Cassian frowned at the memory, "That was the first time Alaric ever used healing magic. It was wild, uncontrolled - took everything in him just to get it going in the right direction. But even raw as it was, he brought that man back from certain death. Well, for a time."

"You killed the first person Alaric ever healed?" It was an accusation and question rolled into one.

"That I did." He responded flatly.

"Did you ever tell Alaric?"

"Hasn't ever come up."

Lyra felt uneasy with his phrasing, "You do know that he's dead?" she asked tentatively.

Cassian had to pause and let that sink in. "He is, isn't he? Sometimes I forget."

Lyra knew politeness dictated she pause and ask how he was, but figured the man would not appreciate the gesture and would rather continuing on instead, "Your method of ambush was, and again I must mention that this was Alaric, the Great Healer, patron godling of those in need."

"That is the one."

"doing the equivalent of pointing and saying 'look out behind you' so you could stab a man in the back and rob him?" she asked in a tone midway between incredulous and furious.

"You'd be surprised how often that trick works." Cassian nodded thoughtfully, but added in a serious tone, "Didn't work on Malphas though. The demon lord didn't so much as flinch when I tried."

Cassian had been doing that all day. The worse part was he rarely bothered to elaborate or add context. The man would just randomly spout a quip of obviously important or outrageous quality that had nothing to do with anything the were talking about.

Lyra shook her head in exasperation as she sifted through the scraps of paper scattered around her at the table.

Eventually she found the one dedicated to outrageous claims - such as:

Mira Nightshade, the scout that all others aspired to, once wandered haplessly into the mouth of a dragon.

Arch Magus Evelyn Ashford spent the first year of her mage career unable to conjure a fireball without nearly blowing herself up.

And that King Aldric, the great tyrant, the one parents threaten their children with if they don't behave, was a masochist.

She hurriedly noted down Cassian's latest claim along with all the other heinous crimes against recorded history. It read:

'During the pivotal battle of Hell Gate, Cassian, heretofore known as the undisputable greatest hero of our time, attempted to distract Demon Lord Malphas. Moments before the two giants of history clashed, Cassian pointed behind the Demon Lord and said, "look out behind you". The Great Hero's was unsuccessful in his efforts as Demon Lord Malphas did not look.'

With Lyra busy organizing her notes, the cottage was nearly quiet for a while, nothing but the sound of historian scratching away at a notebook or shifting papers. Cassian gazed out at the setting sun as it bathed his garden in a golden haze. The fading light transformed the mess into something almost presentable. He didn't like looking at the garden like this, felt wrong. Though he didn't much like looking at the garden in daylight either.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

He glanced over at Lyra. All throughout his stories she'd been scurrying in and out of his cottage, always coming back with with piles of notepads, books, and a few maps. Now she was hunched over the table, completely buried under her clutter. Cassian figured she'd be busy enough doing her historianly duties for a minute.

With a groan, he slowly stood up from his creaky chair, which complained almost as much as his old bones did. He threw a bundle of dry oak logs onto the hearth, the rough bark scrape against his calloused hands. With a flick of his finger, he activated a small mana stone causing a bright blaze to erupt, igniting the wood into a comforting fire. The warmth spread throughout the room, providing some respite for his weary body.

When he finished Lyra was still a bundle of frantic energy – flipping through books, checking them against her notes, and circling parts of her hand-drawn map.

She was a far cry from how she seemed that morning. Lyra had started the day scribbling diligently in her notepad, but as Cassian rambled on, her neat facade crumbled. By the time Cassian finished his latest story, she was a mess of disheveled hair with furiously scribbled notes scattered all around her.

Just as he finally figured out what the historian reminded him of, a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter, she deflated. Lyra leaned back in her chair and let out a long sigh, rubbing her tired eyes beneath her glasses.

As a historian, she had always believed that truth mattered. But now that she was faced with a reality that challenged her beliefs, she felt uncertain. Cassian's exploits read less like selfless acts of heroism and more like the impulsive scrambling of a scrappy boy trying to survive.

"Everything you've told me so far, every little detail and anecdote - it all checks out. The dates, places, people - they're all corroborated by my research. I have to read between the lines to find, well just about all of it, but it's there."

Cassian raised a bushy silver eyebrow at her, the firelight flickering across his weathered face.

"You sound disappointed," he remarked. "Were you hoping to catch an old man in his lies?"

As he talked, Cassian lifted an iron kettle from where it hung over the fire, pouring steaming tea into two earthen mugs. Lyra took and offered mug without a second thought, relishing the warmth of it.

Part of her, the bigger part if she was being honest, hoped that she would find him lying. Luckily that smaller part had morals, and a hard time accepting a lie that tasted better than truth. "None of your stories are spelled out in the histories. It's all just inference and cross-referencing."

She waved her hand at the chaotic pile of books and notes surrounding them. "It's as if someone went through the tale of great hero Cassian and took great pains to filter out," she gestured broadly at Cassian, "The you part of it."

Cassian chuckled heartily, nearly spilling his tea.

She glared at him, "What's so funny?"

"You know demons, right?"

He was doing the thing again, where he changed topics, said something random.

"Of course, a humanoid-type beast that used to spawn from the gates. Largest gate ever was one, the Hell Gate."

"Know what they called themselves?"

"No, I don't."

"Of course, who would care enough to know?" Cassian took a slow sip of his tea before continuing. "They called themselves Yss'gora. It meant 'the people' in their language. Humans came along and started calling them demons. The words got a feel to it, don't it? The name made it easy to see the Yss'gora as creatures of evil and destruction, simple-minded savages without culture or souls. Instead of what they were, thinking beings that were trying to survive, same as us.

We fought, because it was them or us. There was no good or evil - just two groups vying for limited resources. And we won. Now everyone knows the story of the demons. Won't be much longer till nobody knows what a Yss'gora was."

He stared into the flickering flames, the firelight casting dark shadows across his craggy features. "Same thing happened to me."

Neither spoke, they just drained their mugs to the sound of the fire's hisses and pops. Lyra stewed in the idea that her world was built on a few choice slivers of the truth picked out of the whole. Cassian rubbed at his knee, the soreness telling him how late it was.

"Well, I believe I've talked at you enough for one night," he said, stifling a yawn. "These old bones need their rest."

He stood, wincing slightly as he straightened his leg. Lyra followed suit, gathering her books and sliding them into a satchel. As she left that night Cassian was all but convinced that was the last he'd see of her.

*****

The next morning, Cassian woke to a pounding at his door that threatened to shake the whole cottage. He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. Cassian slowly pushed himself up from his bed, stifling a yawn as his joints creaked in protest

The pounding at the door continued as Cassian shuffled across the cold wood floors, the chill seeping up through his wool socks. He considered ignoring it altogether.

He unlatched the door and pulled it open, blinking against the sudden sunlight. Lyra stood on his threshold, cheeks flushed from the morning chill, auburn hair poking out from under a knitted cap, and a stack of parchment tucked under one arm.

"I need to know more." She said without preamble.

Cassian sighed, shaking his head. Of course she did. "Come in then."

"Two rules," he grunted, already exhausted by her relentless curiosity. "Number one: no questions until the work is done."

Lyra's smile faltered. "Work? Wait what's rule number two?"

He scowled at her eagerness. "Rule number two is don't break rule number one. Congratulations, you've already broken it twice. Now come on, the garden isn't going to weed itself."