Early morning. Mist hanging in the pines. Dew on everything. Including my last ounce of patience.
We've made camp beside a narrow mountain stream, one of those babbling little things that pretend to be peaceful right before they turn into mudslides. There's a still pool at its edge—round, cold, and dark like a forgotten eye socket in the earth.
The Dragon is lying nearby, claws tucked under his chest, looking smugly miserable. It's his default state.
And I am nagging.
"Ten days," I say, throwing a pebble into the pool. "Nine now. You gonna think of a plan? Or just keep sulking until the hag shows up and boils us both into seasoning?"
He grumbles.
"That's not an answer," I snap.
"Saya…"
"No. I'm done pretending this is fine. You've had weeks to get your scales in order and your grand cosmic thoughts aligned, and all we've done is eat mossy bread and bicker about constellations that look like dicks."
He exhales long and slow, then mutters something in Draconic that probably translates to "Why me."
I kick at his tail. "Come on. Even I know when we're in too deep. You said it yourself—we're stuck between two demigods with attitude problems and murder hobbies."
More silence.
Then finally, slowly, he lifts his head.
"Fine."
I freeze. "Wait. Really?"
"Yes, fine. I'll… contact someone."
I blink. "Like who? A priest? A necromancer? A therapist?"
He gives me a look like I just licked a doorknob.
"My sister."
"Oh. Cool. Wait, you have a sister?!"
He doesn't answer. Just lumbers to the edge of the pool and lowers his snout close to the surface. His claws trace a symbol in the dirt. The water begins to shimmer, distorting. Rippling outward. Light bends wrong.
And just like that, it's no longer a pool. It's a mirror. With depth.
I creep closer, staring into it like I might see my own future in there. Maybe I do. It looks sharp and full of teeth.
He mutters a few syllables, low and old. The language smells like ozone and incense.
Then the mirror twitches—and someone answers.
A long, elegant face appears. Bronze scales burnished nearly black with age, eyes narrow and unamused. Her horns are beaded with golden rings, each one probably cursed.
She does not smile.
"Junior," she says.
The dragon winces.
I smother a grin.
"Sister," he replies, trying to sound neutral and failing.
"Don't 'sister' me. You haven't called in—what—three hundred years?"
"Two-eighty-seven."
"Oh, forgive me. I rounded. How mortal of me."
I can feel the sarcasm through the pond.
"I was busy," he mutters.
"Yes. Being a disgrace. I know. It's the family consensus. Uncle calls you 'the embarrassment.'"
He stiffens slightly. "Speaking of Uncle…"
"Here it comes," she sighs, looking away. "Let me guess. You saw his ghost? He looked... ghostly?"
"Yes. Actually."
"Of course. He's dead, Junior. That's what they do."
I lean forward, whispering, "She's fantastic."
He shoos me without looking.
"I'm trying to be civil."
"You never call unless you want something. So what is it? You finally need bail? You looking to pawn off some cursed lover? Don't tell me you need money. You always need money."
He grits his teeth. "I need information."
"About?"
He hesitates. Breathes in.
"About... Auntie."
There's silence.
Dead silence.
The image in the water flattens slightly. Her face goes very still. One eye twitches.
"...Auntie," she repeats. "You, of all creatures in eternity, are asking me about Aunt Threxaval?"
He nods once.
She stares at him for a beat.
Then she barks a laugh so sharp it could slice parchment.
"You've lost your mind."
The pool ripples again—sharp, angry distortions pulsing from his sister's muzzle like the reflection itself is too offended to stay flat.
She leans in closer. Not physically—just with sheer force of disdain. I don't know how a face in a puddle can loom, but hers does.
"You know damn well, Junior, that even most of the family avoids her."
Her voice is rich, scathing, perfectly enunciated. She could eviscerate royalty with punctuation.
"You don't just casually pop by Auntie's lair after what—what is it now? The better part of a millennium? And expect to ask a favour?"
The dragon attempts a blink of innocence. It fails.
She snarls slightly. Elegant, but deadly.
"There is protocol, Junior. Bloodline etiquette. Even the ghosts file requests in triplicate. And you? You just call me up after three centuries of silence and say, oh, by the way, how's Auntie?"
He mumbles, "It's urgent."
"It's madness, is what it is."
She rolls her eyes in two different directions and gestures offscreen with a claw so sharp it probably doubles as a quill.
"And anyway—she's incommunicado. Has been for five hundred years. You know how she feels about this era. She said the calendar smelled like weak plot."
Saya—me—is now just crouched at the edge of the pool, eating a dry biscuit in silent awe.
"She said civilization peaked when the last operatic city-state fell and that everything after that has been philistine rubbish."
The dragon opens his mouth. She cuts him off immediately.
"Vulgarities, Junior. That's what she called them. 'Wristwatches. Gender-neutral titles. Cupcakes.' Vulgarities."
I nearly choke on my biscuit.
The sister continues without missing a beat.
"She said even the wars have lost flair. No pageantry. No structure. Just screaming and mud. She doesn't engage with that sort of thing."
He winces. "So… where is she now?"
The sister pauses.
There's a slight flicker in her reflection. Something behind her, maybe. Something that makes even her hesitate.
Then she sighs.
"She's in her summer sanctuary."
The dragon blinks. "That still exists?"
"Apparently. You know how she gets when atmospheric carbon dioxide goes over a certain threshold."
I blink. "Wait, what—?"
"She says it's oppressive. Makes her scales dull. Says it feels like breathing the breath of disappointed mammals. So she retreats."
The dragon groans. "Please don't say—"
"—to her crystal caldera in the Hollow of Lamentation, yes."
He covers his face with one claw.
I whisper, "That sounds so metal."
His sister leans forward again.
"You want to find her, Junior? Fine. Bring a sacrifice, a scandal, and an apology written in your own blood.
And maybe—maybe—she won't turn you into a footstool."
The reflection flickers.
"Good luck, little brother."
And just like that—snap—the water goes still.
Back to being just a pool.
The dragon stares into it for a long, long moment.
I chew my biscuit and mutter, "Well. That went great."