MADDNESS BURNSWITCH — … Born Year 288 S.E. from a scandalous affair that led to her father’s second failed marriage and a mouth-watering divorce settlement that is still the highest recorded in the United Ecosystems (not a gossip column gig) Details of her birth are...

... based on school records, testimonials from classmates and teachers: a Cursed-Hexer of remarkable analytical skill that showed early (find living relative to confirm Maximus Bloodspawn’s statement: mother?)

... which led, interestingly, to the SALEM ISLAND MASSACRE—not to be confused with the genocidal [redacted]...

... Of note, however, is a distinguished coroner’s confirmation of her early demise in Year 306 S.E.—the first of an infamous string of many such pronouncements to her name (Good luck getting this published in Morbid—Editor gets off to being such a boring [redacted]).

–FROM “A LITTLE GIRL’S SCARY BEDTIME STORY (FIRST DRAFT)” BY VICTORIA NAMELESSCHILD, WINNER OF THE WIZARDING PRIZE IN LITERATURE & GRIMOIRES.

There were countless mystian fauna and flora on Salem Island, but none like Ezekiel.

Maddness had learned two new words when the little girl described to her father what she’d felt, seeing the Mystian-born for the first time: grandeur for that feeling when her head run empty of thought beyond the stupefying sight before her, and awe for the weakness and trembles in the little girl’s knees. She remained adamant that it wasn’t something so uninteresting as fear.

‘Fear, like foolishness, often is a sign of ignorance; seek knowledge and the nightmares may go away’. Her father’s words had kept Maddness up past her bedtime that night, reading about dragons and other such… wondrous creatures of the Era of Myth in the Draconic Volume of the Encyclopedia Mythica:

… breath of raging infernos or icy furies; maws and talons sharper than any blacksmith’s magnum opus. And wings that sliced through the wind as silent as death before a kill… now extinct.

The little girl paled before that final bit of the preface settled her racing heart—there couldn’t be a dragon under her bed—but Ezekiel was different. She’d never seen him so close. Little Maddness Burnswitch’s legs gave out sooner than her bladder did, for before the twelve-year-old was a creature of myth. One that could neither be real nor there then, but undeniably was.

He’s not a real dragon; he’s mystian-born. She thought, warmth spreading through her loins. Maddness was old enough not to wet herself anymore, but her mind could hardly form any thoughts before those purple slits the mystian-born called eyes.

A wretched sense of her own mortality made all-too-apparent as the little girl hyperventilated and the hairs on her body stood in shockwaves of goosebumps.

He’s not real, he’s not--

There were tears in her eyes. This was the moment after the silent stalking, when death came for the princess’s hand, in that fairytale she’d read.

Dark talons dug into the cliff side and left scars on the igneous rock-face as the mystian-born descended. Massive, veiny wings cast an ominous shadow over the sun. Maddness needed her knight in shining armor. She needed--

A frigid breath left the mystian-born’s maw, forming ice on Maddness’s aviator goggles and the hair that peeked out of her helmet. Her fingers went numb from the cold or fear—she couldn’t tell anymore as the dam broke.

“Ahhh! Go away!” the little girl shrieked as she shut her eyes and tears rolled down her face. “Oxie! Save me! Daddy! Mommy! Grandpa! Grandma! Help!”

Silence.

Then a soothing warmth engulfed her; as a flood of memories she’d forgotten imploded.

She remembered laughing at Maddox, the goof’s head sticking out of the sand with his eyes crossed; she could never make her tongue touch her nose—how did he do that? Maddness could smell the burned eggs from the kitchen—her parents were yelling at each other again—it didn’t matter. She liked her eggs boiled, anyway. The little girl remembered running off, seeing her grandparents strolling barefoot on the beach, holding hands, whispering sweet things she wished she could hear.

Strange, it was almost as if she was sitting by a campfire, roasting marshmallows, in the Wizard’s Tower at Blackwater Beach. They hadn’t been since that trip.

“You’re safe, Tadpole,” Maddock said, embracing Maddness, a blue flame dancing around them. “Grandpa’s here. No one’s going to hurt you. Ezekiel means you no harm—that’s just how the big guy says hello.”

Maddness cried in strained sobs at her grandfather’s familiar voice and scent as she held him so tight her finger went pale. The little girl had never felt so alone and afraid. The relief was almost painful.

***

Ezekiel: Mystian-born (Flora).

The words blinked on her aviator goggles’ visor as she peaked at the mystian-born from behind her grandfather. She hid her shame beneath a dark cloak he’d given her. Maddness really had wet herself, and her grandfather’s enchanted cloak required that she strip for a thorough cleaning. It was mortifying.

You’re not a child anymore. Get your act together. The little girl thought, her hand clutched at the old man’s slacks through sniffles.

But more importantly, she had to crane her neck up as the mystian-born had retreated to the top of the peak somewhere between her shriek and eventual sobbing. Maddness’s gaze followed the mystian-born’s ascent, her eyes narrowing in thought despite the lingering waves of goosebumps on her body.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Flora... that’s, um, Kingdom Plantae, not Animalia... so a thorny carnivorous plant with Draconic genetics? That makes no sense.

But her mother was one of the smartest people she knew and no one knew mystian ecology better than she did. There was no question she couldn’t answer. Even when Maddness was just being annoying or a distraction, her mother made time to answer questions. And the best part? The woman loathed ambiguity. Not once did her mother tell her, ‘it is not my place to say.’

Why can’t sorcerers be more like ecologists? Thought the little girl.

Maddness knew her mother couldn’t be wrong in her classification of Ezekiel. It also couldn’t be faulty hexing or crafting on her father’s part. The man was a perfectionist with the dexterity of a prodigious artisan whose favorite word was redundancy.

It was Madders who’d designed her aviator goggles and hexed them with all the classified species in her mother’s database, theoretical or otherwise (plus some other cool stuff).

She’d heard from her grandfather that a lot of effort went into it and that her parents spent long nights working and ‘actually communicating like proper adults’ (albeit, halfway across the world from each other) just to figure it out in time for her eleventh birthday. The little girl felt so special.

The product—her aviator goggles—like Maddie, was the union of mystian science and spell craft through her parents.

Since then, one of Maddie’s favorite pastimes had been helping her mother identify new species on the island. It was a tiny mystian ecosystem, but quite diverse and ‘relatively free of sorcerer influence’ according to her mother.

She’d seen Ezekiel in passing, but he was always hundreds of meters in the air. She might not even have seen him without her goggles. The sudden close up was overwhelming, to say the least.

But looking at him now, safely behind her grandfather, Maddie observed Ezekiel’s talons and fangs looked rather... fibrous, thorny. The veiny patterns on the mystian-born’s purple wings looked almost... leaf-like. And there was a sweet, flowery fragrance in the air as the mystian-born batted his enormous wings (not a sound touched her ears).

Amazing! He really is a carnivorous plant with Draconic genes! The Pre-sorcery Era was crazy-awesome! Maddness thought. How could we have lost the knowledge of how to replicate this?

“For now, sweetie,” her mother often said. “But your volunteering as an honorary ecologist helps us do research that brings us a step closer each day.”

The little girl loved being an honorary ecologist. It was so much fun! Some days she saw something new, on other days, she saw something old behaving differently. And on days she saw nothing, she wondered where it all went. It was never boring.

Whenever Maddie walked underneath the thick canopy, she imagined herself O’Hara on one of his adventures inside a labyrinth that hadn’t seen the light of a natural star in centuries.

But O’Hara would never cower before a mystian-born, or wet himself... not even in front of a real dragon—he’d make friends. Maddness thought.

Maddie exposed her entire head, turning her hesitant peeking into an unapologetic glare at the Draconic mystian flora’s purple haze high above on the stoneface. Then she moved her leg at a snail’s pace, out of hiding.

“There. Nice and cle–”

“Ahhh!” the little girl yelped as a baritone voice she knew was her grandfather’s sent chills down her spine. She was so lost in thought, Maddie had forgotten she wasn’t alone.

“You aren’t still afraid are you, Tadpole?” Maddock asked as he handed the little girl her cleaned clothing.

“N-no, I’m not,” said Maddness, her face flushed as she shuffled underneath the cloak to get dressed.

***

Far from Salem Island, in a forest of golden-leafed, giant yellowdwarf trees, a boy, about sixteen-years old, with slick raven-black hair and olive skin, wore dark, loose-fitting robes and a matching witch’s hat. He sat breathless atop a gigantic, but unconscious, red-scaled dragon’s head.

“Excellent takedown, Burnswitch! Very textbook, but excellent nonetheless.” Said a middle-aged man with long brown hair, stubble turning gray, and a crooked nose on a sharp face. The man’s robes were a dark green with a white hood and sleeves; a fitting white witch’s hat with a golden band at the base rested on his head.

The boy gazed more at the hat than the man as he said,

“Professor,” in a pitchy voice. The boy swallowed hard to moisten his parched throat, sweat dripping from his slick brow. “Why are we clearing the Dragons’ Nest in the middle of the night? You’re not giving extra credit for this, are you?”

“Nonsense! A late-night stroll through Forever-Autumn Square is worth more than any extra credit.”

“That's why I came along. But I’m not so sure anymore. Professor Lagrange is this year’s Examiner, you know.”

“Oh, dear. Gretchen? You’ll want to revise your mystian mechanics, Burnswitch.”

“I was before you barged into my Tree House. Why’d you call me out? I’m flattered, but I’m not aiming for Preventive Maintenance Prefect, Professor. This is a waste of time.” The boy said, as the dragon’s breath ruffled his bangs. But he seemed unbothered as his sharp gaze finally met the man’s deep-green eyes.

“Is it? Haven’t you heard, Burnswitch? We’re to have a fresh batch of apprentices soon!” the man in the white hat said.

The boy’s eyes went wide. He looked at his hands, balled his fists, wiggled his fingers, took a deep breath.

Strange. I don’t feel any different. When did the time pass? Unless… it didn’t! he thought. But that would mean I’m…

To hell with it. He could worry about that later. The boy’s gaze fell on the man’s white hat. He licked his lips, asking,

“Would you know how I fared on the exam, Professor Wonderhoff?”

“Oh, forgive me, young Burnswitch. Memory's rather foggy. But I believe… I was dead by then. Very textbook of me, I know. However, do not let that dampen your spirits,” Wonderhoff said, smiling. “We could always look through the school records when we’re done here if you’re up for it; but I fear there’s a vile mystian-born who’s taken root there. We’ll have to weed her out first. What do you say?”

The boy's hazel eyes lit up. “Gladly. But... dead? That means you’re also--”

“Uh-uh, not another word, Burnswitch,” Wonderhoff looked over his shoulder as an owl hooted in one of the yellowdwarfs. “It’s been too long. These woods now have ears.”

The boy peered into the dark as he said, “Of course, Professor. But how would you know about the new apprentices, then?”

“Why, I met with little Elizabeth the other day. I haven’t seen her so excited since her grandfather...” Wonderhoff’s voice trailed off. “But enough talk. Let’s get on with this, shall we? Or shall I call for O’Hara, as well?”

“Excellent idea, professor. Have him shovel the dragon scat out of the lecture rooms when I’m done putting the beats to sleep, will you?”

“Madders Burnswitch! Where are your manners?”

“Well, now that I know… what we are, I don’t have to play nice anymore, Professor.” The boy said with a wicked grin. “But you never cared about that, did you?”

“I suppose you’re right. However, I have an image to maintain. That means proper behavior, young man.”

The boy laughed, reached into his robes and pulled out a vial of raging green gas. He tossed it in an arc. It shattered before a building that grew out of a giant yellowdwarf tree. The gas dissipated in a haunting scream, and out of the windows, a Draconic, plant-like beast with multiple heads peaked.

“Hydra of the Mystian-Flora Class! Not an easy foe. What is your strategy?”

“I might need a Stunt Double for this one, Professor,” the boy said.

“Ah, I see. Still very textbook, Burnswitch. However, the night is young, you might yet surprise me.” Wonderhoff said, grinning.

The boy rolled his eyes, leaped off the unconscious red-scaled dragon’s head. And then, in a burst of purple flames, there were two of him.

***

To be continued.