Under a soft, radiant twilight, a caravan rode west. The clouds were highlighted in purple and orange before them, stretched across the sky from one horizon to the next. They covered the peaks of a jagged mountain range which steadily drew closer, impossibly tall against the serene colours of the sky behind.

The forest was growing dark, and soon it would be time to make camp. Reyland rode at the very back, staring listlessly at the sky as another day of travel came near to its end.

Each day of their journey had passed much the same. Reyland slept in a carriage through the day, then awoke just before dusk to ready the camp and perform his night shift, so the others could rest. Maeve was on the day shift, so they would see each other right around when he woke, but other than that, he’d barely seen a familiar face the whole journey.

He sighed as he stretched his neck, the ever present aches of his many injuries flaring up in the process. Sleeping in a bumpy carriage all through the day had hardly helped… Maybe he should ask Griff to put him on day shift soon.

The caravan came to a slow stop, and by the time Reyland and the rest of the rear had caught up, the preparations for the night had already begun. This far from civilization, wooden palisades and spikes were a necessary precaution, and the pre-assembled barricades were already being taken down from the front carts. Pretty soon they would have a large, circular encampment, bonfires burning in the centre, and dozens of tents erected for the day shift to rest in.

Reyland groaned in pain as he made to dismount Lucy, only for a gloved hand to come down over his shoulder, stopping him. Reyland turned to see Griff, mounted on Umber, just behind him.

“Got my tasks to do, Griff. Not that I’m complainin’ about a little procrastination. Did ya need something?”

“Not tonight, you don’t. Follow.”

Griff began riding off towards the woods, away from the rising encampment and into the darkness beyond. He already carried with him a torch, and Reyland stared in puzzlement.

“Where are you going?”

“I promised you stories, didn’t I?”

Reyland’s golden eyes widened, and he made to catch up with a small, disbelieving smile.

“So ya didn’t forget about that after all?” Reyland asked as he caught up and began riding side by side with his mentor.

“Of course not.”

“Well, you know, it’s been days and I haven’t seen hide nor tail of ya, so…”

“I’ve been busy. My apologies.”

With what? Reyland wanted to ask, but held his tongue. He’d learned years ago not to probe too much.

Griff kept them moving off from the group in silence, until long after the noise of activity had faded. Eventually it was just the two of them in near darkness, only the faintest of light still in the sky and the torch Griff carried to light the way.

“Now, I know you don’t like people much, but was it really necessary to come so far out to have a chat?” Reyland asked.

“We’re not just here to talk. We have a task to do, as well.”

Reyland frowned, but continued to follow obediently.

“We will need to be quiet soon,” Griff said after a moment’s pause. “While I’m no good as a story teller… I can at least answer some of the questions I’m sure you have.”

“Hmph, should’ve figured I wouldn’t get a proper story out of you,” Reyland complained, but his face was screwed up in concentration as he thought of what to ask. Pretty soon, it became clear that there was one thing he wanted to know more than any other.

“What’s it like to slay a dragon? I mean, not like, another wyvern, or some other greater wyrm… but an actual dragon.”

Griff sighed, as he grumbled something Reyland couldn’t hear. After another moment of silence, Reyland waiting in anticipation, Griff began to speak once more.

“All beasts contain some semblance of magic,” He began, and Reyland leaned in a little closer from atop his horse. “That is what separates them from animals, after all. Yet of all beasts, wyrms are the most magical. Mana saturates their very blood and bones, making them far more dangerous than any other.”

“All wyrms are like that?” Reyland asked.

“Yes, though the lesser wyrms are closer to regular beasts. Even drakehounds, among the least of all wyrmkind, hold more mana than a normal beast thrice their size.”

“Then the wyvern I slew…”

“Held mana to rival an archmage,” Griff answered grimly. “That is what makes their scales so hard, their claws so sharp, and grants them flight even when they’re far too heavy to fly naturally.”

“Why didn’t it, ya know… use that mana?” Reyland asked, looking concerned. “Not that I’m complaining, but, shouldn’t it have? If magic is as dangerous as everyone says, and all.”

“It is more dangerous even than you realise,” Griff replied, the barest hint of an emotion Reyland couldn’t place in his gravelly voice. “But to answer your question, it couldn’t. Wyverns are the least of all greater wyrms, only truly considered a greater wyrm on account of their size. Were it capable of burning you away, or raining hell down from the sky upon us, it certainly would have. Yet a wyvern, even blighted, as it would seem, can not use its mana for any more than strengthening its natural body.”

Reyland ducked under a low branch as the forest around them became thicker. His mind burned with questions, but four years of training in the Order kicked in. He drew his crossbow and loaded it, keeping an eye on the darkness around him. Griff continued as normal, staring intently at the ground, it seemed.

“Dragons are… a different story,” Griff finally said, his voice rough and dark. “Even among greater wyrms, they stand above all others. They are not known as the king of beasts without reason.”

Reyland bit his tongue, listening impatiently even as he continued watching the woods. It took Griff a fair while to continue, and Reyland could sense his hesitation even when he did speak.

“The mana that runs through them… there is not an archmage in history that holds a candle to such a thing. Their wings are not made of flesh and blood, but runes, hardened into physical form. Every scale is traced with inscriptions beyond human comprehension, though many fools have died trying to understand. And the fire they breathe… it burns hotter than any forge or any kiln could ever hope to.”

“They really do breathe fire, then?” Reyland asked excitedly. “I’d heard in the stories, but to think that’s real…”

“They do. Though those stories are, shall we say, exaggerated.”

“Ya don’t even know which stories I’m talkin’ about,” Reyland said defensively.

“I’m in half of them,” Griff rumbled back. “Believe me, I do.”

Reyland gaped like a fish, shook his head, then took a breath.

“Dragonfire melts steel to liquid in seconds,” Griff said darkly. “No shield nor armour in existence will save you, not even with the greatest enchantments gold can buy. I’ve seen armour so enchanted it was immune to flame, yet what can it do when the man wearing it is turned to a pile of ash in his fireproof shell?”

Griff took a breath before continuing.

“Worse yet, is their magic. Spells no human mage could hope to achieve, cast as easily as the beast breathes. Magical lances the size of trees that rain from the sky in the thousands, winds that throw houses like a child with a toy. Quakes through the earth strong enough to level castles.”

“Then how the hell do ya even get close?”

Griff abruptly brought his horse to a halt, sliding off the saddle and observing something on the ground carefully. Tracks of some sort? Reyland couldn’t see.

“With great difficulty,” Griff said quietly, after a brief silence. “And many casualties.”

Then Griff got back onto his horse, changed direction slightly, and continued their slow march through the woods.

“There are other steps that we took,” Griff continued, after a few moments of silence.

“Like what?”

“In those early days, after the first few,” Griff said. “That was when the Order contracted arcanists. Particularly, those capable of brewing potions.”

Reyland nodded. He’d used minor potions and poisons many times over the years, though he hadn’t known that was such a recent change to the Order. He’d just assumed they’d been using them for centuries.

“Though they require ingredients costly enough to bankrupt a kingdom, the Order managed. Most of them were beast parts after all, some of which came from other greater wyrms. But in the end… we had what we needed. Fire immunity and magical resistance, among others. Though the effects were brief, it gave us a chance.”

“To slay the twelve dragons of Arkasia,” Reyland whispered in awe.

“Not… quite.”

“Huh?”

Something moved in the bushes nearby, and Griff raised a hand to signal silence. Reyland’s face dropped into a serious glare, his crossbow snapping to the ready as he scanned the shrubbery.

After a moment of tense quiet, Griff relaxed, and Reyland did the same.

“We’re getting close,” Griff said.

“To what?”

Griff guided Umber to start walking again, and Reyland did the same just behind him with his own horse. Under him, Lucy tossed her mane, whinnying quietly.

“There there, girl,” Reyland whispered, patting her on the neck a few times. “Ya smell somethin’?”

“We shall leave the horses behind now. Find a suitable tree.”

Reyland obliged, tying up Lucy before pulling a sugar cube from a pouch on her haunch. He fed it to her by hand, continuing to pat her neck comfortingly as she huffed and settled. Next to him Griff did much the same, tying Umber up, though the old black horse seemed unfazed.

“What’s this task you’ve got in mind?” Reyland asked quietly. “Does it have somethin’ to do with why I haven’t seen you in a few days?”

“There’s a beast nearby,” Griff replied. “A large one… large enough to cause problems for the caravan.”

Reyland instantly looked around the area nervously.

“Worry not. This type of beast rests at night… which provides us a rather useful opportunity.”

“You mean to say we’re hunting somethin’ big enough to threaten the lot of us… with just us two. At night. Away from the Order. Alone, just so we're clear.”

“Yes.”

Reyland sighed, and rolled his shoulders in their sockets. They didn’t move properly, on account of all the bandages, the broken ribs, the recently dislocated arm…

“I’d say you’ll be the death of me some day,” Reyland said with an exasperated sigh. “But I don’t wanna put that out into the world.”

“Fate is not so easily swayed, Reyland,” Griff remarked.

“Aye, I know. I don’t believe that trite, anyways.”

Griff remained silent, and slowly Reyland’s eyes narrowed.

“Griff… fate aint real, right?”

“What do you know of magic, and mages?” Griff asked, drawing his great knife and using it to push branches aside as they continued on foot.

“It’s bloody terrifying, and the Empire don’t like it much. Kinda leaves me with mixed feelings on it, to be honest.”

“The Empire is fine with any and all magic it can acquire,” Griff said. “The only magic it hunts is that which it can not control.”

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“Sounds ‘bout right for the bastards.”

After a quiet sigh, Griff continued.

“While there are many subtypes of mage, they all fall into three groups. The most common being the arcane mages, which use mana. Sorcerers like the Kierlands, wizards, arcanists… though arcanists are hardly mages at all.”

“Never sat right with me that a Sorcerer Emperor was killin’ off other mages,” Reyland muttered angrily. “Regardless of what might’ve happened in Cylthia ages ago.”

“I was a boy when that happened.”

“Er, right. Sorry…”

“I do not mind. I’m well aware of just how old I’ve become.”

Griff ducked under a thick copse of branches, and Reyland scuttled along after him. The dry, dead leaves under their feet made little crunches with every step, something that made Reyland nervous, though Griff seemed unbothered.

“Not all mages harness mana,” Griff said, lowering his voice to a quiet growl. “There are others that work with celestia, known as celestial mages. Power which comes from the sun, moon, and the very stars.”

“Aye, but that’s rare, aint it?” Reyland asked. “Even for mages.”

“Indeed.”

They continued through the woods, Griff holding his torch aloft to light the way. Reyland held his crossbow close to his chest, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.

“There is a third kind, however,” Griff eventually said, speaking now in little more than a whisper. “Reyland, how familiar are you with the term druid?”

Reyland frowned.

“There’s… there’s one old story I remember. The Nameless Hag, wasn’t it? She was supposed to be one of them, I think.”

“Correct. She is.”

Reyland blinked a few times.

“She is? You mean was, right? That story's as old as dirt itself.”

Griff continued to press on through the forest. Reyland stared at his back, realising after a moment that he’d stopped moving and then hurrying to catch up.

“Griff, you’re tossin’ my marbles around a bit here, mate. First I’m askin’ about dragons, then suddenly we’re talking about fate and mages and druids-”

“Druids are mages,” Griff interrupted.

“Aye, I got that.”

“Hush. We’re close.”

Reyland’s mouth snapped shut, biting back all the questions he had. He frowned in frustration, but readied his crossbow all the same.

Griff brought them to a patch of thick brush, which he slowly and quietly pushed to the side. Just a foot away from them was a nearly sheer cliffside, dropping down about ten feet before sloping away from them. Reyland squinted through the darkness as Griff wrapped the head of the torch in his cloak, snuffing the flame out almost instantly.

In front of them was a crater of barren earth, sloping at first steeply but then gently down to a rocky outcropping in the very centre. It took a moment for Reyland’s eyes to adjust, but eventually he saw what looked like a large, circular cave entrance down at the bottom. It was then that Reyland’s heart skipped a beat.

“Oh, hell no,” Reyland whispered as loudly as he dared. “Griff, you can not be serious.”

“I am.”

“Just the two of us?” Reyland snapped. “Last time, we had fifty. And we still lost people.”

“Last time, it was awake. This time will be different.”

Griff quietly slipped over the edge of the crater, holding a branch to keep himself from sliding down the rocky slope.

“We’re leaving it alive, after all.”

Then, with Reyland watching from behind in disbelief, Griff let go of the branch and began sliding down into the crater. Reyland exhaled, shook his head, then followed after his mentor.

They both stood at the edge of the cave, a near perfectly circular hole that had been bored into the earth. It went down at a steep angle, and was twice as tall as Griff.

“You really will be the death of me,” Reyland whispered.

“This will be easier than you think.”

“It had better be, because right now I’m thinkin’ it’s probably, say… impossible.”

Griff started walking into the cave, and Reyland sighed as he disappeared into the total blackness. Reyland followed, slinging his still loaded crossbow over his shoulder and dragging his right hand along the wall to keep his bearing. He could hear Griff in front of him, each footstep faint against the packed earth floor.

Eventually, after winding down and around several bends, a soft green glow began to appear ahead, and Reyland ducked down low as he saw Griff doing the same ahead.

They exited the tunnel, and found themselves in a large, round cavern. It was covered floor to ceiling in pulsing, glowing green sacks, each about the size of Reyland’s head. They were clustered together in the hundreds, sticking to each other thanks to a thick, glowing slime that coated everything in sight. Bundles of the sacks even hung from the ceiling, all pulsing with the same faint green light.

And there, curled into place in the very centre of it all, was exactly what Reyland didn’t want to see. A green, scaled snake, as thick around as Reyland was tall. It lay coiled around a stalagmite, tongue occasionally flicking out as it breathed, filling the air with a soft, repetitive hiss.

A basilisk. Nearly fully grown, as well.

They crouched at the edge of the cliff that dropped away into the cavern, looking down at the basilisk below. It was easily a forty foot drop down, yet Reyland knew from experience the snake could reach them in an instant even at this height. The snake was easily five times as long as the height from the ground up to where they were hiding.

“Good, it’s fast asleep,” Griff muttered quietly. Reyland winced at the sound of his voice.

“You sure she ain’t waking up anytime soon?”

“They have poor hearing. Don’t throw a rock at it, and we will be fine.”

Reyland looked nervously down at the beast below them again, before scooting back away from the cliff edge a bit. He didn’t even like looking at the thing.

“Hand me a vial of your poison,” Griff whispered, and Reyland obliged without hesitation. He withdrew a single metal vial from his pouch, watching as Griff drew a single crossbow bolt from his quiver and dipped the metal head into the vial. It came out shimmered with an oily liquid, and Griff quietly loaded it into the hulking great crossbow that never left his side.

“I thought basilisks were immune to poison,” Reyland whispered, scooting forwards nervously, unwilling to miss a thing in spite of the fear he felt.

“To most, yes,” Griff answered, aiming the crossbow down carefully.

As Reyland opened his mouth to speak again, Griff squeezed the trigger, and the bolt struck the great snake in the middle of its body.

Reyland froze, feeling like nothing more than a rabbit as the basilisk roared to wake immediately.

“Hhhsssshhhhaaaaaaa!”

Griff grabbed the back of his head and forced it down, pressing them both to the ground and out of sight of the beast far below. Reyland’s hand subconsciously drew his shortsword, as he grit his teeth and clenched his free hand into the dirt.

The basilisk below thrashed and slid around the room, and Reyland could only listen as the slithering and scraping of its scales shook the cavern. His heart skipped a beat as it came close, passing by right underneath them, before winding its way to the other side of the room in its search.

Then, in a matter of moments, the basilisk slowed and stopped. Reyland dared not move, not until he heard Griff rise to his feet beside him. When that eventually happened, Reyland looked about the cavern with wide eyes.

The snake was laying on the ground unmoving, jaw still hanging open wide and forked tongue laying across the ground. Its giant eyes were rolled back into its head, and for a moment Reyland dared to believe it had died, before a twitch at the tip of its tail caught his eye.

“We should have a few minutes, at least, before it wakes,” Griff said, loudly and calmly. “Move quickly.”

They climbed down the side of the cliff in silence, and Reyland looked warily at the body of the great snake that now was stretched out across the entire cavern.

“You knew that was gonna work beforehand, aye?” Reyland asked, his voice a bit shaky.

“The poison spreads quicker if you know where the hearts are.”

Reyland shook his head, and sheathed his shortsword.

“The poison’s blighted, ain’t it? How did you know it would work like normal?”

“This is not my first encounter with blighted poisons. They become more potent, not less. In the worst case scenario, it died. In which case, nothing of importance lost.”

Reyland ran his hand along the scales of the snake hesitantly, feeling the cool, glass-like texture with respect, fear, and awe.

“The scales are hard, but nothing like a wyvern’s. We have no time to collect, either.”

“Aye, wasn’t thinkin’ about that,” Reyland responded, looking around the room more clearly now. “She’s… got a lot of eggs, doesn’t she?”

“Most will die before adulthood.”

Reyland walked up beside Griff, who was kneeling down next to the basilisk’s head. It unnerved Reyland to be so close to something that could swallow him whole and barely feel him going down, especially knowing it was still bloody breathing.

“So, we’re leavin’ her alive because…” Reyland asked.

“Other than old stories,” Griff replied calmly. “What do you know of druids?”

Reyland blinked as Griff withdrew a number of things from the pouches strapped to his body. First a series of metal canisters, followed by a small, metal tube that ended in a wickedly sharp point.

A needle? Reyland wondered, staring in confusion. Then he shook his head, trying to refocus.

“Dunno, nature mages? Can make trees grow or somethin’?”

Griff suppressed a sigh as he began opening the containers. Reyland nearly recoiled at the foul, metallic, and vaguely familiar smell that came from within.

“While you’re not wrong, I can not blame you for your lack of experience,” Griff said, beginning to mix several of the liquids into a small metal bowl. “Druids are the rarest of all mages. They are not born of bloodlines, like sorcerers, nor can they be trained like wizards, arcanists, and the celestial mages. Druids can only be born, and at random, at that. Even the Diviners can not predict the birth of a druid.”

“The hell is a Diviner?”

“A particularly bothersome sort of wizard,” Griff growled, and Reyland knew instantly to drop it.

That one had sounded personal.

“Druids use the third and final type of energy, vivum. The energy of life itself.”

As he finished mixing the materials within the small, metal bowl, Griff picked up the barbaric-looking metal needle, inspecting the tip carefully. Reyland felt a shudder go down his spine just at the sight of the thing.

“And just as life is complicated, and varied,” Griff continued. “The powers a druid may wield are equally diverse… and unpredictable.”

Then without warning or hesitation, Griff plunged the needle into his forearm, and pulled back the plunger. Reyland’s stomach squirmed, and he looked away, gagging.

“Some may shift into a form halfway between man and beast, at will or when circumstances align. Others cause plants to grow unnaturally quickly and strong, just with their presence. Others still are spellcasters, capable of magics that can not be replicated with mana or celestia. No two are the same, though they often share similar traits.”

Reyland rested his hands on his knees and exhaled, listening to the faint squelching sound as the needle was drawn back out of Griff’s wrist. He listened as Griff continued working with whatever he was doing… Reyland couldn’t stand to look.

“Matthaeus is most likely one of them,” Griff said quietly.

Reyland hung his head.

“I… I’d guessed as much,” the apprentice said with a sigh. “I mean, maybe not the type of mage, but…”

“And you are not afraid of the boy?” Griff asked.

Reyland paused, then shrugged.

“Never met a mage before. Kid seems alright though, doesn’t he?” Reyland said back uncertainly. He could feel Griff’s dark eyes boring into the side of his head.

“You’re right to be cautious,” Griff said eventually, resuming his work. “But yes, the child seems to bear no ill intent.”

Reyland exhaled deeply.

“Rather than being afraid of the boy,” Griff continued. “I’ve been fearing for him.”

Reyland looked at his mentor quizzically.

“What’s he got to be afraid of now? Blight’s a few weeks behind us, at this point.”

“The Blight is far from the only threat in Arkasia, Reyland. You know of the witch hunters?”

“Aye. Nasty sorts, work for the Emperor. Supposed to be out huntin’ down any…” Reyland trailed off, as it all pieced together in his head.

“They will come for the boy. In fact, they already are.”

“Blimey, Griff, this is a lot to take in,” Reyland said, holding his forehead.

“Matthaeus likely can sense or empathise with beasts,” Griff said. “He reacted to the Blight before either of us saw it, on both occasions. While I doubt he can speak to them, a more primitive connection may be possible.”

“Is that why the lil’ tyke ain’t… you know, dead, too?” Reyland asked, leaning back against the wall for support only to remember the wall was a sleeping snake and shooting back off it. “Can druids do that?”

“The Nameless Hag can control her age at will. It is impossible for her to die of old age unless she wishes to. The Archdruid Dohrman could regrow limbs in seconds, survived the removal of his heart, and was even said to have regrown his head once… and he’s not the only one to possess that same power. Druids rarely are capable of casting spells, but the powers they wield are no less magical than any other mage.”

Reyland’s head was spinning, but he breathed deep a few times and tried to collect himself.

“What’s this mean, Griff.”

“It means we must get the boy to Castle Acheron before the witch hunters reach us.”

“How do they even know about Matthaeus? Or how to find us?”

“Diviners are a particularly bothersome sort.”

Reyland deflated a bit, shaking his head.

“This is right fucked, ain’t it?” Reyland muttered.

“Language, Reyland.”

“Right, sorry.”

Griff finished whatever he had been doing, and Reyland looked over to see that the bowl was now nearly empty. Whatever had been mixed inside it now seemed to be inside the crude metal needle that Griff held.

“So… all of this,” Reyland asked, gesturing at the basilisk and the cave. “What’s the plan? Not like you to leave bloody well any beast alive behind ya.”

“We need to buy time… and a little decoy may be just the right thing.”

Then, with a dark, determined glint in his eye, Griff plunged the needle into the basilisk’s flank.