“Smart one,” Galeus remarked with satisfaction. “Then, I’ll count on you again today, my darling.”
That evening, the boy, a hybrid of human and dragon, executed his role flawlessly according to his master’s instructions. Despite appearing scattered and defeated, he exuded perfection in his orchestrated downfall. Rising from the chaos of gold coins swirling around him like confetti, he returned to his nest, the coins bestowed upon him by Galeus clutched tightly in his mouth.
His left arm, disguised to resemble a human limb, hung broken and limp, while his right arm, encased in scales, remained unscathed. Propping himself up with his uninjured limb, the boy made his way down a dim corridor, oblivious to the outside world.
“Hey, loser of the day, where are you?” called out a voice, but the crow paid no heed, focused solely on reaching his nest to adorn it with his newfound riches.
“Galeus’s crow,” the voice persisted, invoking an involuntary reaction within the boy. Turning around, he spotted a young man leaning against the wall, sharing his same black hair and almost grayish-blue eyes, exuding an air of calmness.
“I recognized you instantly. A dragon that comprehends human speech,” the young man remarked, approaching with deliberate steps. Adorned in a cloak adorned with gleaming gold buttons and intricate embroidery, he outshone the crude trinkets offered by Galeus.
Before the boy’s avid gaze, the young man presented a long gold chain, bearing a pendant that emitted a soft, melodic chime as it opened to reveal a small portrait.
“Have you seen this woman?” the young man inquired, and a surge of recognition flooded the boy’s azure eyes. Even a fledgling recognizes its mother, and the woman depicted in the portrait was undoubtedly the crow’s mother.
“It seems so. She bore you, though your appearances differ greatly,” the young man said as the crow leaned in to scrutinize the portrait more closely. The young man gently closed the pendant, then extended his hand with a compassionate smile, cupping the boy’s chin.
“Now, my dear, who is the father who gifted you with such remarkable lineage?”
***
Beyond the borders of Rotiara, the land stretched into a desolate expanse, its chill reminiscent of late autumn, even in the midst of fall.
In the dimly lit barracks, Rezette found himself restless amidst a prolonged night. The flickering candle danced erratically in the mountain breeze, casting erratic shadows upon the sturdy fabric walls.
His mind wandered to a familiar yet unsettling dream—a memory of a past he wished to forget, buried deep within the recesses of his consciousness.
With a reflexive motion, Rezette reached out, expecting to find the comforting presence of another beside him, only to be met with empty space. It dawned on him belatedly that he was far from familiar territory.
Leading an expedition deep into the heart of Van Yela, nestled amidst the Grenthern Mountains, Rezette’s mission was clear: to eradicate the monsters that lurked in the spawning grounds before the onset of winter.
Just two days had passed since their departure from Rotiara, leaving behind Elise in the safety of the castle. Only a single day had elapsed since the first signs of his inner turmoil had begun to surface.
Sitting upright, Rezette removed the tight strap encircling his neck and shed his shirt, revealing sinewy muscles pulsating with latent energy. Running a hand through his hair, his veins throbbed with intensity, his blue eyes clouded with a mixture of sensitivity and unrest.
The affliction that tormented the dragon transcended mere madness; it defied classification. Sensory overload marked its onset, with heightened sensitivity plaguing every facet of perception. Vision, hearing, and even smell, while somewhat tolerable, paled in comparison to the overwhelming onslaught of touch and taste.
Every sensation became amplified to an unbearable degree—the touch of fabric against skin, the slightest brush of fingertips against objects, even the weight of vibrations and the caress of gentle breezes induced waves of discomfort. Mere sight of living beings or remnants of life invoked waves of nausea, while the taste of blood could send the afflicted into convulsions.
Emotions, too, spiraled out of control. During the throes of psychosis, Rezette found himself powerless to curb the impulsive urges and erratic thoughts that flooded his mind. Whether it was the urge to inflict harm, inexplicable bursts of rage, or haunting memories from bygone days, restraint proved futile.
As he briefly closed his eyes, hoping to dismiss the onslaught as a fleeting dream, fragmented memories of the day’s events threatened to overwhelm him—a common occurrence during his episodes. However, this time, a sense of annoyance mingled with drowsiness, signaling a departure from the usual pattern.
“…Dammit,” Rezette muttered, his body tensing involuntarily, the seams of his clothing straining against the force threatening to burst forth.
In a moment of clarity, he doused his face with cold water, a grim acknowledgment of the inevitable. A peculiar intuition had accompanied him from the outset of the journey.
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