It was a beautiful morning. The sun was out in force and the heat on his fur felt divine. The air was filled with the familiar sweet scent of the various rare flowers that were growing in the gardens.

Skrakch knew that he wasn’t meant to be out here but, as with most days, he’d had an irresistible urge to get out of the mansion. Thankfully, he knew the whole estate like the back of his paw and it hadn’t taken him long to traverse the various corridors and find a way out where he wouldn’t be noticed. He knew that he needed to get back eventually. The Young Master had a dinner event to get to and who else was going to dress him?

The Ratling stood in the open courtyard, staring into the crisp red sky and trying to remember a more beautiful sight. Skrakch couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed himself a chance to just relax and soak up some of the early evening heat. The balmy summer nights seemed never-ending. He threw back his head and breathed in the fresh air. It was a wonderful day!

Despite his relaxing surroundings, there was a faint sensation in the back of his mind, something that he couldn’t quite put his paw on, that something was amiss. With the beautiful evening and charming scents, it was easy to ignore. Scoffing to himself, he straightened out his maroon servant’s uniform and checked his toolkit. It was probably just tiredness. He needed to get done with his evening’s chores. The sooner he did that, the sooner he would have some time to himself, time to rest. He couldn’t spend all evening staring up at the beautiful skies now, could he?

He headed to the nearest wrought-iron gate and slipped through it. He opened the first door he came to, one that would lead him into one of the mansion’s many hallways. There was a trio of other brown Iskrin there, working hard at dusting the many paintings that lined the walls. It was imperative that the Master’s things were always kept clean and presentable.

And there it was again. That odd feeling. Like it had been a long time since Skrakch had seen any of the other servants of his kind. As vacant as most of their expressions were, it was still something that he missed. The oldest Iskrin in the mansion, Snift, had been like a father to him. He was nearly completely grey, though he was no feral beast, pushing eleven years old. Maybe once he was done getting the Young Master ready, Skrakch would seek him out. It was about time that he borrowed another one of the older Iskrin’s many books.

As Skrakch continued his walk down the long hallway, he came across yet another one of his littermates. This time, the Iskrin was on the floor, scrubbing the marble until it shone. Skrakch frowned at the sight, the feeling was back again…almost like…deja vu?

He stared down at the other Ratling and it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember its name. He reached down and, with a trembling paw, grabbed the Iskrin by the shoulder and turned it around intent on getting some answers.

The brown Iskrin didn’t put up a fight and Skrakch soon found out why. Recoiling in horror, Skrakch let out a curse as he took in the other Ratling’s figure, the poor thing covered in scars and burns, each more horrific than the last. The Ratling’s brown fur was soaked in blood, and deep gouges ran along its torn back. Pus was dripping from the open wounds, crisscrossing the poor creature's body. Its eyes and nose were leaking blood and foam gathered in the corners of its twisted lips, its eyes locked in place, fear, and horror frozen in its gaze.

Skrakch let go of the Ratling and watched as it simply went back to scrubbing the floor, the movements stiff and awkward. Now that he was properly focused, Skrakch could see that the Ratling was dripping pus and blood onto the marble tiles and it was simply wiping it up single-mindedly, its cloth stained dark red.

Tearing his eyes away from the ghastly sight, Skrakch hurried down the hallway towards his Young Master’s chambers. As he ran he passed more and more disfigured Iskrin. All of them were suffering from the same nightmarish burns, some were missing limbs and there was one poor soul who was cleaning one of the windows with both of its eyeballs missing from burnt sockets.

Skrakch reached the end of the hallway and burst through a pair of ornately decorated doors. It was with relief that he saw his Young Master sitting at his desk, scribbling away at something. He let out a quiet sigh so as not to disturb him. The familiarity of the sight was comforting and no doubt his Young Master would have an explanation for the strangeness going on in the corridor…

He stepped forward quietly, stopping immediately when he heard a voice from behind.

Gingerly turning, he was surprised to see two pale, ghostly figures. A younger version of himself as well as…

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No…it couldn’t be…could it?

It was Jace, but younger than Skrakch had last seen him.

The young Skrakch looked nervous, wringing his paws, barely able to look the young boy in the eye. Jace smiled down at him, hand cupping his chin as though he was considering something. The boy was just as Skrakch remembered him. His messy blonde hair fell in his eyes, looking incongruous with the fancy silk shirt and tailored black trousers with gold piping. His shirt sleeves were rolled up showing a big gauze pad on one elbow and countless scratches crisscrossing his other arm.

Jace had always been a clumsy child. Always falling over and getting into places that he shouldn’t, much to the chagrin of his parents. They wanted the perfect little gentleman, not a harum-scarum lad who longed for adventures in the ornamental gardens or shunned his magic lessons in favor of exploring the local markets.

The fully-grown Skrakch could only watch the twin figures in stunned silence. He knew this moment. He could hear the Young Master’s words clearly as though it was yesterday…

“You don’t have a name? Well, we can’t have that now can we?” Jace grinned at him. “If you’re going to be serving me you’ll need one. Let’s see…how about…Skrakch?”

With sudden tears soaking his fur, Skrakch continued to watch as the ghostly image of his younger self nodded happily before the two figures disappeared in a plume of billowing smoke.

Skrakch dared to take a breath but no sooner had he started to relax, the ghosts rematerialized just as quickly as they’d disappeared.

This time the young Jace was practicing his magic, trying his best to levitate a feather. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, frowning as the feather refused to move despite the ministrations he was making with his hands. For a brief moment, the feather trembled slightly but nothing further happened. After each failed attempt, he would simply curse and try again. Skrakch remembered how hard Jace had had to work to accomplish even the most basic of spells. His father, Lord Oscar Logan was a master of alteration magic and he expected his son to follow suit and possess the same natural aptitude.

“You know, it’s a shame you don’t know magic Skrakch,” Jace said, looking up at the young Skrakch who was in the middle of folding some clothes to be put away. “Then we could practice this stuff together,” he flicked the feather despondently before slumping back against his pillows and sighing heavily. “At least I would have a friend…” he muttered, more to himself now. “Actually!” Jace suddenly sprang upright again. “That’s not a bad idea!”

Young Skrakch didn’t question his Master as the boy leaped up from his plush bed and hurried over to the ottoman by the window. With a glance around to make sure they were truly alone, the boy opened it up and rummaged through its contents for a few moments before pulling out an old tome.

Despite the years that had passed, Skrakch still recognized the fancy binding and red leather coloring of the book. It was one of Lord Logan’s from his library. The personal library that his Young Master was never supposed to touch. Skrakch felt his heart constrict. He knew what was coming and yet it didn’t make it any easier.

“Come here Skrakch!” Jace said excitedly as he sat back down on the bed and opened the large book on his lap. “We’ll start by getting you to speak Common!”

The young boy and the ghostly Skrakch faded away once more. They were replaced by a teenaged Jace and a more fully grown Skrakch. Jace had grown much taller, his shoulders wider and his stance more confident. Despite the changes, his blonde hair was still as tousled and messy as always.

“Blast this, I’ve been trying to get the hang of this for years!” Jace complained as he slammed a spellbook shut and let it drop to the floor. He kicked it and watched in disdain as it skittered across the wooden floorboards, coming to rest near his dresser. “I’m the laughing stock of the family. I overheard Father speaking of me, Skrakch. He intends to replace me as the heir.” The teen snarled, he glared at the wand that lay next to him on the bed.

“You need to concentrate your focus. Imagine reaching into your mana pool, and dragging the essence out. Then push the mana into a rune, before filling it in.” The Ghost-Skrakch replied, tossing a feather into the air, and casting a rune with his other paw. “Then imagine the result you expect, and it will come true.”

The feather gently glided down, before landing on the Young Master’s head. Grabbing the feather, Jace crushed it in his palm, dropping it to the ground.

“What do you know of magic, Skrakch? All you do is use basic utility Runes.” Jace continued with a derisive snort. He leaped up from his bed and shoved his feet into his nearby boots that he’d so carelessly discarded by his bedside table. “I need to learn proper magic, I need to be able to fight with it! Not to float safely to my feet.” The young master glared at his servant for a moment, before grabbing his cloak. “Enough of this, I have a plan to get my Father’s respect.”

Tears dripping down his snout from the pain of the memory, Skrakch turned away from the apparitions to face the Young Master sitting at his desk.

The human teen abruptly shoved the desk to the side, turning to glare at Skrakch, a thin steel-like rod brimming with power in his hands. Sculpted from brass, the scepter glowed with fiery embers, the rod engraved with runes, and the tip styled to look like a small roaring bonfire.

“it’s all your fault Skrakch. if I hadn’t wasted so much time on a pet, my Father would still love me and I’d be a powerful sorcerer! My family would respect me!” The man growled, pointing the scepter at Skrakch.

“It’s all your fault!”