Sorcerer's Shadow

Grasping the sheer enormity of a dragon is no easy task. I could tell you that it could swallow me whole, without needing to chew twice. I could describe the strange, tentacle-like appendages surrounding its head, each longer than my height and as thick as my leg. I could explain that its shoulders reached about eighteen feet in height and its length surpassed that. But, until you encounter one up close, the reality of it is unfathomable.

Opal dove under my cloak. I wished I could join him. Drevolan stood rigid by my side, waiting. His hand remained far from his sword, so I decided not to reach for my own rapier.

What good would a rapier be against a dragon, anyway?

"GREETINGS, UNKNOWN ONES."

Its voice wasn't "loud" in the conventional sense, yet my skull resonated with its vibrations. When the Lurivox had spoken to us before, it seemed to have held separate conversations with Drevolan and me simultaneously. But this time, both of us seemed to be included. I'm not sure I'd ever fully comprehend telepathic communication without losing my sanity.

"Well met, dragon," responded Drevolan.

One of its eyes focused on me, the other, presumably, on Drevolan.

"YOU STILL DRAW BREATH."

"How do you discern that?" I asked.

Drevolan intervened, "We are on a mission."

"FOR WHOM?"

"Lady Thaleia, from the House of the Dragon."

"WHY SHOULD THIS CONCERN ME?"

"We're not certain. Is the House of the Dragon significant to you, Lord Dragon?"

A sound resembling a chuckle reverberated through my skull. The dragon confirmed, "YES."

"Thaleia d'Kyran is the Dragon's rightful heir," Drevolan disclosed.

This revelation startled me. I looked at Drevolan, contemplating the implications of this information.

The dragon shifted its gaze to Drevolan, holding it for a moment before asking, "WHAT IS THE CYCLE'S STAGE?"

Drevolan replied, "The Fenghuang era."

"YOU MAY PROCEED," the dragon declared.

It lumbered around and disappeared from our view. I finally relaxed. Opal crawled out from my cloak, taking his usual spot on my shoulder.

Our guide resumed our journey, leading us back into a somewhat regular landscape. I wondered how much time had passed since we'd arrived. We'd dried up from the rain and eaten a meal. Four hours? Or six?

There was a building ahead, surrounded by more individuals. Some were adorned in the House of the Dragon's colors, others in purple robes.

"Drevolan, what do the purple robes symbolize?"

"They are the attendants of the departed."

"A grim job, that."

"It's the fate of those who enter the Paths of the Dead but can't navigate through, or those who die here."

A chill ran down my spine, remembering the Dragonlords we'd slain. "Is it eternal?"

"I don't believe so. But it can last several millennia."

Another shiver. "It must become monotonous quickly."

"Presumably. It's also a form of punishment. Likely our fate if we fail this mission."

The building ahead was still quite a distance away, yet it was clear that it could rival the grandeur of the Imperial Palace. It was a simple, massive grey cube, lacking any distinct marks or decorations. It was unattractive.

Our guide pointed to it, announcing, "The Halls of Afterlife."

As we neared the building, its size did not diminish. I think my surroundings continued to shift, but I wasn't paying attention. We arrived at an arch displaying another dragon motif, where our guide halted. He offered a bow to Drevolan, pointedly ignoring me.

"It's been quite a journey. Enjoy your stay here," I said.

His gaze briefly touched me as he retorted, "May you be bestowed with a purple robe."

"Why, thank you," I responded. "The same to you."

We stepped under the arch and found ourselves in a kind of courtyard, faced with doors large enough to accommodate our dragon acquaintance without him needing to duck. I noticed multiple other arches leading into this courtyard, around twenty of them.

Hold on, no, let's be precise. There were exactly seventeen. Several figures in purple robes were scattered around the courtyard. One of them approached us, gave a nod to both of us, turned, and started walking towards the doors.

The courtyard seemed to stretch endlessly before us. It offered plenty of time to ponder numerous unsettling scenarios. As we reached the doors, they slowly and majestically swung open with a pomp that managed to impress me despite my awareness of its theatrics.

"Seems like they borrowed one of your tricks," I remarked to Drevolan.

"It's quite effective, isn't it?" he replied.

"Indeed."

When the doors of Nocturne Castle had previously swung open, Lady Eldara had been there to welcome me. But when the doors of the Halls of Afterlife creaked open, a tall male Imperion, adorned in the attire of the House of Siberyn—a long brown skirt, a doublet, and sandals, with a sword strapped to his back—stood before us.

His eyes narrowed upon seeing me, but widened as he took in both of us. "You are among the living."

"Is it that apparent?" I retorted.

"Esteemed Siberyn," Drevolan interjected, "we seek an audience with the Arbiters of Afterlife."

A hint of a smile crossed the Imperion's face. "I suppose you do. Follow me, I'll introduce you to them immediately."

"I'm positively thrilled," I muttered under my breath. There was no response.

* * * *

In the fortnight following Lynn's demise, I found myself in Torchtown, grappling with how much fun one could have while being terrified. Or, alternatively, just how much one could wallow in misery while seemingly having the time of their life.

Then, one day as I was indulging in some solitary intoxication on the beach, a server approached me and asked, "Lord Mighlovd?" I nodded in affirmation since the name was close enough to my pseudonym. He handed over a sealed note for which I generously tipped him. The message read, "Come back," signed by my boss. I spent a few moments questioning its authenticity, until Opal made a solid point. If anyone knew enough to forge such a message, they'd also know enough to have me assassinated right there on the beach. This sent a shiver down my spine but also assured me of the message's legitimacy.