The most mana-effective sigils that would not arouse suspicion—at least if used sparsely— are the minor healing ones. “To soothe the pain from overexerting on my chores the other day, my Lady,” I told Scarreladai a few moons ago. In part, it was true. In part, it was just to remain sane. Until Gardorprims is convinced to let me be, madness is a luxury I cannot afford in his presence. He’s not here now, but I better get into the routine of remaining alert. I traverse the cave system aided solely by the shine of Jillsenbane, with no illusions to reveal what hides in the shadows.

Now, the matter of the garden and the blood drinkers and the eye on the wall. The plants are mouths, pots of bone and teeth and sinew and tongues with a long proboscis made out of empty blood vessels. The eye is just stuck in a wall of flesh, like a squared, denuded cyclops. The rank smell burnt my nostrils at first, but the body eventually gets used to it, and the “plants”, I have found out, have no quarrel with the ingestion of other bodily fluids besides blood. Vomit, for the sake of precision.

I need to burn this place down if I ever kill Scarreladai, the dragon. Kill the dragon, Francisco, kill the dragon! Ha ha ha. As if it were so easy, as if my life weren’t on her claws. It seemed a good idea to spur the insane me to action, before I discovered the sigil trick.

How can I kill that I cannot even look at? I instinctually avert my gaze, knowing facing Scarreladai would inevitably lead to the death of one of us. Considering I am not as strong as I was when I lost the first time around, I have no allies to speak of, and now Gadorprims inhabits the cave too, my chances are not what I’d call great.

The sigil is running out of light, I am going to suffer a few more moments of sanity before going back to being a madman. After all, a little rest from sanity now that Gadorprims is away will come in handy.

The plants are watered now, yet the baths are almost dry. The water, it seems, is slowly trickling back into the pool. At this rate, the baths could be full again in a couple weeks. The Fish observes scared, from a far corner of the roof. My heat sigil has startled them. The azure mirrors float around me showing numbers I cannot interpret. Get away, get away, get away. Silly things.

I need to tend to the dogs now. These latter days they are a disaster to handle. They howl, they claw and bite each other, and some have even tried to steal the diary from me. One of these days there may happen a little unforeseen accident, involving a mysterious sigil that causes a small cave in on the entrance to their kennels while they sleep. The Lady would mind for sure, but she doesn’t care for the dogs as much as she does for the puppies. Weird, as logic dictates that most dogs were puppies once.

Yet, today is not the day I give in, no. I am walking on thin ice with the Lady, I need to behave for a good, good while, yes. Losing the diary would be catastrophic, terrible for my mental stability. Furthermore, I’d lose my friend Namesake.

I need to go and save Abeline. I know the crucified angel was her, I know I heard her name clear as a summer sky. And yet I cannot get myself to act against Scarreladai, my beautiful lady clad in scarlet scales. Years of wistful ignorance, slavery and abuse have softened and humanized the image of the dragon. I cannot go back to being madman me alone, that would be running away once more. Yet, is not it easier to give up? One day I may perish of old age, and Jillsenbane will choose a new master to wield her and put on hold the dragon menace. And I say “I May” because it is said some wielders of Jillsenbane lived for a thousand years. My face has more wrinkles, my scalp less hair, and my eyesight is probably not what it was —hard to judge when you are held prisoner on a cave system— back in the day, but that could be due to malnourishment and lack of activity, due to the horrid conditions in these caverns. I am not who I was back in the day, when I decided to face Scarreladai for the first time. I still remember it all: the dark fire, the skeletal hands, the undead amalgamation surrounded by dead adventurers by the entrance. Guarding it to not let anyone in. Or maybe out.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

And I should not keep on pondering about it. To even think of the entrance, of the exit, is sin. I could escape, yes, go far far far away, recoup my forces and come back once more to defy the Lady. Yet I cannot. I know myself well. Were I to run away, neither of the dragons would see me ever again. Abeline would be left weeping and crying in her torture chamber, in the one that rightfully belongs to me, the coward.

When I came to a reality that worked like a game, I was thrilled. When the elders granted me Jillsenbane and told me I got chosen by her, I expected nothing but greatness for my future. Here you have that greatness you longed for, Francisco. Sitting in a gutter, surrounded by rotten corpses and rank shit. Here you have your darkest hour, hero! But there is no evil to confront here. There is no justice to be made, any action taken will be not to right a wrong but to avoid further damage. There is no ordeal for me; I have already failed mine. There is a must, yes, of course there is. There is a maiden kidnapped by a dragon like in fairytales, yes, that much is true. But there is a reason why stories are told about the one that vanquishes the lizard, and not about the hundreds who perished trying. And that is naught but problems when you have to face the dragon.

I fought and lost, I ran and tripped, I stood back on my feet just to discover they, too, betray me when I need them the most. They tell you the story about the guy who vanquished the dragon because they desperately need him, because we desperately need him. Just to make everyone (or anyone) think he is the one: he with the loyal, powerful steed; he with the shining, weightless armor; he with the unbreakable will, if not blade. An illusion that wyrmfire doesn’t care about, an illusion that can be torn apart by claw and teeth and the animal’s sheer will to live.

And I’d go to the blacksmith workshop, to the mouth of the cave, where that… ogre of amassed bodies, for lack of a better term, awaits. I’d go when everyone who breathes down here, be it air or flames, sleeps. I’d go and face the dawn light, just to know it has not forsaken me yet. But, then, again, one should not approach the abyss when the prospect of jumping and being devoured by it is so tempting.

I am alone, this book will mold down here to never be read by anyone but a mad me. I only keep on writing it due to the cathartic nature of the act, and the slim hope that, unlike me, it will find a way out into the wide world. May this please, sadden or forewarn you, whoever you are, good or vile reader.

I am dead, but the infantile heart has not received the notice and still beats. I am dead and like all the dead, I am in service of Lady Scarlet. Or a servant of Scarreladai the Deceiver, for those inclined for the bare truth.

To think my father once told me that, as a man, I should always finish what I started, no excuses, no exceptions. This is to say not that he was wrong, but that I have lost the right to be called a man. If I am dead, and not a man, that makes me the equivalent of roadkill, and I ask to be treated with the same respect. I deserve it.

Maybe filling pages with these rants, past a certain, reasonable point, does me no good. I must stop, recollect my thoughts, define a course of action. I need time to think, but clarity of mind is a scarce resource. I better don’t waste it all on pointless self-loathing. Not for me, but for Abeline. For Abeline.