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Curse of the Dragon
Chapter 6
Requiem

They seemed eerily calm as they bustled about, hefting debris from the main roads and working to clean up the area with practiced precision. It was as if they really had done this before.

The sounds of decisive commands and the scatter of feet were muted to Ahiru's ears as the villagers busied themselves with recovering what they could of the damages done in the fray. Instead, she had her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her shins. Her chin rested gently on her forearms, expression dull.

She didn't care that the blood dripped freely down from her skinned knees and elbows, or that the crimson rivulets from the shallow cut on her temple matted messily into her orange-red hair. The sharp pain from her mild abrasions didn't matter compared to everything else that just happened or what was going on in the hut behind her.

With her back against the stone, she briefly lifted her head to glance at the covered doorway. She knew that, behind that cloth, people were tending to Fakir's injuries.

His blood still stained her dress. She winced when she recalled how severe his wound had been, with the chunk of wood lodged so deep into his left shoulder, a few scales puncturing from out of his flesh in certain areas, his wings black and heavy out of his back.

The kidnapping, the supposed sacrifice, her limited two months … All of that paled in comparison to the fact that he had saved her, and this entire incident had been her fault.

Didn't that serve them all right, though? Didn't they deserve every bit of it? They spirited her away against her will. They kept implying that they had their reasons and that it wasn't personal, but with or without the full story, it didn't excuse them for the terrible things they committed against her and, by extension, her prince. Right …?

Ahiru's expression fell as she watched the villagers dismally clear away the destroyed buildings and tend to one another's cuts and bruises.

Suddenly, she regretted her previous thoughts. No one deserved this, no matter who they were or what they did.

Not for the first time, she felt stuck. It would've been so simple if she had taken advantage of the chaos and escaped. By now, she could've been climbing up those hills and into the forest surrounding the white valley, trying to find someone who could help her.

And yet, when she thought of what she would've left in her wake—destruction left by one dragon and the sudden transformation of another when the upper ground already looked like it was about to collapse—Ahiru didn't know if she really regretted her sudden decision. Somehow, some way, Fakir was able to stop his change. Did she actually … help him?

Well, not really. None of this would've happened in the first place had it not been for her.

But they were the ones who kidnapped her and brought her here!

But she—!

She grumbled in frustration, burying her face in her arms. There she was, going around in circles all over again, when ultimately the one who kidnapped her and saved her life was seriously hurt. The entire ordeal was chaos, but how could she forget the way he threw her off to the side before doing anything else? How could she forget how he picked her up from the quaking ground to carry her to safety when everyone else had left?

Maybe it was because of her importance as a sacrifice, but …

… Ahiru just didn't know anymore. She wanted to resent all of them, and yet, she worried for them. It wasn't right.

She only glanced up again when she heard the shuffle of thick fabric, and Rue stepped out from within the hut. For all of Rue's beauty, she now looked weary, her skin even more pale than usual and her eyes bloodshot. Their gazes briefly met, Rue's expression cool and unreadable, but tired nonetheless.

Ahiru's cheeks were red with shame. Did Rue blame her?

Raven was soon to follow, pushing back the cloth wearing a calm expression. He had managed to escape unscathed, and Ahiru couldn't help but be reminded of his seamless, fluid transformation earlier. She remembered as clear as day the way he morphed with such graceful simplicity, taking shape and fitting into it with ease like water poured into a glass, his mighty, dark-feathered wings beating with such force and decisiveness, that caw-like screech still echoing through her mind.

She shuddered from the memory.

With a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, Raven leaned in closer to Rue, speaking evenly and amiably. "He'll be fine in Freya's care. Now, go. You have a task, don't you?"

Obediently, Rue bowed her head without argument, letting her gaze linger on Ahiru for a moment before she started off. Raven turned his smile toward Ahiru as Rue took her leave, but Ahiru found no comfort in it. "Ah, you poor thing," he tsked, staring pityingly at her scrapes and bruises. "That was quite an ordeal for you, wasn't it?"

Ahiru didn't reply. All she could think was that Fakir and Autor must've suffered much worse than a couple of skinned knees and a scratch on her forehead. It was hard to tell if Raven was being genuine or not.

She doubted she'd ever really know.

"Well," the Elder continued, stepping aside and holding the cloth open for her, "why don't you come in? Freya can take a look at you while we have a little chat."

Ahiru silently got to her feet, her hands wringing into her skirt as she made her way through the threshold. She doubted Raven would've given her much choice to refuse, so she went along with his instructions for now.

Inside, it smelled of incense. There was a tall case of shelves and a desk beside it, both lined and filled to the brim with candles, dusty vials and jars of potions, mushrooms, weeds, flowers, spices, herbs, dried fruit, roots, assorted tree bark, and other such miscellaneous plant life that Ahiru couldn't recognize, all collected neatly in their containers or sitting in baskets. Beside the display was an empty cauldron sitting over a small fireplace. Across the room was a ratty sheet held up only by old clothespins and rope strung from one corner to the other, likely to give privacy to whoever rested in the bed behind it.

The sheet was pushed back and a woman emerged, holding a mortar and pestle and grinding up flower petals and herbs between the stone. She was the same, lovely ballerina who danced so gracefully alongside Rue and Hermia, with sweeping, elegant and golden hair that tumbled down to her knees. Her eyes were a gentle moss-green, and unlike Rue's striking beauty and Hermia's earnest sweetness, this woman held an expression so soft and so serene that Ahiru was drawn in by just the air of tranquility she exuded alone. Ahiru blushed when the woman smiled.

"This is Freya," said Raven with a gesture of his arm, "She is our most talented healer. Her knowledge of remedies and nature are incomparable. You will be well taken care of in her capable hands."

Freya shook her head delicately, a dainty blush staining her cheeks at Raven's compliment. "Oh, it is not through my talent alone—the flowers have their own voices, and it is through them that I am able to tend to you, Miss Ahiru." She placed the mortar and pestle onto the desk nearby, pushing a couple of candles and incense out of the way to make room, before politely curtsying. "Shall I see to your care now? I have something that may soothe your aches in no time—"

Perhaps Ahiru should've remembered her noble upbringing and curtsied back. It was also completely rude to ignore such an inquiry, and Freya seemed very kind, but she was effectively distracted by a shifting of shadow behind the hanging sheet nearby, and the soft groans coming from within. Ahiru was already moving toward the small opening in the sheet, Raven and Freya oddly patient as they watched her approach the bed.

She winced as she pushed back the cloth, her fingers tangling into it as she bit her lip. Fakir, now shirtless, laid on his side, one of his wings still spasming uselessly while the other hung limp. His left shoulder was bound by clean linen around his torso, and his head had likewise been properly bandaged with care, it seemed. The scales that protruded from his forearms and chest shimmered like polished arrowheads in the candlelight of the nearby side table, and his expression was set into a deep grimace even in his sleep. Sweat dripped from his bandaged temples and back, leaving a light sheen across his wounded form.

With him like this, she was brutally reminded of that first scar—the jagged mark that ran from his right shoulder to the left of his navel—and Ahiru felt suddenly ill.

He seemed so strong, otherwise. With broad shoulders and toned form, he was able to lift her up so easily and run at such a swift pace earlier. Now … well, she just felt ashamed for causing even more damage. To this place, and to him.

Once again, she felt silly, feeling remorse over her kidnapper. Ahiru shook her head and tried to harden her heart.

"He's just fine." Freya's reassurance was almost musical in tone. Ahiru felt the woman's presence beside her, her golden hair brushing against her arm. "When he recovers, he'll have the strength to transform back into full human form, I think. So don't you worry."

Ahiru's cheeks flushed, feeling frustrated with herself and with everything else. "I-I'm not worried. He—you kidnapped me, so—!" So she couldn't be worried about any of them. Not about how hurt Fakir was, or about how Rue seemed so anxious, or about how this place was damaged so terribly ...

Freya released a sigh and stepped away, turning her attention to her cauldron and filling it with water from a pitcher. "... You're right. I'm sorry."

"Ah, before I forget," Raven interrupted with misplaced pleasantry (and Ahiru was realizing that he had a habit of doing that), "that was quite the trick you displayed, halting his transformation when he had already begun the change. You must have a touch of magic, yourself."

Ahiru turned around to face him, her lips parting and eyebrows furrowing in confusion. She didn't like the way his red eyes narrowed and how his smile widened. "I don't have—"

"A few of the others saw everything. How Fakir had almost lost control of himself, and how you singlehandedly stopped it with a touch of your hand, a white glow surrounding you … I must say, it is the first time we've ever seen someone stop in the middle of it." He looked quite intrigued by it, and he ran his long fingers through his hair as he continued to marvel to himself. "I wonder if we will ever have a chance to witness it again."

A white glow? Magic? Ahiru didn't remember any of that. She simply wanted to calm him down before he destroyed everything. And there was nothing magical about her at all!

She was just … average. And not at all that special.

In the back of her mind, she wondered if Mytho would've given her a second glance had it not been for their engagement, but she pushed those thoughts away, trying to remember the bliss and the joy she felt during the short time by his side. Those were true feelings and a real connection. And it was all she could hope for, to come home to him.

With a deep breath, she reached up to clutch at her pendant, only to find that it was still gone.

Panic seized her, recalling how it sat uselessly on the table in her hut on the lower ground, flickering in the lamplight …

Discarded or not, she truly, deeply needed it right then and there. Ahiru whirled around on her heel, almost slipping out of balance, before scrambling toward the door. She only stopped when she felt Raven's hand against her shoulder, not quite threatening, but firm enough to realize that she wasn't leaving so quickly. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?" he asked. Even Freya glanced up from whatever she was making in that cauldron, her expression curious, but kind.

Ahiru's hand went up to her neck, her bottom lip trembling. "My—!"

"Ah, yes, the jewel." His smirk returned. "It is safely in our possession, and even if it wasn't, it was on the lower ground, and no damages have been done down there. Have no fear."

In their possession? Someone went well out of their way, down to the lower ground, and into the hut, just to take it? Ahiru frowned while subtly pulling away from Raven's grasp on her shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it is important to you, isn't it?" He relinquished her after a moment, tilting his head as if to be amiable. "After some of us noticed you were no longer wearing it, we sought it out. It's rather important to us, too, you know. You'll understand soon."

More and more, Ahiru resented the vagueness. "I want to understand now!"

Freya politely stepped forward, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "You deserve some rest. It was such an ordeal for everyone, and you and Fakir—"

"I—no. I'm just fine!" Ahiru gripped her dress again, her fists clenching in the fabric. "I just want answers! I'm sorry; I don't want to be rude, but you can save your healing—um—stuff for people who need it more!" She took an instinctive glance toward Fakir's bed, before returning her attention to Raven and Freya. "I'm not asking for anything else. I just want to finally know what I'm doing here!"

Surprised by her outburst, Freya's eyebrows rose, and she bowed her head as if in agreement. For his part, Raven seemed to take her words into serious consideration, and Ahiru was left waiting for his response with a held breath.

Finally, he spoke, casual and calm as ever. "I had planned to wait until repairs were complete, but I suppose these past couple of days have been trying for you."

Ahiru gave him an exasperated look, her lips forming into a pout. As if that wasn't obvious enough. Still, a surge of hope filled her chest. Maybe she would finally get some answers, and then it could all possibly give her a clue as to how to get herself out of this whole mess—some sort of loophole in whatever curse they kept going on and on about.

Raven didn't react to the stare she gave him. Instead, he gestured to the exit. "Then, I suppose it's time to show you what Autor prepared. Freya." He spun on his heel to address her, and she attentively straightened up. "Keep watch and see to it that, should Autor awaken, he doesn't come in here. He might wake Fakir and we can't afford another petty squabble between the children now."

With her nod and Raven's lead, Ahiru was ushered out of the hut, but not before casting one last glance in Fakir's direction, one of his batlike wings stretching out before folding in again in his fitful sleep.

"We were able to recover the scroll that you dropped during their little disagreement," Raven remarked as he led her to another destination. Around them, the villagers continued to work with diligence and organization, their eyes tired, but determined. "That was fortunate. We'd hate to have Autor work on a whole new one, wouldn't we?" He chuckled, and Ahiru didn't know how to feel about Raven's lightheartedness. It was hard to think that anything could be genuine about him.

Everyone here (aside from Fakir) seemed to trust him implicitly, though. Maybe it was because of how effectively he protected them against Autor's rage.

She remained quiet on the way there, wincing a bit when tiny pieces of rock dug into the bottoms of her bare feet. Thankfully, the other hut wasn't too far—larger, but just as dilapidated as the others. It was on the edge of the upper ground, near the farming areas and far enough where Autor's transformation was unable to reach, just a couple of huts away from Freya's.

Raven stepped aside and allowed Ahiru to enter first, holding the fabric up for her.

It was a library.

Or at least, it was the remnants of what was once a library. Dust floated in the air, reflected in the light of a single candle sitting on the only desk inside. The walls were lined with bookcases, filled with decrepit texts and tomes. Curiously, the books themselves weren't covered with dust—they were probably read on a frequent basis. The scent of old pages filled Ahiru's nostrils, reminding her of her strict tutor and the grand library in Hedeby.

Beside the candle was the rolled up parchment, a quill with a broken tip, and an empty inkwell. Taking in a determined breath, Ahiru marched right up to the desk, snatching up the scroll in her hand. It was quite dim inside, but she would do her best to make out the words, or fetch a lantern from somewhere in the village ...

"Ah, but wait."

She pouted, turning toward Raven. Again, more waiting.

However, there was something different in the way Raven looked upon her this time. He was still smirking (she began to wonder if he was capable of ever not smirking), but his eyes were hooded, narrowed, and dark—suddenly, he seemed … older. More weary.

Ahiru found herself hesitating.

Raven cleared his throat, gesturing to the chair behind the desk. "Perhaps you should have a seat before you get to reading."

Cautious and curious, Ahiru gave him a small nod, swallowing down the anxiety that started to bubble in the pit of her stomach. She lowered herself in the padded chair, the scroll on her lap.

The elder was always unsettling, but today, he was moreso, the candlelight casting dark shades across the lines in his face and setting his eyes aglow. She shrunk back into the cushion of the chair's backrest, biting her lip. Now that she was seated, he towered over her even more, the shadows on the wall behind him large and foreboding, like the feathered wings of his dragon form …

His voice was low and even, with a hint of his usual flippant tones. "Autor worked quite hard, you know. To write is to bare one's soul onto the paper. To write is to funnel your spirit through the quill. To write is to leave your mark upon history and claim your future."

Ahiru, unable to handle his piercing gaze any longer, let her eyes drop down to the innocent-looking scroll on her lap. He sounded reverent with his words—almost like he was praying. Another chill went up her spine.

"You see," he continued, "writing is a special power all on its own. An exquisite, potent, and vital power. And very few can harness it—even I cannot ..." He trailed off, his eyes suddenly guarded and sharp.

Why was he telling her this? She reached up to the empty spot at her collarbone where her pendant used to be, her fingertips shaking. Was writing something that big of a deal?

"That parchment is a testament to our past. Each stroke of ink and each curl of the letter is imbued with our collective spirit and memory. It is all truth, and has been for three centuries. And you will witness it all for the sake of our clan."

Raven allowed his words to hang in the air for a long moment, before he turned on his heel and headed to the doorway. He didn't bother to turn around when he spoke again, lighthearted and pleasant. "I'll give you your privacy!" The sudden change in his tone was jarring.

Ahiru was alone with the scroll, her mouth growing dry and her face pale. She didn't know why she was so unnerved, or why she felt suddenly so apprehensive. She'd asked for this. And all of her questions would be answered if she just … read this.

With quivering hands, she tried to steady herself and place the parchment onto the surface of the desk to let the light illuminate it properly. She took a deep, composing breath, and the unfurled scroll from the top to the bottom. One glance told her that Autor must've started off neatly and organized, but the letters grew further apart, the lines growing crooked, the strokes more jagged as the document went on. There were even brown splatter marks in some areas in the margins—dried blood, she realized with a gulp.

Her eyes snapped to the beginning, and she licked her lips, hungry for answers. The way it was written was factual and direct, the way she supposed someone like Autor would write.

Two-hundred-and-ninety-nine years and ten months ago, there was a village called Wyvern, and its people a dwindling race of talented sorcerers.

Born with the blood of ancient beasts (Draco occidentalis magnus) and the fabled lady-bugs (Fae-creature; commonly known as fairy) running through their veins, these sorcerers lived peacefully, practicing their magicks and—

Ahiru blinked, squinting and trying to make sense of Autor's large words in the light. But as she leaned forward and pressed her hand to the letters, the ink on the page began to shimmer. She gasped, pulling her hand away, watching as the words blurred, morphing, swirling, opening the page before her, as if pulling the curtains from a window.

There was a chorus of hushed voices in her ear before a flash of blue light flooded her vision.

Witness our truths.

A clock was ticking. Gears were grinding backwards.

—

Beyond miles and miles of thick forests was a small range of jagged hills. And beyond these hills, in the center, with soft, green grasses and a sparkling lake, was a village.

Isolated though it might've been, Wyvern was picturesque in its little valley, and the people were happy. It looked to be just like any small town would—a town square with cobblestone roads, a fountain in the center, houses lining the streets, and people (a talented, enchanted folk) who bustled about.

The weather was fair, as it usually was, and the light breeze soothed anyone who might've suffered under the direct heat of the summer sun.

—

One woman took full advantage of the pleasing weather, tucking long, golden hair behind her ear as she hummed to herself, sitting at the edges of town where the wildflowers grew the best. "May I?" Freya whispered to them, caressing one particular bloom in particular. She waited, listening for the soft voices of the flowers that only she could hear, and she smiled.

She plucked the aster delicately and respectfully when she received her response, and placed the flower in her basket with some herbs and spices she gathered. "Thank you. This will bring patience and elegance to my home—"

However, the flowers spoke again, one of the blooms quivering. A dark purple blossom, begging to be plucked. Freya's eyebrows furrowed. Anemone. Fading hope.

How strange. Still, she obeyed the words of nature, and picked the flower.

Today wasn't one for questions or worries, after all. It was the Festival of the Summer Moon, and they had honored guests tonight.

—

Malen pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, strolling to the square and shyly waving at the friendly faces she knew best with her sketchbook clutched to her chest. The villagers knew her well enough to know how quiet she was, and left her to her own devices most of the time.

Content, she sat herself down on the edge of the stone fountain, and opened her sketchbook. It was new, with all blank pages (a gift from the lovely, wonderful Rue). With a deep breath, she closed her eyes, and let her mind connect with others, waiting for a memory or a feeling to coalesce into a strong enough image.

The voices of bustling villagers echoed into her heart and mind—and she smiled a little. Everyone's thoughts (ah, particularly Autor's!) revolved around their recent visitors and the festival that evening. A legendary, well-read wizard who traveled the countryside, seeking wisdom and peace, stopped in their little town but two weeks before with his young protege, marveling at the remote village and its people. The collective images in the villagers' minds slowly formed within her, poured into her hand, and she let her magic do the rest.

Malen sketched. She sketched, with precision and detail, the wizard with a white beard and large, swirling amber eyes. With a giggle, she drew his wide-brimmed hat, complete with the colorful feathers that bobbed with his every movement. Reaching into those clear thoughts once more, she sought out the depiction of his thick eyebrows and long, silvery, curly hair, with his patterned cloak and billowing sleeves. When she finished, she set to work on sketching out his companion, the much younger and much more serious gray-eyed student wizard, who wore a hooded, red cape and rarely spoke, simply writing down what his master dictated. The images were clear as day, and her sketch reflected that.

Indeed, it seemed that everyone was rather excited to have the eccentric wizard visit them. After all, Wyvern didn't receive many guests.

So, Elder Edel welcomed D. D. Drosselmeyer and his young protege into their village.

Idly, Malen smiled, adding one last detail to her little project: a round, red jewel hanging from Drosselmeyer's neck.

—

Hermia glanced up from decorating her festival booth, smiling brightly as Elder Edel approached.

It was known through the generations that Wyvern Village was always led by the most powerful of the enchanted folk who lived there. Concentrated, rich magic flowed through this family's veins, pulsing with pure Draconic and Fae blood.

Indeed, Elder Edel was ethereal, mysterious, and warm, as she should've been considering her lineage. With mint-green hair falling to her shoulders, pure white skin, and wise, swimming blue eyes, she carried herself with a whimsical air, the picture of calm all-knowingness that came from one who led such a special folk.

And Elder Edel didn't just lead, Hermia knew. She cared, loved, and watched over them all.

Upon the wizard's arrival, Hermia felt the excitement that everyone else did—from the bottom of her heart. And with the coming of the Festival of the Summer Moon, everyone seemed to think it was a fated encounter—that it was destiny that a great wizard would arrive to visit their little village at such a celebration. She couldn't help but agree.

Still, Elder Edel instructed every single one of them to keep their talents secret.

Those of Wyvern blood must keep to themselves for their own safety. Hermia might've been subject to the overwhelmingly positive feelings of the others when it came to Drosselmeyer's visit, but Elder Edel's caution was likewise as potent of an emotion. It made the hairs on the back of Hermia's neck stand on end.

Hermia got to her feet as Elder Edel strolled through the village square, greeting young Malen who sat on the edge of the nearby fountain with a small smile. It seemed that the villagers were making good progress—it was still before noon, and most of the stands had been already set up for tonight's celebration. They were undoubtedly excited, and Hermia was particularly enthused about her own booth: a place to make and write letters of love or affection, and put them in a box to be delivered by Hermia herself, anonymous or not.

Out of every emotion that Hermia felt from others, love was her favorite.

Perhaps, one day, she would feel it for herself.

Hermia approached Elder Edel with a grin, positively brimming with delight—she could physically feel the collective joy and anticipation of the villagers. "Elder Edel, good morning!" Hermia greeted sweetly.

Elder Edel curtsied elegantly. "It is. A fine day for the Festival of the Summer Moon." As always, the elder's tone was sing-song and light, like a music box.

"Mm! I heard that Drosselmeyer will be performing a magic show tonight!"

"A show, perhaps." Elder Edel gave her a secret smile and Hermia had to bite back a laugh. "But yes, he will be performing. Such is the way with wizards—they seek to amaze, but to amaze, they must lie."

Lie. Hermia's expression fell for a moment. "Ah … by the way, I was wondering if I may—ah, if you're not busy!—if I may confide something to you? About Drosselmeyer and his student?"

Elder Edel lifted a hand, gesturing to continue. "Speak well, but soft."

Hermia lowered her voice as they walked further from the larger crowds. "Well … these past couple of weeks, I haven't been able to really … feel what they feel." She caught herself with a blush, waving her arm awkwardly back and forth. "That is—! I don't mean to snoop on them or anything like that! It's just … well, it's curious that I can't read anything from them. Not even a little ounce of joy or anger … It's never happened before. But I don't know how. You said, after all, that his magic isn't real, so he wouldn't be able to shut me out, would he?"

There was something unreadable in Elder Edel's eyes just then, but all Hermia felt was the usual calm solemnity and typical cautiousness that she usually had. After she seemed to consider something, Elder Edel spoke, glancing up into the sunny sky. "His magic is real."

Hermia straightened, fully attentive and eyes wide. "... Really?"

"Indeed. His magic is real. But his magic is not truth." Elder Edel's deep eyes grew distant. "A man lies. A man hides beneath his lies. But falsehoods are weighty, and in time, he cannot walk well with such a burden upon his shoulders. His friends will see him hunched and ask, 'Why do you bend forward with such aches?' And he will lie, 'It is nothing. I bear no such aches.' Thus, the burden only grows. Soon, he will not walk at all, under such weight."

Hermia was used to Elder Edel's way with words, but not quite accustomed to decoding them as well as Raven could. He had been under Elder Edel's tutelage for so long, he seemed to comprehend every riddle-like word she recited. Hermia blushed and fell silent, wishing she could understand.

Elder Edel smiled, her wise eyes softening. "Hm. Take ease, Hermia; do not worry, for tonight is one of celebration." The elder glanced about, her expression mildly curious. "My daughter …?"

Slightly grateful for the change in subject, Hermia perked up. "Ah, she's probably around Fakir again! By the lake! Should I go fetch her for you?"

"... No," Elder Edel muttered fondly, "Uzura is safe with him."

—

The lake was still and reflective, mirroring the surrounding hills and mountains so exquisitely that Fakir hardly knew where the water ended and the world began.

He strayed from the sudden burst of activity in the town, deciding to be more productive on his own by the lake. Setting his chair down on the dock, he set about relaxing with a fishing rod. Beside him, on a small, folding table was his book, an inkwell, and a duck-feather quill. Fakir had been there since the early morning, and he still hadn't gotten a single bite.

Fakir was growing more and more impatient the longer time went by. Well, it was still better than being back in town, forced to put up signs and booths for a couple of visiting strangers.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one aggravated by the wizard's presence. Drosselmeyer seemed to constantly be in the mood for talking, particularly about Fakir's stories ever since little Uzura let it slip that he was a writer. Autor was the one Drosselmeyer should've been talking to; he seemed to utterly idolize the wizard, and he was far more willing to speak and brag about their shared hobby than Fakir was (though, they had vastly different writing styles, in a way).

Needless to say, it had been a long two weeks.

… But being alone here, in the peace and quiet of the lake with everyone else too busy to drop in on him was … nice.

Fakir found himself smiling, just a little.

Well, since no one else was around, perhaps he could …

Propping the fishing pole on the side of his chair, he reached for his book, flipping it to the next blank page. Taking up the quill and dipping it into the inkwell, he began to write.

There was once a young writer, sitting by a lake.

His fingertips began to itch and the wind began to shift, the world itself suddenly taking a deep breath with him—as if the entire universe waited to see what happened next.

'Fresh fish would be a pleasant supper tonight,' thought the young writer, 'I want to catch something quite large. Enough to feed four, at least.'

Fakir paused there, letting his eyes fall shut and ink dry. He felt the pulse in his body, and the itch in his fingertips grew worse. Good. He opened his eyes and continued, following the flow and the natural progression of his craft.

Story-spinning was a delicate art, after all. Autor might've been able to search the distant past and make it known to the present, but there was a different sort of responsibility and weight to Fakir's abilities.

Bending reality to the will of his quill wasn't as glamorous as it might've sounded.

Still, once in a while, when the universe saw fit to bend to him, it had its perks.

So, he set about catching something for supper. The line was cast and he waited with bated breath.

Fakir inhaled sharply, realizing that this was it. The junction between what was, and what could be. Every story he wrote had it—the point where fact morphed into possibility, and where Fakir could sway that possibility to his favor.

It didn't always work, but it was worth a shot if he wanted fresh dinner tonight.

Soon, below the surface of the crystalline lake, something began to stir.

And then, it bit.

Fakir put down his quill and took up his fishing pole, held his breath, and waited.

For a few suspended moments, he thought that it might not have worked, until there was a sudden tug at the other end of the line. His hand instinctively clenched around the pole and he stood, a smirk playing upon his lips.

He realized with some bit of excitement that this one was a stubborn catch. He yanked harder on the pole, alternating between soft, coaxing pulls, quick reels, and sudden yanks.

Finally, he reeled it in, smirking triumphantly. But just as quickly, his expression fell.

… The fish was tiny and barely big enough for half a meal. He sighed in disappointment. So much for a dinner for four. He turned to send a scowl at the open book on the table, his words staring back at him.

"Ohhhhh! It's so small-zura!"

Fakir turned, softening his gaze when little Uzura's tiny feet pitter-patted on the wooden dock toward him. A little distance behind her was Rue, breathing rather heavily and her pale cheeks red with the exertion of following after such an energetic child. He shook his head when Uzura came to a stop by his side, reaching out to ruffle her mint-green hair. "Really. I hadn't noticed." His sarcasm was soft, though, tempered by a gentle look he reserved only for the five-year-old.

Uzura smiled, shifting around to swing something out from behind her and show him what she brought with her. It was a drum, strapped around her shoulders. "Mama said I can play in the festival with Autor and everyone-zura! I have a drum now-zura!" With a giggle, she began to pound in a disjointed rhythm.

Fakir tried not to make his grimace obvious. He sat down and carefully pulled the hook from the fish. At least the puny thing was better than nothing. So much for honing his abilities. "Alright, alright, just don't get ahead of yourself."

Uzura stopped playing for a moment to beam up at him.

Rue finally caught up, trying to compose herself with deep breaths. Then, she straightened, trying to appear as collected as she could in her breathless state. "Fakir," she began, her hand brushing through her thick hair, "Raven is looking for you. I see you've been skipping out on preparations?" She shook her head. "Shame on you. Everyone else is so busy."

Fakir bit back a groan and rolled his eyes. No doubt it was Autor who pointed his absence out to everyone. The suck-up. "I'll head back now, but I doubt you really need me." Not with how enthusiastic and lively they all were. They had a festival every season; Fakir saw no need to make a bigger deal out of it just because of a couple of magic visitors.

But Raven's word was almost as finite as Elder Edel's at this point. For some reason, Elder Edel had made arrangements in the event of her death—far too early, in Fakir's opinion, but he remained silent over the subject. Raven was to take over as leader until Uzura came of age. And for the most part, Fakir could stand in agreement with the decision; Raven had been like a father to him, and particularly to Rue.

His sister had been too young to remember their parents like Fakir did, noble and kind as they were. Perhaps that was why she clung to Raven as a role model so quickly.

Rue, simpering, crossed her arms over her chest as Uzura padded over to the edge of the dock, cooing in amazement at the water and the swimming fish beneath. "And I suppose you will not be dancing with us on the stage?" Rue inquired, already knowing the answer.

Fakir snorted. "Of course not." What was he? Twelve? He packed his writing tools and book into his satchel and folded up the chair and table. After dumping his meager catch in his nearby bucket, he called back to Uzura, "Hey, grab my bag, will you?"

Rue, not lifting a finger to assist him, only followed as he hefted his chair, table, and bucket into his arms while Uzura scampered after him with her drum slung back behind her and his satchel in her arms. "Everyone will be disappointed."

"No one would care either way," he retorted as they made their way back to the town. "All eyes will be on you."

It wasn't said as a compliment. It was merely a fact. Rue's dance was enchanting in so many ways—she could sway even the most stubborn of people to follow her with a simple twirl. The others could see into the souls of others, perhaps, but not sway them. She knew, even more than Autor, the heavy burden they carried when they could influence the world.

Elder Edel advised them to take care with their abilities. They were among the most potent, and the most dangerous.

—

The Festival of the Summer Moon was an annual event, held upon the evening of every summer solstice. But there was something in the air that night as the sun began to set and twilight stretched across Wyvern's valley. Something different and magical. Something almost final.

Whatever the case, the Wyvern villagers celebrated in their revelry without cares or concerns. This was a night to enjoy, not to fear. Even now, as dusk began to settle and the lady bugs emerged from their little, flowery homes, glowing like tiny lamps in the distance and celebrating with the sorcerers, excitement and joy filled the hearts of almost everyone.

They gathered all around the town square, Autor at his piano with a wide grin spread across his face in the center of the band that played through the early evening. The streets were lined with booths—games, food, and sweets were aplenty, and Hermia's little love letter booth was quite popular. Freya danced and gave everyone little flower crowns, and Malen offered to commission whatever someone had in "mind," so to say.

Elder Edel walked about, greeting others with amiable and gentle words, Uzura drumming at her side. The little girl had stars in her eyes as she stared up at her mother, excited for things to come.

On the grand stage, Rue danced, enrapturing everyone, particularly Autor. As she moved, he played, and it almost seemed as if he played to the rhythm she set instead of the other way around.

And in the center was Raven, confident and noble, bowing with flourish to all that passed him. He seemed utterly pleased with the festival, as he'd been put in charge of organizing it from the beginning, and he seemed to embrace the responsibilities placed upon him as they came. Elder Edel taught him well, and he was eager to do her proud.

Fakir kept to himself, focusing his attention more on the lady bugs in the distance, their gentle, dancing lights calming his oddly tight nerves. His fingers itched fiercely for some reason, almost begging him to pick up his quill and write something, but he ignored the sensation—whatever it was could wait, he decided, because it couldn't have been that important.

It was when the last of the sunlight disappeared beyond the towering, surrounding mountains that the Legendary Grand Wizard, D. D. Drosselmeyer and his protege took the stage, and the excited villagers gathered around to watch his show.

Perhaps the wizard's silly cantrips were mere side-show acts to the enchanted folk with true power, but they were happy for some new entertainment.

And entertainment, he certainly was. D. D. Drosselmeyer was all about dramatics, it seemed. In his colorful cloak, white gloves, and feathered hat, he swept across the stage with theatrical gusto, his amber eyes swirls of mystery as he caressed the red jewel hanging from his neck. Dressed in red, his protege kept his head down, remaining as his assistant for his acts.

Autor fought for a front-row seat, his eyes wide and his expression enthralled. This was what he had been waiting for—a chance to witness the great works of Drosselmeyer, who he had read so much about.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Wyvern!" Drosselmeyer announced, taking center stage as the lights went dim, but for the spotlight that shined down upon his form. "Your welcome has been most charming and sweet, indeed! Such kindness shall always be awarded, so prepare to be amazed!"

They all laughed, except for Fakir who winced from the sharp pain in his right hand. He scratched his itch and continued to ignore it.

The hour continued. He pulled a toad from within his hat and released it into the laughing crowd; he sawed his protege in half, before restoring him into one piece; he created a large bubble around little Uzura, who squealed with delight before it popped. All the while, Elder Edel sat in front beside Raven, her smile small and her eyes cool.

At last, the final act had come. A hush had claimed the crowd, and even the soft, light giggles of the lady bugs in the far distance grew silent.

"Alas," the wizard began with exaggerated somberness, "do you not think that all great things must come to an end? Ah, but why have it so? What is the true tragedy? A beginning without an end, or an end to a beautiful beginning?"

The villagers began to glance between one another, wondering where the wizard was going with this.

Elder Edel's eyes narrowed.

Drosselmeyer chuckled, his voice grinding like gravel, and he brought his gloved hand to rest on the red jewel around his neck. "But, let us agree, good Wyvern citizens, borne of Dragon and Fae, that all tragedies are beautiful. And such comical tragedies can only be delivered by an exceptional weaver of tales."

Fakir's hand ached, and he grit his teeth in pain.

The audience began to grow restless at Drosselmeyer's words, and Elder Edel was already standing up, pushing Uzura behind her and into Hermia's arms.

"So, story-spinner …"

Though his fingertips burned (as if his body begged desperately for a quill now more than ever), Fakir glanced up, his green eyes widening in horror as Drosselmeyer addressed him from the stage, even in Fakir's dark corner at the back of the audience.

And for all who were present, it felt as though time had stopped.

"... Shall I weave your tale for you?"

With a flick of his wrist, the jewel around his neck burst with a crimson light, a beam of blood-red brilliance shooting out toward Fakir. The audience gasped, the radiance bypassing all until the light shined on Fakir's form.

With a searing burn and a harsh, resounding rip, the beam sliced into Fakir's torso, from the left of his navel to the right shoulder, and all but tore him apart.

No one breathed. Even as Fakir fell to the ground, no one could move.

That is, until Fakir released an earth-shattering bellow, smashing through the frozen glass that was everyone's shock and terror.

They all screamed, Rue and others immediately reaching for Fakir's form, blood gushing from his violent wound. Others, Raven and Elder Edel included, rushed toward the stage, their eyes sharp and angered. Autor remained frozen in place, pale and horrified, while Hermia cried out in Fakir's pain, clinging to Uzura and keeping the little girl's eyes away from the panic around them.

But Monty, Drosselmeyer's protege, was faster than them all. In a shocking array of true magic, the wizard's assistant swiped his arm, releasing a blast of force that surrounded the stage. Raven and the others could not push through. Even as Elder Edel had casted her spells, they simply could not penetrate the shield that Monty had created.

Drosselmeyer laughed. "Such a tragedy!" And as Monty continued to guard him, the wizard waved his arm in Fakir's direction.

Gasping and choking, Fakir stared up at the sky with blank, green eyes, barely able to hear the sounds of Rue's panicked, broken sobs. The itch in his hand dissipated entirely—like it was never there.

He felt something leave him. And he felt an emptiness that he didn't know existed.

Above him, everyone watched in abject dismay as a strange, white orb floated from his shredded, bleeding torso. It was a warm light, surrounded by what looked to be transluscent feathers—perhaps quills, some realized with misery. And in an instant, it zoomed away from Fakir's limp form, through the force field, and into Drosselmeyer's hand.

He laughed again, chilling and joyful.

They all could only watch helplessly as Monty opened a book before the wizard, offering the madman a quill.

Drosselmeyer wrote.

Once upon a time, there was a little town full of people so desperate for entertainment. "I can entertain you!" said a good wizard with a happy grin. "Let me!"

So they gifted upon him a power so divine and so wonderful for him to use. "I shall give you the entertainment of many lifetimes!" he said. "For 300 years, you will enjoy my gifts! And see your true talents!

"Until the Raven constellation aligns in 300 years, you will laugh, and laugh, and laugh!"

Already, the tale began to take shape, and Fakir's final breath left him.

Elder Edel's blue eyes were sharp and her lips thin, even as all around her, her beloved people crumpled to the ground. One by one, their Draconic blood choked their veins, their muscles twitching and groans growing more desperate.

Uzura began to whimper behind her.

It was with that that she lifted her arms into the air, her eyes closing. With all of the sorcery she could muster, calling upon her Fae blood to aid her, she whispered her own enchantment.

"For 300 years, it shall be, then. Under my branches, you will live—"

The village began to sink slowly into the ground, Monty and Drosselmeyer's eyes growing wide as the stage went with it. "What is this?!" the wizard cried, panicked and frantic. Monty moved quickly once more, waving his red cape to spirit himself and his master away to safety.

All the while, Elder Edel continued, her lifted hands growing wooden, turning into sprawling twigs and branches.

"—under my roots, you will smile—"

A burst of white light surrounded the sorceress, covering her people and soothing them from their torturous transformations. They fell into a peaceful slumber as the ground continued to slip down, down, down.

"—and with my fruit, you will heal—"

Fakir's lifeless form glowed softly, warmly, like a beacon of light to comfort his cold form as it mended itself.

It was only her last words that everyone heard in their slumbering minds, and they dreamed of dragons and lady bugs and Elder Edel's smile.

"With this promise, I leave you now. When I bear fruit again, the world will be yours once more."

—

Drosselmeyer and Monty stood at the edge of the valley—but what was once green with a small town, was now pure white, with a barren, lofty, white oak in the center.

The wizard pouted. "Such a tragedy! Well, I suppose it cannot be helped! We can certainly use this to our advantage! For what is tragedy without a little hope to take away from them, yes? Monty! My book, please! I must add a bit of a flourish to my little tale!"

Much to their dismay, the good wizard said, "Ah, but the fun must end, sometime! Find the one who bears my blood—find the last of my family tree! At the end of 300 years, she will be the one to bring an end to your fun!

"Sacrifices must be made. Spill her blood, spill her life, and your precious tree will bear fruit!"

Ahiru fell off of her chair, her body shaking, cold sweat dripping down her brow.

She didn't know—she had no idea—how was she supposed to—?!

She felt it all with them. She watched everything play out. She was witness to her own ancestor ruin the lives of an exceptional group of people. And she could do nothing to stop it.

Scrambling to her feet, her vision blurring with tears, she burst into a sprint, running for Freya's hut and ignoring the rocks on the bottoms of her feet.

Her chest hurt. Her heart ached.

Without any preamble or hesitation, she dashed straight into Freya's hut. At some point, Freya must've left, but she didn't care to notice that much.

All she could do was collapse next to the unconscious Fakir, blubbering, sobbing, tears running freely down her freckled cheeks as she clutched helplessly to his sheets.

It all made sense. Perfect, horrific sense.

"... I-I'm sorry …!"

Beta-read by Docktor Locktor