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We wait one day, forging plans, doing pull-ups, honing our fangs. Everything has to go right the first time, or else we'll have made a fine mess of the case before the villain even gets to play. And then, as the night falls, we make our move. Our hardy, handpicked strike team leaves the Flame Tribe’s den without a ceremony, without a word, with every intention to live and tell the tale.

We sneak across the sandy ruins to the city hall.

A grave-like silence veils the whole island. Only the long shadows cast by the lumps of former buildings under moonlight cross our path.

Dragons, like their smaller spiritual cousins, are mostly exothermic. I know you spent biology class at school only playing Arknights and are too apathetic to google the words you don’t know, but it means they don’t like cold. When the sun goes down and the desert cools, the wyrms withdraw to their safe spaces to preserve heat, and avoid going out for no reason.

You’d think those who embody the fire element would be an exception, but they actually get the worst of it. If a flame wyrm's body temperature sinks below fifty degrees centigrade, they pass into an involuntary hibernation, from which only fire can wake them. They don’t swim deep or fly high. But our friends are tough enough to handle a night out.

The other tribe members scatter to guard the entryways, to make sure we’re not interrupted, while Zandolph and I go under ground. We try to keep our footsteps quiet as we jog down the maze of unlit tunnels to the central cavern, where the godfather of Godzilla awaits us. At the entrance, we stop to catch our breaths—well, my breath—and make sure we’re as ready as ready can be.

Looks like we're still good to go.

I can only pick up the big guy's presence inside. Old dragons tend to be loners. Wherever the other tribe members spend their night, they're not here. I wouldn't be here either, if I could choose.

“This had better work,” Zandolph grunts, sneaking a peek at the monstrous shadow of her father from the mouth of the tunnel.

To borrow the words of Captain America, I don’t know what I’m going to do, if it doesn’t. Let’s not even think about it.

“You got yourself a new weapon,” I point out.

Zandolph grips another dumbhuge pole of metal, slightly cleaner than the one she toted around in Wanr Aysoth.

“I made it myself,” she tells me with no pride.

“Oh, you’ve got smithing skills too? That’s cool. Suppose you pick up a thing or two when you grow older.”

She looks back at me with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

“What? You know, smithing? Hammer, anvil. How is stuff made?”

“I looked for the largest piece of ore I could find, heated it until it got softer, and stretched it out.”

“With a smelter? And tools?”

“...With my breath. And my hands.”

So it’s exactly what it looks like.

I regret bringing up this subject.

“By the way, are you sure you can hold him back?” I ask and nod at the grimdark colossus in the distance. “You still can’t change shape, can you? And your dad—he’s rather...He's got big bones. He won’t just flatten you in a blink, will he? You’re his daughter, sure he’s going to hold back, right?”

“He will not,” she says. “But you don’t need to worry about me. This body is only an illusion. It may not carry my strength so well, but I am still every bit a dragon. And our kind doesn't die easy.”

“Okay.”

When I lament my wasted sympathies, Zandolph adds with a visibly strained look,

“But make it as quick as you can.”

That does not build confidence!

I peer into the hall. Seated on the edge of the central stage is the almost unnoticeable, tiny figure of the woman in gray. The woman called Three. It wasn't a show night, but she’s still there, humming a faint, gentle tune. Her voice has turned coarse after hours of use, her mana is nearly spent. But if it helps the dragon rest easier, if it soothes his pain even a little, she keeps at it for as long as she can. Until he sleeps.

Quietly listening, the Elder Wyrm's great head slowly lowers, about to succumb to the temptation of slumber. Then he suddenly snaps wide awake and turns to look at the tunnel where we’re hiding. The draft has to have carried out scent to him. He knows we’re here now. Visitors aren’t wanted at this time. He lets out a warning growl that makes the stone walls tremble.

Three interrupts her hymn. “What is it...?”

No use sitting it out. It has to be now or never.

I hide behind the corner, while Zandolph stands, briskly strides in, and begins to descend the long stairs to the central floor.

I so don’t want to do this. Do you think she’d be upset if I went back by myself?

Startled by the hot-blooded redhead’s appearance, Three struggles clumsily up to her feet. I sure don’t envy her, trapped between two ancient, angry dragons. A placement you wouldn’t wish for your worst enemy. Or maybe you would?

“You fool of a father!” Zandolph roars at the Elder Wyrm as she walks on. “Have you gone blind and deaf in your agony? Tamed by mortal hands, like a dog! It shames me to think the same blood flows in my veins!”

I really think you should treat your old man with more respect. I mean, I may not have parents myself and I don’t know what’s the right way to talk to boomers, but that still feels unnecessarily rude to me.

“Zandolph!” the beast growls the name through its teeth, like a crack of thunder in the sky.

A dazzling, bristling orb of light appears in the air above Ms Red, a great ball lightning. It splits into an intense light arc that whips her figure with a zap, and brings her down to one knee. Were it me, there’d be only a sooty stain left on the stone. But between dragons, that only counts as a casual warning, a bark. Grunting, Zandolph swats the thunderbolt away with her lance, and keeps going. She turns her now red-glowing glare at Three.

“Get out of here, unless you want to die!”

Three hesitates, glances up at the great father of dragons. But there’s no safety there. All the beast's many eyes are upon Zandolph, his rebellious eldest spawn, and everything else in the world has ceased to exist for him. Three can only admit there’s no quarter for her in this clash of titans, and she takes off running out of the way. The healthy choice.

Great. Exactly as planned!

Then it’s my turn.

I veil myself with a simple spell that reroutes light to render me invisible and slip into the cavern. I run along the outermost rim of seats clockwise, to where Three’s coming up the stairs, headed for the west exit. I’ll cut off her escape route, dispel the brand, clear up the confusion, and it’ll all end in smiles.

——And that's where it stops going according to plan.

It’s common for dragons to have more than two eyes. Such as the Epitomic Black, which has nine. But it’s always an uneven number. Because one of those eyes is not like the others. It doesn’t perceive wavelengths of light, but exclusively emissions of elemental energy. Both prana and mana.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

I had to hide myself to catch Three off-guard, but I didn't consider the possibility that monster of a dragon could perceive my magic easier than it sees my physical body. It detects my camouflage immediately, forgets about Zan, and swings its vast muzzle my way. Who'd dare to sneak in the den of a dragon? The many eyes are lit up like stadium spots, bathing the seats and walls with an unnatural, horrible cone of light that sears shadows. The eye of Sauron would be cute compared to that horned watchtower from hell. Now I know exactly how a mouse feels when an eagle spots it in a wide open prairie.

My spell is active, but my shadow is cast on the wall. I'm in plain view, the thing can see me! Primitive terror drains the strength from my legs. I stumble and wobble on, my thighs turned to jelly. Oh god oh god oh god. I have to hide somewhere, but where do I go? Soundlessly whimpering, I crawl on the sandy floor and desperately look for any corner or a crevice to sink behind. But there’s nothing! Not one rat hole! It's too late! I can’t make it! I'm dead! I'm so dead!

Thankfully, I'm not in this alone.

Zandolph comes to the rescue.

“Where are you looking!” she yells and opens her mouth wide.

A sharp, fiery beam shoots out of an invisible maw, and lashes the gargantuan body of the black dragon, rising. The laser breath looks pretty cool, but like the user, it's also massively scaled down. The output isn't enough to pierce through the armoring of the foe, and dissipates in a cloud of steam. It's a hot tickle.

Very much annoyed now, Metathron inhales and responds in kind. It turns back, bends its long neck over and vomits its breath on the small figure of the redhead under the stage. A river of blindingly bright plasma pours over Zandolph with the force of a tsunami and buries her entirely out of view.

So the dad's the Lightning element, huh?

Didn’t expect that.

I don’t have the time to check how my friend handles it. The colossal weight of the eldritch beast’s attention has lifted from me, together with its horrid glower, and I feel a little more courageous again. I push up from the floor and dash on. Three comes up the stairs and I step up to block her path, dispelling the cloaking. She doesn’t seem the athletic type. Not with those honkers.

Three stops in her tracks to stare at me, confused. “Who are you?”

“No time, honey,” I tell her. “I promise you, this is nothing personal, and I take no sadistic pleasure in doing it. Just try your very best not to die on me, okay?”

“What?”

I reach my hand at Three and interface with the brand.

“KYAAAAAAAAHHHHHH——!”

And, as expected, Three drops on the spot, squirming, spasming, and reaching for her neck in evident agony. Her high-pitched, weirdly arousing scream pierces the cavern air. Does it really feel that bad?

And, as expected, the big guy doesn’t like the sound of it. The enormous head spins our way again. He sees us clearly now. He sees me torturing his teen idol and realizes his own daughter is conspiring with a mortal magician to hurt him.

It's treason then!

The dragon’s head trembles in wrath. The glare of its eyes turns bright orange like sunset, dyeing the cavern with a beautifully apocalyptic tone. Walls start to tremble. The beast sucks in air for another breath. Hey, hey, I can’t block that shit! Doesn’t he realize Three will die too if he blasts us? I guess he’s not one to bother with the nitty-gritty. Or maybe he’s too pissed to care? Either way, we're in trouble.

Then a heavy rod of burning steel shoots up from somewhere below and hits the huge head on the side. A loud gong rings out and the dragon wavers at the impact, choking on its breath. The ricocheting lance hits the ceiling and large boulders rain down on the beast.

Oh, Zandolph’s still alive. Her figure's steaming like bathwater in midwinter, light arcs crackling and popping about her, but it doesn’t look like she’s that badly hurt. She did say she was hard to kill, but just how damn tough is she, anyway?

Never mind. Better get back to work.

What was I doing? Oh yes, the brand. Commence analysis...

The structure is different from the ones I've seen before. For a heartbeat, I’m scared it’s too far altered and the methods I prepared beforehand won't work. But deeper examination shows the changes are mostly only cosmetic. The curses come in different types and grow together with the bearer, to a degree, and Three's had hers for years already. The base layout still remains the same. I can do this.

It's a modification of the caster-type. The brand has three central modules, which must be deactivated simultaneously. If you dispel them one at a time, the other two will always restore the one that’s down, turning it into a never-ending whack-a-mole.

I couldn't crack three autonomous rituals at the same time—but you’re not even supposed to.

I was stupid and tried that with Thirteen, which is why it took too long. But there’s a better, smarter way. You split each module into procedural phases. You unravel one phase of one module first, then put it on hold. Then you solve the first phase of module two, put that on hold too, do the same for the third, and then move back to decipher phase two of the module one again, and phase two of the second, and so on, until all three are almost cleared. And then you can snap them at once. No reason that couldn't work.

It still takes a lot of steps.

The first thing to do is isolate each of the modules, to prevent them from communicating with each other. Of course, you can’t just cut the wires with pliers. If one module sends a signal to another and doesn’t receive any response, then the whole shit will detonate. Bam. That's what I exploited before. But they're only magical algorithms, not intelligent creatures. The data transmissions don’t have strictly defined formats, to account for the growth variation between brand types. As long as there’s some kind of stimulation going both ways, they should stay happy. So my solution is to reflect the outgoing package back to the sender. Before long, the repeated strings will build up errors and break the whole shit, but it should buy me time. I only need seconds.

Just you wait.

This time, I won’t let anybody die.

The only really difficult part is keeping focused while there’s a giant monster battle unfolding in the background.

How are we doing there, anyway?

Zandolph recovers her lance as it drops back down from its trip to the sky. The senior wyrm turns to her, about to blast her again with another breath, but she’s faster. She darts up to the ceiling with a big leap to evade the breath. From there, she dives down without fear, smacking her pops right on the kisser with the hot-glowing metal bar when he looks up. Gong!

But the dad tanks it like a champion. It’s a flick on the nose. And the daddy's done with the kiddie gloves. Zandolph’s still in the air, unable to defend very well, and he gives her a quick bitch slap, exhibiting stunning reflexes for something that couldn't squeeze under the Eiffel tower. And getting slammed by a palm the size of a tennis court—now that’s gotta hurt, no matter where you're from! Holy hell. I can't believe I'm quoting The Phantom Menace now.

The last I see of Zandolph is a small dust puff in the east side wall, where she goes plunging clean through the rock. Boom. She’s probably not coming out of there for a while. Assuming she ever will.

She did say to make it quick, but that was—really, astonishingly pathetic! Come on, at least buy me a full minute!

Should've brought Saint George.

The family affair out of the way, the very upset giant dragon comes digging through the seats at me and Three. The cavern narrows down towards the edges, but that doesn't slow the beast much. The long fingers sink through the stone seats like they're whipped cream and his aggressively shaped head plows through the roofing. The world’s biggest train comes rushing on and we’re standing on the rails.

But I’ve done it.

A quick double-check to see if there are any obvious errors, and I'm ready to present my answer to the professor. The puzzle that was beyond me four years ago, laid to rest. I snap my fingers, flip all the switches. The modules go quiet, the eidos collapses on itself. The brand fades away without fireworks or fanfares. Not even a mark is left on the thin, pale neck of the young woman.

Three lies on the floor, no longer moving or screaming.

The pain had to have knocked her out, but she’s still breathing. There's a steady pulse. No lasting damage, only a slightly traumatic memory, or two. She’ll be just fine. Whatever orders she was given no longer bind her, and she should have no personal reason to manipulate the Elder Wyrm. Maybe her desire to help the dragon wasn't only programmed behavior, a cover act. Maybe she genuinely pitied the beast and wanted to help. Either way, it’s over.

...It is over, right?

The vast maw grinds to a halt in front of us, just in time before the ceiling falls on our heads.

The dragon can't see us but he can feel the shift inside his own body and brain. The shift in the magic that's been building up for two years, slowly and unnoticed. He can sense the faint smell of the curse on Three fade. She's alive, the source of her pain is gone. The fog on them both is lifted. Finished with my sorceries, I raise my hands in the air, to show I’m totally harmless and good-intending.

Come on.

Nobody’s here to take your toys. You're not just a dumb animal. Connect the dots.

“It’s okay,” I tell the long line of tall fangs. “We’re here to help.”

“...”

The titanic slits of nostrils suck in air. The beast smells me. Then, slowly, very slowly, the thorny head begins to pull back. Making no sound, uncannily agile for such a huge creature, the black dragon withdraws, all of his eyes keeping a close watch on me the whole time.

Do I dare to breathe now?

Guess the story time must come next.

How a bad guy sent a brainwashed Mata Hari to mess with the king of dragons. There should be entertainment for a night or two. It’ll be good practice too, for when I’ll share the report in the Mule later. My Divines, do I need a beer after this. Maybe something stronger than that.

But we don't make it to the cups.

Because the bad guy still has a turn left to roll.