Existing in seclusion had steeped us in drawbacks. I couldn’t deny that a weight hadn’t existed in our hearts, but we’d made the decision after the Gallabritchie War to be away from everything – away from the good, the bad, the evil and everything in-between. We weren’t like the other Dryads to begin with, but after that horrendous event… it seemed like something crucial in Galadryn had become undeniably shattered.

Unable to endure the pressures of our own society or what we had done in the war, we took off and affixed ourselves to other habits. When it came to my oldest sister, she’d buried herself in hunting, travelling and providing for our newest sibling.

I understood her need to nurture, but healing had never been a natural gift of mine. The war had taken that ability from me and dirtied it. Sullied my inherent kindness and selflessness, my ability to love or trust Magic Bloods any more than humans. It made no difference to me.

And so I’d redirected my hopelessness and brokenness into something else. It wasn’t clean and it wasn’t in any way approved by my kind–

A long, long time ago, on the slopes of Mount Dionysus, a young Doralis had unsheathed her sword and challenged the lone warrior standing by himself. He’d spun around after gazing into the volcano for a long period of time, his broadsword perched on one shoulder, and then he’d winked at her, inviting her to swing at him.

It was the first time their swords had ever crossed… and yet they’d duelled for hours on end, neither one of them speaking.

“You’re a Dryad.” The warrior said after a while, revealing his wings to her.

The shape of his wings… the scaly edges, the taloned tips, the way they dragged on the ground due to the sheer size of them. All these indicators pointed to one thing – that he was a Dragon Faerie. A powerful one at that, given his endurance during the fight and just from way he moved; each strike of his were lethal and flawless.

But post-war Doralis was a ghost. She hated speaking so much that she stared and stared and stared at him. His brows grew intensely thick in alarm.

“Girl, are you alright?” He asked, stepping toward her.

He put his sword into his scabbard and then his tentative, wandering hand slid her locks away from her brow. But such an act was viewed as treacherous and hostile, and it was as if every breath in her body had been yanked out of her lips, expelled out in a single scream. The look she gave him was akin to a rabid animal.

Her sword went up straight away, intending to slice his hand clean off. Quick on his feet, he jumped back, laughing at her incomprehensible speed and audacity. He’d never seen a creature who’d caught him so unawares, but then again… He’d never been one to lower his sword before.

There was something, though, about those unrepentant eyes that drew him in, that made him want to conversate rather than unleash a torrent of violence upon her.

Did she have no idea who he was? To anyone else, they might have been able to tell from the exuberant crown alone that he was the handsome and proud ruler of Adalantra.

But no ounce of recognition or care for her actions flared to life across her face. If he was waiting for an apology, he wouldn’t get it.

He was a mighty King who’d known the likes of Dryads before. They bored him with their sameness, their preference for peace. But this one was different… She was a conundrum. And she was looking at him, just looking and clenching her sword.

The warrior brandished his sword once more, tipping it against hers, “Do you… still wish to fight me?”

What surprised him was her grave eyes and astute nod. Absolute certainty.

Yes, he knew, as he continued to examine her, that this small, unassuming Magic Blood was quickly becoming a memorable scar in his mind and would be so forever more. Not because she couldn’t defeat him, but because her emotional wounds were so plainly visible that they were vibrating with an intensity that welled in her jade eyes. And they were unlike anything he’d ever witnessed.

He knew what a death wish looked like, too. This Dryad was undecided, although he could taste her nearness to the edge, her willingness a stone’s throw away.

Unless he could derail her course with something better. Something more interesting than death…

“Tell you what. I bet you filthy Dryads can’t fight for shit.” He pronounced, squaring his shoulders.

A faint smile carved underneath the mud, ash and blood on her face. Yes. The Dryad wanted him to do his best. Give his all when fighting her... And he did so, enthusiastically, every single time they battled.

The Dragon Faerie would do as she commanded, simply because she asked.

For centuries and centuries, that’s precisely what they did.

Because the Dryad and the Dragon Faerie had discovered that instead of living in eternal angst, life was sharper, more colourful and much more meaningful when it was spent fighting each other instead…

And for her, battling with the golden-eyed, winged menace had become a tonic for her broken nature - it was the only way in which she could get rid of her nightmares and sleep through the night.

I stood up and banished the memory away before ambling toward an inn. It was called ‘Amano’s Rainbucket’ for reasons I never understood; but it probably had something to do with the holes in the ceiling that, when left for a while, tended to grow in number and forced occupants to place buckets around the inn.

The interior was thick with the smell of damp air when I waded in, testing the wooden floor, hearing the creaky wood mutter under my feet. I heard other guests complaining in the entryway, talking about puddles and floods in their bedrooms and then I contemplated leaving, except I didn’t have a place to stay. Rizzaget’s? No.

Anixae and I couldn’t impose on the Sorcerer. The shame of what Galadryn had done was still eating away at my conscience like a sickness. I could hardly bring myself to go over to the innkeeper, but I forced my feet to slide on the wooden slats nonetheless, the squeak an unpleasant grate in my ears.

“Room for two, please.” I said.

The balding man at the front desk leered at me, his two front teeth glinting as he said, “That’s fifty Gasilleas.”

Fifty Gasilleas? I was sure that he was extorting simply because he could but I didn’t bat an eye at him.

I rubbed my chin, thinking. “I’m short on wages at the moment… My employer should be able to make an advancement if you ask him, though. His name is Rizzaget? Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

“And what is your name?”

“Doralis. Just ask him, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The man’s square jaw dropped. He started wiping his forehead and rushing to get a key, as if I were royalty. I was quickly ushered up a staircase as he fumbled to escort me away from the main entrance, his words lost in translation.

Just as we entered a hallway, his words became quick and jittery and I started catching onto his agitated sentences, “—he said you’d be here. Already paid for your room. Told me I’d lose my head if I turned you away. Please, please, I don’t want any trouble!”

He led me towards a door that was old and chipped, turning the key carefully. We entered and he showed me around the apartment, giving me a tour of the small space. No holes in the walls or roof. Decent furniture and clean bedding.

I looked at him, confused. “Who paid for my room?” I asked.

His face grew red. “I can’t say. Not supposed to say. He’ll chop my head off.”

“What if I chop off your head instead?”

“You can’t! He promised! I gave you the best room. Your sister can have the other good room, too. If he’s paying, I don’t care who stays in which room.”

“And. Who. Is. He?” I took a step toward him, crossing my arms over my chest.

The innkeeper backed into the wall near the door, a sheen of sweat dripping down his head. He gulped, those beady eyes of his looking lost and dazed.

“I beg you. He just told me not to say anything… and paid me to keep you ladies in comfort for as long as needed. Food will be delivered as you see fit, just ring the bell over by the door. Someone will be up right away. Just don’t tell him if we’ve displeased you!”

I tilted my head back, throwing one hand up, the other stationed on my hip as I bit back, “How am I supposed to tell him, if I don’t know who he is?!”

The inept male standing in my midst blinked. “Oh. Yes. You’re quite right, Mrs Dragon.”

My head snapped back down, as if he’d punched me in the gut. “What did you just call me?”

He squeaked and ran out of the room, sensing my distress and booming fury at the title. Mrs Dragon?

The person who’d paid for my room was Balthazar? I rolled my eyes.

His family name was definitely not ‘Dragon’. He was one of the oldest beings in the world; he probably didn’t even have one. I doubted he even gave himself one when family names were invented.

I sighed, draping myself over the bed that was pushed into the corner of the room. It was comfortable and warm, the covers sinking under my weight.