Marcus knelt in front of a large wooden chest on the floor of his apartment, carving glyphs into the walls of its interior. The past week had been a whirlwind of experimentation and innovation. With Fafnir's soul finally in their possession, their research had advanced significantly, much to Azazel's ecstatic delight.
After sleeping off his hangover, Azazel had thrown himself into their work with relentless enthusiasm. For six straight days, they had worked without rest, pushing the boundaries of their craft. Marcus was certain Azazel would have continued indefinitely had Penemue not intervened. Tired of Azazel neglecting his responsibilities in favor of his personal project, Penemue had forcibly dragged him away, granting Marcus a long-overdue reprieve. Not that Marcus minded working on something so fascinating, but while he required less sleep than a human, he still needed some. As a result, he had spent much of the previous day catching up on rest.
Now, with Azazel imprisoned in his office, their research was on hold, allowing Marcus the opportunity to focus on a project of his own—a personal storage chest, complete with stasis and space-expanding enchantments. Ironically, acquiring the physical chest had proven more troublesome than crafting the enchantments themselves. Lacking the skills to build one from scratch, Marcus had searched for a suitable chest to purchase. Much to his chagrin, he discovered that wooden chests were considered antiques or novelty furniture, making it difficult to find a well-built one.
The first few stores he checked on Earth didn't even sell real wooden chests; instead, they offered flimsy constructions made of some kind of artificial material. The most promising options were in antique stores, but those were exorbitantly priced. Azazel paid Marcus generously—he had more money now than he had ever accumulated before—but he'd be damned if he spent more than necessary on a chest of all things. Fortunately, after an afternoon of teleporting around the globe, he finally came across an antique dealer who wasn't trying to gouge him for all he was worth.
Finishing the last glyph on the back panel, he took a step back to admire his work. It felt like ages since he had last constructed a storage chest. A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he recalled his time at the Royal Academy, where creating a storage chest like this had been part of his final examination. Just as many mages made their livings through healing, sorcerers made theirs by crafting enchanted objects.
Stasis enchantments were the most common—there was always a granary or butcher's shop in need of replacements—so the Academy required all sorcerers be adept in their creation. However, the truly impressive enchantments, he thought, were the massive anti-monster wards placed around cities and villages. He had always wished he could have taken the class on their construction and maintenance, but his army sponsorship had dictated his coursework. He had been required to take numerous magical and non-magical combat and warfare classes, along with mandatory training with the local garrison, leaving little time for anything else.
His phone vibrating on his desk pulled him from his memories. Seeing the notification made him smile—it was a text message from Rossweisse. At first, having real-time conversations through text had felt a bit off-putting, but he had grown used to it. Rossweisse had even commented on his overly formal manner of writing. In his defense, the only times Marcus had ever written before were for letters, papers, or reports.
Unfortunately, he hadn't had much time to talk to her over the past few days—too busy helping Azazel with his research or putting out fires, both figurative and literal, when that research exploded. Still, he had made sure to send her a couple of messages each day, even if only brief ones.
He read her message—she was asking about how his people used magic outside of combat. Yesterday, he had texted her about the project he planned to work on, along with a description of the enchantments. It seemed she was planning on researching how different cultures incorporated magic into their civilizations and daily lives. She explained that, as Odin's bodyguard, she often visited the capitals of other pantheons, and it would be nice to give those trips more meaning than just cleaning up after Odin or managing his schedule.
It sounded like a great idea to Marcus. While he occasionally acted as Azazel's assistant during outings, it wasn't a frequent occurrence, nor was it his primary role. If that had been his sole duty, Marcus was certain he would have snapped within the first month and blasted Azazel off a cliff. He liked and respected Azazel and enjoyed working with him, but he was best appreciated in small doses. Odin—given his friendship with Azazel—seemed like a similar type of person. Rossweisse was truly a saint for putting up with him full-time as part of her job.
Sitting down at his desk, he began to type out descriptions, putting his earlier remembrances to the proverbial paper, as it were. He explained the different roles mages and sorcerers played in society—the kinds and extent of healing mages could accomplish, the enchantments sorcerers provided, and more. He also included some of the more trivial knowledge he possessed: the minor alchemy he was capable of, the smithing styles of various races, the process of storing cast spells into grimoires, among other topics.
After sending the text, he turned his chair to face the half-finished storage chest on the ground and sighed. The sight of it stirred memories of his previous storage chest—once brimming with irreplaceable valuables and unique treasures, now forever lost. Piles of priceless gems, rare and potent elixirs, ancient tomes filled with magic and knowledge, mighty weapons and armor, even the perfectly preserved head of a medusa—an acquisition that had been extraordinarily time-consuming and perilous—were all gone. The loss stung deeply, and his growing awareness of his draconic instincts only amplified the ache. No dragon, after all, took the loss of its belongings lightly.
His phone's vibration once again pulled him from his now brooding thoughts. It was Rossweisse again, thanking him for the information and inviting him to an upcoming festival, Veturnáttablót, a celebration of the beginning of winter.
The last part of her message gave him pause—first, because the biting cold he had experienced a week ago apparently wasn't even considered true winter temperatures to the Norse, and second, because the idea of attending a festival with Rossweisse was both enticing and daunting.
He had never done anything like that before. Growing up, he had traveled constantly with his parents as they bought and sold goods across the continent. While this had allowed him to become fluent in most of the continent's languages, it hadn't lent itself to being able to celebrate holidays. By the time his parents had expanded their business enough to settle in one place, he had already enrolled in the Royal Academy, where his time was consumed by study and training.
He hesitated over how to respond. On one hand, the idea of going to a festival with Rossweisse was undeniably appealing. On the other, he had no idea what he was supposed to do at a festival and worried about committing a faux pas.
In the end, his desire to spend more time with Rossweisse won out over his apprehension, and he replied that he would love to. Closing the messaging app, he opened his calendar and blocked out the provided date—October 22nd. It wasn't so much for his own sake, as he doubted he would forget, but more for the benefit of the other person who could access this calendar: Azazel.
Azazel had—rightfully—earned a reputation for roping subordinates into tasks or missions with little to no notice. However, he was careful not to disrupt their personal lives. As long as Marcus marked his plans on the calendar, Azazel would refrain from dragging him into any impromptu schemes that day; despite his eccentricities, he cared a surprising amount for his subordinates.
With his message sent and feeling significantly better, Marcus moved back over to the storage chest. It wasn't going to build itself, after all, and he wanted it finished as soon as possible so he could begin rebuilding his hoard—collection, his collection.
Marcus walked through the halls of the Grigori headquarters, making his way to Azazel's lab. Having just finished lunch with Vali, which in and of itself wasn't odd—they typically ate together several times a week. What was unusual, however, was that instead of grabbing food from the cafeteria or dining out at a restaurant, Vali had cooked the meal himself—Ramen. Even more surprising was that it was good—really good—high-class restaurant quality. Marcus himself could cook—one can only eat dried meats and fruits while traveling so many times before seeking alternatives—but his culinary skills were pretty much limited to turning whatever he could hunt into an edible meal. He was surprised that Vali had put in the effort and time to learn how to cook, especially since it wasn't something he needed to do. He didn't seem like the type to do it for fun.
He chuckled at the mental image of Vali in a pink apron, anxiously hovering over a pot fretting over how much spice to add. But as he approached the lab, his amusement faded.
Stepping inside, he surveyed the state of the room—cluttered workbenches, remnants of meals scattered across the floor in the form of wrappers and food containers, and discarded metalwork stacked haphazardly against one wall. It was a disaster. They hadn't exactly prioritized cleanliness in the midst of their breakthroughs. Technically, keeping the lab tidy was Marcus' responsibility, but with the relentless pace Azazel had set, he hadn't had the time. Which was precisely why he was here now—cleaning duty.
It was annoying, Marcus thought as he went about his work. Nothing he was doing was beyond the capability of the many custodians employed by the Grigori. Unfortunately, the sensitive nature of their research—combined with the ever-present danger due to their rather lax safety regulations, a consequence of the durability possessed by both Azazel and himself—meant they couldn't trust the average two-winged fallen or human with the task. There was too much risk—either of someone stealing their research or, worse, accidentally activating a device that would disintegrate them on the spot, whereas for Azazel or Marcus, it would amount to little more than a superficial burn.
After finishing clearing the trash from the floor, Marcus moved toward a workbench, only to be interrupted.
[Hello, wyrmling.] Fafnir's voice resonated from his purple vessel, resting on the table adjacent to the workbench.
"Again, Fafnir, I'd like to remind you that I'm not a child—I'm an adult. And I do have a name," Marcus said as he continued cleaning and organizing the workbench.
[Bah, a human name—unbefitting of a dragon. And you, wyrmling, have barely existed for two decades. You have many years ahead of you before you reach maturity.] came Fafnir's assertive response.
Age and maturity were—as Marcus had learned—complex topics in a world with as many races as this one, each with vastly different lifespans and rates of mental development. Fallen angels and devils, for instance, matured at roughly the same pace as humans, yet their lifespans extended up to 10,000 years. On the other end of the spectrum were races like the Fae, who boasted similar longevity but developed at a significantly slower rate—a 100-year-old Fae was roughly equivalent in growth and maturity to a human teenager.
Dragons—much to Marcus's chagrin—fell squarely on the slower-growing side of the spectrum. They were generally not considered adults until they reached 50, and even then, they were still regarded as young—old enough to leave the nest but not yet beyond the watchful eyes of their parents.
Marcus—despite being physically mostly human and having been born human—was, by all measures, a dragon. Any method of determining one's race, including the keen nose of another dragon, would confirm this. Complicating matters further was that instances of a non-dragon transforming into a dragon were so exceedingly rare as to be nearly nonexistent. Most tales of individuals becoming dragons were, as he had discovered, falsehoods—either the person had been a dragon all along, merely shapeshifting to live among another race, as was the case with Fafnir, or they had instead become draconids. Possessing some draconic traits, and perhaps even the ability to assume a dragon-like form, but ultimately not true dragons. Azazel apparently knew of at least one other case of a transformation into a true dragon, but refused to elaborate.
Marcus and Azazel had attempted to explain his unique circumstances—how he had been born human, only to slowly and unknowingly transform into a dragon after having his heart removed by one. Fafnir, however, found the tale improbable. He was convinced that Marcus's true draconic parents had merely altered his form to that of a human infant before leaving him in the care of his human family. According to Fafnir, the removal of his heart, combined with whatever binding magic his parents had placed on him, must be preventing him from reassuming his 'true' form. He seemed genuinely upset at the notion that Marcus had never shifted back and was in fact incapable of doing so. Fafnir insisted that Marcus needed to find a way to regrow his heart, going so far as attempting to enlist Azazel's help in the matter.
It was a matter that left Marcus deeply conflicted. At one time, the very notion of transforming into a dragon had seemed like a curse—one that would strip him of his capacity for reason and bind him to the will of a merciless deity. It had loomed over him throughout his journey, the ever-present consequence of failure in the charge he had been given. However, since arriving in this world, he had come to see dragons in a different light. They were not mindless beasts enslaved to divine whims but beings of immense intelligence, often surpassing that of humans. They wielded unparalleled power and enjoyed near-immortal lifespans—qualities Marcus could not deny he found desirable. Yet, apprehension gnawed at him. He had been born human, lived as a human, and his experiences as a human had shaped the very essence of his identity. If he were to fully embrace his draconic nature, would he still be himself? Would the values, thoughts, and emotions that had defined Marcus the human be cast aside by Marcus the dragon?
In the end, he had agreed to explore possible methods of regaining his heart. Even if he remained uncertain about fully embracing his draconic nature, having the ability to make an informed choice seemed prudent. Fafnir had provided several leads: he could seek out a master of healing magic—though Fafnir cautioned that this would be challenging, as the only individual he personally knew capable of regenerating a heart was Aži Dahāka, a evil dragon. Alternatively, a skilled practitioner of Senjutsu's healing arts might possess the necessary expertise. Another possibility was Asclepius, the Greek god of healing, though reaching him would be exceedingly difficult. Finally, Fafnir suggested entreating Tiamat, theorizing that she might possess an artifact or elixir capable of restoring his heart. Marcus had inquired whether Fafnir had such an item within his hoard, but the dragon admitted he had never prioritized collecting healing artifacts, being far more interested in weaponry. Azazel, too, had offered his own insights, suggesting that a wielder of Twilight Healing who had achieved their Balance Breaker could potentially accomplish the task. Alternatively, if Marcus could locate the wielder of the Sephiroth Graal, they would be capable of regenerating his heart, even if they had only recently awakened their abilities.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, Marcus couldn't decide—most of these options were currently out of reach, something he would have to explore in the future. Shaking off his thoughts, he refocused on Fafnir's vessel. The dragon's manner of address still grated on him.
"Then can you at least give me a 'suitably draconic' name? I'm getting really tired of being called 'wyrmling,'" Marcus protested.
[No. I must see your true form before I can name you] came Fafnir's prompt response.
"Why? Humans name their children before they're even born, without ever seeing them. My parents had already picked the name Marcus before they even conceived me," Marcus argued.
[Humans have been wrong about many things in the past and will continue to be wrong in the future] Fafnir replied. [To name a dragon, one must consider all aspects of the dragon. Your true parents would have named you only after you were no longer a hatchling—after observing your growth and nature for a decade.]
Unwilling to argue further with Fafnir, Marcus chose to stay silent and redoubled his efforts at cleaning. He had other tasks to attend to and no desire to spend the entire day here. When he finally swept the last of the debris into a dustpan, he exhaled, pushing his thoughts aside. He had a chest that needed finishing, and the festival to look forward to—ruminating on the changes within himself could wait.
He set down the broom, stretched his arms, and glanced once more at the purple vessel on the table. "One step at a time, Fafnir," he muttered before turning off the lab's lights and walking out.