hearts desired and, in time, they came to rely on the Seneschal. Because they no longer needed to struggle, the mortals had lost their need to fight for their survival, and the fire that drove them to progress against all odds was quenched. For what sane person would willingly submit themselves to discomfort and conflict, especially when they could simply wish it away? This angered the Maker.

To the Maker, who had created the world to function independent of any god, this was blasphemy, a crime that was unacceptable. As punishment for the Seneschal's meddling, the Maker entrapped the mortals in the Everturning Wheel. The Seneschal could do naught but watch in horror as the world was subjected to hellish torture. He was told by the Maker that only he could find the way to break the cycle and, with no other choice, he took his place at the head of the Wheel, forced by circumstance into the role of its most influential player. He tried with little success to break the Wheel by force. Then by cunning. But the only results he obtained were failure.

And fail he did. Again, and again, and again. The only solace that the Seneschal could offer the unwitting mortals, participants of a game that they could not escape, was that he was able to reset the memories of they who suffered alongside him. But he could not ease his own anguish. While the mortals stayed ignorant, free of any knowledge of their eternal torment and damnation, the Seneschal found no such freedom. Even were he to turn his back on them, his godly connection with the realm would cause him to always have an awareness of its suffering. Bound to the game as a king to his kingdom, he bore witness to the destruction of all he loved.

Even a god can feel, and eventually the burden became too much for the Seneschal. During the brief, quiet moments between the end of the world and its inevitable reincarnation, when the Seneschal was given time to evaluate his failures, there would come whispers that flowed through his mind. They would judge him, laughing gleefully at his pain, but they would also offer him a solution.

Give up. Give in. Let the Maker win and beg for his forgiveness and mercy, let the world suffer, or, better yet, let it be destroyed. Removed from existence, removed from his sight forever. At least then he could try to ignore the screams of those he had failed that echoed constantly through his mind.

After thousands- millions- of attempts to save the realm, he finally broke, and from his ensuing madness was born the Dragon. A beast created by the Seneschal to save him from his torment at any cost. Filled with all the fury of an insane god, the Dragon descended upon the mortal realm as the harbinger of the Apocalypse. It destroyed, rampaged, and sought to wipe the world from existence permanently. With nothing to watch over, nothing to see destroyed, the Seneschal would be freed.

The Dragon's efforts were in vain. It could not stop the Wheel, and the timeline simply reversed itself each time the world was destroyed. All the strength of the Dragon, all the strength of the Seneschal proven helpless beneath the power of the Almighty, of the Maker. The Dragon could do nothing but despair at its failure to free the Seneschal.

But it could not give up, for only it could save its master. Seeking a different solution, the Dragon instead decided to recruit the mortals the Seneschal had watched over and protected for so long. It issued a challenge to the heroes of man, a test to find mortals with the strength to help it. The Dragon would attack the kingdoms of the world, threatening to crush all that mankind had struggled to build. While most mortals fled from the Dragon, hoping to survive by pitifully hiding, a select few chose instead to approach the Dragon in hopes of protecting their world.

To the Dragon's dismay, none of these champions held the strength of will and body the Dragon sought. Without sufficient power it would be impossible for these humans to save the Dragon's master.

So, the Dragon gave these heroes a test. It tore the hearts from their breasts and cast a powerful spell upon their bodies. They were revived, given ability beyond that of their fellow mortals, and bestowed a new title; Arisen.

Stripped of their humanity, these newly raised champions were to seek the Dragon, confront it in a battle of strength, wit, and courage, and reclaim their stolen hearts. Only through this could they prove their worth and gain back their humanity, and, in doing so, prove their ability to save the Seneschal from his torment.

The challenge proved to be too difficult for the Arisen. They failed to grow their power, all falling short and perishing before they could reach the Dragon. The creatures that roamed the world were monstrously powerful, easily capable of overwhelming entire armies of men. Even with their new abilities, it was too much to expect the Arisen to vanquish these beasts alone.

And so the Dragon gave the next Arisen a second power; they would be able to summon a single spirit to serve and assist them along their journey. These spirits, kidnapped from their peaceful existence outside the circle of life and death, were given human form and bound to the world of mortals. They became known as pawns, beings caught between the mortal and spirit realms. By the Dragon's curse the pawns were linked to the Arisen and forced into a magical contract. If the pawns could successfully guide their Arisen to the end of the challenge, the pawn would be given the chance to become truly human.

For pawns, originally beings of a different realm, did not possess souls of their own. Without a soul, pawns could not feel human emotion, and without emotion it was impossible for them to truly live. Now trapped in the mortal realm, the pawns had no choice but to accept their quest.

The new generation of Arisen, now with the pawns at their sides, ventured forth only to fail still. Even with the pawns' assistance they would perish along their journey, or fall to cowardice when the time came to challenge the Dragon. In desperation, the Dragon chose Arisen from ever more obscure places. Old or young, frail of body or of mind, the Dragon went to even the smallest of villages and marked any with the courage to stand before him.

It was at one of these towns that the Dragon found Kang, a man who would break every convention and precedent set by those who came before him. The one who would become the most powerful Arisen to ever exist. The mortal-turned-god who would achieve what not even the Maker believed to be possible.

Kang. The One True Arisen. The Hero of Gransys. The Champion of Pawns. He who stopped the Everturning Wheel.

The man who gave me first my existence, then my soul.

The man who was my master.

Day 1: Summoning

Some spirits take interest in the mortal realm. With all the chaos that occurs every day in the lives of mortals, it strikes a vibrant contrast to the tranquility of the spirit realm. To those spirits who are dissatisfied with our existence here, the mortal realm possesses a certain appeal. Many spirits even go so far as to wish for a life as a mortal, following the happenings of the mortal realm in hopes that they may someday have the right to belong there.

Understandably, these spirits jump at the chance to gain a true place in the mortal realm each time a new Arisen is chosen. They flood the riftstones, a space between the spirit and mortal realms, in hopes that they might be selected to be born into the mortal realm as a pawn.

I am not one of those spirits.

In fact, I quite like the peace and never changing stability of the spirit realm. Never have I felt the desire to experience existence from a mortal perspective. My presence at the riftstone this day is pure chance.

Because of this, when I first feel the pull of the Pawnspell I resist desperately, praying against all odds that the spell will pass by and select another. That I shall not be kidnapped on this day, ripped from my peaceful existence and forced into subservience against my will. That I may be allowed to remain drifting through the spirit realm without the burden of emotions that comes hand in hand with becoming a Pawn- but the gods of chance ignore my pleas. I am selected to aid this new Arisen in his quest to conquer the Dragon, reclaim his heart and humanity, and set peace to his kingdom.

The particles of my body coalesce slowly, as though unwilling to face the hardships to come at the hands of yet another "chosen one". My struggle bears no fruit, for no matter how I attempt to delay, my summoning is inevitable. A warm trickle of life blossoms from the portion of my new master's soul being infused into my vessel. Information and mortal instincts flood my being in a dizzying rush and everything that I was takes a new form to become… me.

With my eyes still shut I take my first breath, feeling the rush of air flowing through my body. I can feel a slight breeze carrying the scent of the sea, can hear the cries of birds- seagulls, my mind supplies. From the muted sound of their screeching I can tell that we are indoors, the breeze coming from opened windows.

I can not help but feel a strange sense of disconnect at how my knowledge of this place far exceeds my experience here.

"Er… did I screw up something, Rook? She's not opening her eyes," says a cheerful voice from directly in front of me. The man speaking, most probably my new master, seems slightly nervous at my less than enthusiastic arrival to this world.

I decide to let him suffer a moment longer. Perhaps he will send me back and choose another to take my place.

"Most probably she is simply overwhelmed, Master." The man named Rook responds from a short distance away. "The summoning spell bestows all of your knowledge to her- it makes us Pawns useful as soon as we enter this world. Of course, processing such a large volume of information can be quite stressful."

"All of my knowledge? That could be a bit embarrassing," mutters my new master.

"Worry not, Master. She merely inherits the information, not the memories associated with the knowledge."

"Well that's a relief."

I can hear my new master approaching me with light footsteps. My eyes stay squeezed shut, the hope that he will send me back still present.

"Hey, hey, hey," he says, lightly poking my cheek with his finger. "You awake?"

With a sigh, I finally release my vain hope of escape and open my eyes. My first sight is a curious face mere centimeters from my own- the man's friendly, blue-grey eyes staring into mine as his breath tickles my nose.

"Hey babe," he says with a wink and a grin, maintaining his proximity to me.

I slam my fist into his chin on instinct, teaching him a valuable lesson on the meaning of personal space.

"Well that was unexpected," chuckles a tall woman to my left. "Are you quite alright Master?"

My master looks up at me from his sprawled out position on the wooden floor, still grinning widely.

"Nice punch!" he says with a laugh. I find myself slightly unnerved by his distinct lack of a reaction to being hit, as though he is completely accustomed to being suddenly attacked by women he has just met.

He jumps up and leans toward me, peering at my face interestedly. Either he is not very bright or he is completely oblivious to the displeasure of others. Neither bodes well for his- for our- upcoming journey.

"Hey, hey, you're pretty cute, exactly like I hoped you would be when Rook over here told me I could summon a personal pawn!" He exclaims, nodding his head at the rather exhausted looking man standing a few feet away from us. "Name's Kang, by the way. What might your name be, beautiful?"

I tell him my name is his to choose, for I have no name I currently associate with my being. Names have no meaning to spirits. In the spiritual realm we did little else but simply drift through the emptiness or watch the outside world.

"If you say so. Then... I'll call you Reina!" My master straightens to his full height with a satisfied nod, towering above me and brushing the dirt from his clothes and black ponytail. He had apparently been leaning quite far over to look into my eyes, as he appears to be extremely tall. I tilt my head back, hiding my surprise at his height as he continues to speak; "You know, you look exactly like I was hoping you would! Strange coincidence, don't you think?"

It is not a coincidence. Just as I have no name, I also have no predetermined physical form- I come into existence with whatever form my master so imagines. Nothing is predetermined, not even my gender. While my new body is female, I could have easily materialized as a male had it so been desired. We pawns are created based upon the form desired by our Arisen- the stronger the picture, the closer the pawn will be to the imagined form.

I stride toward the mirror hanging on the wall of the inn, hoping my new master has better taste than the previous Arisen I had observed from within the spirit realm. That particular man had summoned his poor pawn as a seven foot tall bear-woman with the facial features of an ogre, and I feel that having such a hideous appearance would be decidedly unpleasant. After all, now that my spirit has taken this form for the rest of my mortal existence, I would hope to at least be attractive.

One look into the mirror puts me in shock. From inside the mirror gaze back a pair of large, soft, grey eyes set upon a pixie-like face. Shoulder length, brown hair frames this head, set upon a body which precisely matches the fae visage- with one exception. The curvature of the figure seems just barely within the limits of what is believable on such a petite body. While I am definitely not ugly, I still find myself horrified at the sheer lack of practicality of my new form. In other words, this body puts cute looks and feminine curves as the top priority at the expense of combat functionality. With this form I shall be near useless both in combat and as the carrier of equipment. My new master is, quite unbelievably, even more dense than I had feared.

Through gritted teeth, I quietly accept the much too large bow and quiver Master hands me and quickly put on the armor he has provided. Armor, in this case, referring to something akin to leather underwear matched with a pair of boots and fingerless gloves. Shivers rack my body, the chill of the coastal air sending goosebumps across my bared midriff, shoulders, and thighs. Hopefully Master plans to avoid putting me anywhere near combat, as this outfit seems more at home on an exotic dancer than any kind of warrior.

Perhaps Master is hoping enemies will be too busy throwing money at me to fight back.

I turn to look at the two others of our group, cocking my head to the side. Has my master hired mere mercenaries to assist us in our journey? This could be a problem, as no human could possibly keep up with the challenges we shall need to face. My master steps forward to introduce them, pointing first at the bearded man in robes.

"That old guy is Rook. He's been helping me along ever since my heart got ripped out," my master chuckles. "Throws a mean fireball, but he's pretty cool. Don't worry about the fact that he's wearing a dress, I swear he isn't insane."

"Master, these are robes, not a dress. They assist in the channelling of mana for my spellcasting-"

My master grins and ignores Rook's extensive retort, instead turning and waving toward the tall, armored woman. "She's Sylvie. She's a bit clumsy most of the time, but she's a complete beast when it comes to slaying goblins."

"Greetings, Reina," says the woman with a graceful bow. Her elegance is ruined, unfortunately, by a loud clang as she drops her shield on the floor.

"Er… don't worry, really. I've never seen her drop her shield while fighting, at least," murmurs my master, refusing to meet my glare.

I step in front of my fidgeting master, giving a slight nod and greeting to the two. They face me with welcoming smiles and waves, but a closer look into their eyes gives the feeling that something is missing. Unlike my master, there is no glint in their eye, merely emptiness. In a flash of understanding, I realize that these two are no humans.

They are 'expired'.

For pawns, the existence of their personal Arisen allows them to develop a human soul. Their connection with their true master stimulates this growth, eventually allowing the pawn to become fully human. With the reclaiming of the Arisen's heart comes the completion of the pawn's soul, the reward that allows them to become truly alive.

For those who fail to guide their Arisen to success, there is no such reward.

The expired are the pawns of those Arisen who perished before the completion of their quest- they are only partially complete. They merely wander this world as abnormal existences, unable to find joy in life or die of age. Even death elsewhere can serve as no escape, as the soulless can not pass on to the Everafter. If they perish they are doomed to an eternal torment, losing their minds and wandering the world as wraiths. Many expired seek fulfillment by joining and serving an Arisen that is not their own, but even this will never allow them to become fully human. It will merely give them the chance to save another of our kind from experiencing the same fate.

This, more than anything, is the curse of a Pawn. Without a soul of our own, we cannot age. We cannot feel. We cannot truly live. If the Arisen who creates us perishes before completing his quest and granting us a soul of our own, we have nothing.

Looking at these two, I make a personal resolution that I shall not become one of them. I will succeed in bringing Master to face the Dragon, if only so that I may escape the miserable fate of the expired.

For now, however, I shall try to befriend these two before me. Without their assistance, I doubt Master shall survive the first week.

As Master strides off while whistling, Rook smiles sympathetically at me and silently drapes a short leather cloak around my shoulders. Perhaps sensing that just this cloak will be insufficient to keep back the chill, Sylvie hands me an oil lantern to warm myself. Unfortunately, in the process she somehow trips over her own feet and spills the lantern oil across the wooden floor of the in, much to the intense displeasure of the innkeeper.

This shall be a long, long journey.

Day 2: Cassardis

Bounties ripped from notice boards across Cassardis threaten to spill from my overflowing bag. For what must have been the hundredth time since Master handed me this accursed bag, I am forced to stop walking so I may collect several spilled notices. Perhaps sensing my mounting frustration, Sylvie kneels down beside me, taking the papers from my hands and tucking them into her own bag.

"It is not so bad, Reina. At least our new master is energetic," she says with an encouraging smile.

I suppose energetic could be the word to describe Master, although I admit I have been thinking more along the lines of 'hyperactive'.

This description would not be unwarranted, as Master has decided the best way to form bonds between our ragtag team is to search out and accept every quest he can possibly get his hands on. He refers to this as 'bonding through shared experiences' and 'mutual hardships', but I do not feel that finding runaway cats and rare plants shall bring us any closer together. I force myself to look on the bright side: maybe this shall give me the opportunity to begin curing him of his stupidity.

Before we can leave Cassardis to complete these quests, however, Master has apparently promised assistance to a few of the locals. He seems to be trying to live up to people's expectations of him; perhaps he truly believes that he has become special by having his heart ripped from his chest and consumed by a gargantuan flying reptile.

Although I do suppose that is in and of itself something bordering a miracle. How does the Dragon keep the heart intact when he devours it? Even more important, what exactly is sustaining the life of Master at this time? Unfortunately Master is far better armored than I- by which I mean he actually has clothes- so it is somewhat unlikely I'll be given the opportunity to peek inside his chest when the first goblin we fight cuts at him with its sword.

While I ponder these questions, the rest of our group begins the first of our list of requests- to find the village priest's copy of the Maker's Scriptures that was lost during the Dragon's attack on the village. We climb the long dirt path leading to the chapel and Master calls out to the priest, patting him on the shoulder in greeting.

"Sup' Clem! Don't worry about your fancy book, we'll find it ASAP. Any idea where you might have dropped it?"

"Dropped it?" The priest huffs. "You suggest that I would be so careless as to drop the holy book of the Maker? I did not 'drop' the Scriptures, they vanished from my podium when the Dragon attacked."

"You mean they just disappeared?" Master asks.

"Yes, disappeared. That is what vanished means, does it not?" the priest says, rolling his eyes. "I do not know what could have possibly happened to them."

When I offer the thought that his church may be haunted he gazes at me mournfully, apparently terrified at the thought that ghosts might have taken over his place of worship. Perhaps he should have taken the time to consider his fear of specters when establishing his church alongside a graveyard on top of a lonely seaside cliff.

Master shushes me as Priest Clemente begins violently trembling and his face grows pale. I suspect the candles shall stay lit throughout this night and far into the morrow, judging by the way the priest's eyes dart between the deep shadows of the ceiling's beams.

"So… ghosts, eh Clem? Aren't they the biggest fear among religious folks? I mean, don't you all think that ghosts can steal and consume your soul? I can't think of much that's more terrifying than losing your chance at an afterlife, am I right?"

"Wha-what? Are you insinuating that I am afraid of ghosts?" the priest stammers.

"Insinuating? I would never! No, of course not," Master says cheerfully. "Besides, ghosts aren't so bad! Reina here used to be a ghost, and look at what a cutie she is!"

To be more precise, I used to be a spirit, not a ghost. Ghosts are the remnants of dead humans who are tied to this world by regrets, but I feel no need to point this out to the priest who is slowly edging away from me with fearful eyes. After all, he has been exceptionally unpleasant. Perhaps he shall show greater respect to those he begs for assistance in the future.

"But the church is the only place in the village that the Dragon didn't touch. How did they just disappear if the Dragon never came up here in the first place?" Master says.

"Why would you put this question to me? That's what I brought you here to figure out!" Priest Clemente's shouts, as if trying to cover up his former humiliating display.

"Um, no you didn't. You asked me to come find your scriptures, not figure out why they disappeared," says Master.

Priest Clemente stares at Master for a few seconds in silence, his face taking on a rather unhealthy crimson hue.

"Very well. Then if you would be so kind, I ask of you to find my Scriptures and bring them to me," the priest finally manages to say from between grit teeth.

"Yeah, no problem! So tell me again, where did you drop them?" Master says with a wide grin.

A few minutes later we leave the church. Leaving, in this case, referring to a hasty exit before the priest falls dead from an aneurysm.

How Master plans on finding the scriptures with no clues toward their location I never get the chance to find out, as mere moments after we exit the church a young man grabs hold of Master's arm and buries his face in Master's chest whilst sobbing uncontrollably.

Several amusing minutes pass before Rook manages to regain control of himself- Silvie and I are still trying desperately to suppress our laughter- and finally steps between the boy and Master, who has been alternating between awkwardly rubbing the boy's shoulder blades and uncomfortably attempting to extract himself from the boy's grip. Rook dries the boy's tears with a cloth we had acquired earlier while raiding some poor fisherman's home, calming the boy down while Master tries to wipe snot off his shoulder with a small pamphlet of bound parchment he pulls out from his bag. He had apparently been unable to find anything more suitable for the job, such as a cloth or rag.

"All is well child, no need to cry. Pray, tell me; what is the cause of thy sorrow?" Rook asks the boy soothingly, rubbing the boy's back.

"I-I lost my father's scr-scriptures when the dragon attacked," the boy chokes out. "I j-just wanted to have a look at them, but I dropped them when I was r-running away. I didn't mean any harm, I didn't!"

"Ah, so that's what you were saying," Master says, scraping off the last of the snot and tossing the paper to the side. "Don't worry so much kid, I'll find it for you. Any clue where you lost it?"

I tune out the rest of the conversation, my eyes drifting out over the sea as I wonder if I can convince my master to let me go lay out in the sun whilst he looks. After all, my clothing is already barely more than a swimsuit, so I would be right at home by the ocean. It isn't until Silvie taps my shoulder and whispers in my ear that I realize we have grossly underestimated the sheer stupidity of Master.

Silvie and I lean over the paper Master had tossed to the side, inspecting the battered, pocket sized, and now snot covered print of the Maker's Scriptures. I gingerly pick it up by the corner, holding it up between Master and the boy and interrupting the boy's claims that he 'started on the beach but couldn't remember where he had run due to how terrified he had been'.

"Th-thats it! That's my father's scriptures! How did you find it so... quickly..." the boy trails off as he notices the sorrowful condition of the pamphlet.

Simultaneously, four people turned to stare disbelievingly at Master, who is gaping at the book in astonishment.

"Wait, that's what we were looking for? I found that on the roof of that building just under this cliff next to two piles of clothes!" Master says, pointing off the side of the cliff. "How the hell did you get on top of the buildings when you were on the beach running from the damned Dragon?"

The boy flushes bright red, muttering something about how 'maybe he hadn't been on the beach after all, and maybe a certain female friend had thought herself possessed by a specter that caused indecent thoughts, and maybe he had told her that he could help her and had borrowed his father's scriptures to help him seem more authentic.'

A few silent seconds pass before the boy bursts into embarrassed tears and takes off running, leaving Master to explain why the scriptures are torn and covered in snot to the decidedly ungrateful Priest Clemente.

The sky is clear and the sun bright in the sky as we exit the church. Just like Master, the weather finds itself unable to read the mood of our next quest: deliver the news to a man about the death of his brother, Cortese.

The request comes from Elvar, one Cortese's friends who had been saved by Cortese's bravery. Cortese had distracted the Dragon so that his companions could flee, but fell to the Dragon's claw. Elvar blames himself and is unable to face the brother of Cortese, leaving it up to Master to do so in his stead.

We find the brother in town, assisting the healers with changing the dressings of the wounded. At Master's greeting he looks up beseechingly, hoping for some sort of news about the missing Cortese. Master swallows, reaches out and puts his hand on the man's shoulder, takes a deep breath, and delivers the bad news in the most sympathetic way he is capable of.

"Sorry man, your bro got ripped open by the dragon and died."

I cannot help but admire the man's composure in the face of bad news. Rather than taking out his sorrow on the messenger (although in this case it would have been completely warranted) he chokes back his sobs, raises his chin, and speaks bravely with tears brimming from his eyes.

"I-I see. Elvar has suffered in this as well. Cortese made his choice. He faced his end with valor, and died a man- Elvar bears no fault in that. He's no cause to blame himself."

Even I, emotionless as I am, can not help but be at least slightly moved by this man's willingness to forgive and help Elvar. Master, however, is confused.

"Dude, how are you so calm? Your bro died. Like, he got brutally eviscerated by a giant lizard and thrown into the ocean. There's no way you can still be okay after hearing that."

Master of Pawns, yes. Master of Tact... most definitely not.

In the end, Master was forced to relay the news of his "successful" mission back to Elvar, as the brother had thrown a few choice curse words at Master and fled wailing down the cobblestone street.

When Master tells Elvar that the message had been delivered, Elvar looks up sheepishly, as if embarrassed at his own timidity.

"I thank you, cousin. Pray, forgive the trouble my cowardice has placed upon you... might I know, what were his brother's words?" Master pauses to think for a moment before reciting a general translation of the words Cortese's brother had spoken to him.

"He said 'what in the Maker's name is wrong with you'' and then ran down the street crying," Master says, seemingly proud of himself.

I suppose these technically are the brother's words. Not the ones Master was supposed to relay to Elvar, but still the brother's words. Elvar seems shocked at the insult, his face falling and his eyes downcast.

"Yes, he's… he's right. Cortese did not trade his life for mine so I could wallow in idle self-pity. I'll live the best I am able. For his sake. I can only hope that this event has not forever labeled me a coward." The man looks so depressed I almost think about stepping in and correcting Master, but in the end I decide it would be too much trouble. Elvar will recover; perhaps this will allow the man to gain some semblance of pride when next the time comes to fight or to relay condolences to the family of a deceased warrior.

As Elvar shuffles away, slumped over with misery, I realize this situation could have been resolved with far less pain had Master been omitted from the process entirely. Perhaps I should convince Master to refrain from "helping" other people. Not only would I spare many innocent people from intense mental trauma, it would also spare me the humiliation of admitting to others that this imbecile is my master.

Even Master seems affected by Elvar's obvious distress, a slight frown appearing on his face as he watches the man's departure. He decides to end our work for the day, leading the way back to his home while lost in thought. As soon as we walk through the door, Master strides into the main room and collapses into a chair with a sigh.

"Man, I feel like I did something wrong there," he says, oblivious to the incredulous looks Rook, Sylvie, and I are giving him.

Something? Everything. You did everything wrong.

Perhaps sensing what I am about to say, Rook cuts me off with a loud, pointed clearing of his throat and steps forward to lay his hand on Master's shoulder.

"I am certain that you will improve with time," says Rook hesitantly. Not even he, the most dutiful of us three Pawns, can bring himself to say that Master had done nothing wrong. "You may just think of today as a learning experience?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I should just do that. Thanks Rook," Master says with another deep sigh. "I think I'm gonna hit the sack. You guys should get some rest too, tomorrow we're going searching for flowers."

With that, Master retreats into one of the bedrooms, leaving the three of us to wonder what connection finding a bunch of flowers could possibly have to finding and slaying a dragon.

A few hours later I finally fall asleep to the crackling of the fire, still pondering the likelihood that Master will allow me to lay out at the beach tomorrow while he searches for flowers.

After all, how difficult can picking a flower possibly be?