The sun was rising as Sael sat at the edge of the cloud, legs dangling over nothing, pipe smoke curling upward into the brightening sky. Below them, the world was waking: fields and forests painted in shades of gold and amber, the distant glitter of rivers catching the first light. Somewhere ahead, now minutes away, Orlys waited.

  He took a long draw from his pipe and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the wind.

  Behind him, his companions slept.

  Robin had somehow curled into a tight ball near the cloud's center, tail wrapped around his nose, one ear twitching occasionally at sounds only he could hear. Orion lay sprawled on his back, mouth slightly open, one arm flung out at an angle that couldn't possibly be comfortable but apparently was. The boy's staff rested beside him, its faint warmth visible to Sael's magical senses even from here.

  And Ilsa—

  Sael glanced back and noticed her blanket had slipped. Not dramatically; just enough that one shoulder was exposed to the morning chill. He made a small gesture with his free hand, and the fabric lifted, resettled, tucked itself around her.

  She didn't stir.

  He turned back to the sunrise and took another draw from his pipe, now thinking about...

  The hug.

  It kept returning to him, for some reason. He hadn't expected it. In the moment, when she'd crossed those three steps and thrown her arms around him, his body had simply... stopped. Every social script he'd ever learned had fled his mind simultaneously, leaving him standing there like a particularly confused statue.

  Had he been too stiff? He replayed the moment. Yes. Almost certainly yes. His arm had come up eventually, but slowly, and too mechanically, like a drawbridge being raised by rusted chains. And he'd patted her back. Patted. As if she were a horse that had performed adequately.

  Sael winced.

  But she hadn't seemed to mind. Or if she had, she'd hidden it well. She'd pulled back with tears in her eyes and that had been that.

  When had this happened, exactly?

  He tried to trace the progression. When they'd first met, she'd been formal. Polite, certainly, but measured. She'd called him "sir" and maintained appropriate distance and treated him with the sort of careful respect one afforded to powerful strangers. And now she hugged him.

  The transition had occurred somewhere in between, obviously, but Sael couldn't identify the specific moment. Had it been gradual? A slow accumulation of conversations and small kindnesses that had somehow crossed an invisible threshold? Or had there been a turning point he'd missed entirely, some interaction that had meant more to her than he'd realized?

  "Hmm."

  He didn't know.

  This was, he reflected, a recurring problem. Other people seemed to navigate these things instinctively, reading invisible signals and adjusting their behavior accordingly. They knew when a relationship had shifted, when formality could be relaxed, when a hug would be welcomed rather than endured. Sael had sadly never quite possessed that ability. He'd learned to compensate over the centuries—observation, analysis, careful study of patterns—but it remained a conscious effort rather than natural understanding.

  Maybe if he could identify what he'd done right with Ilsa, he could replicate it. Build a framework. Develop a systematic approach to making people comfortable with him.

  He considered the evidence. Their first meeting had involved her attacking him. He'd responded by depositing her in a pocket dimension until she calmed down. Not exactly the foundation for familial warmth.

  And yet... what else had he done?

  Listened, perhaps. He'd listened when she talked about her ambition. He'd answered her questions honestly. He'd treated her as someone worth talking to rather than someone to be managed. But that was just... basic decency, wasn't it? Surely that alone couldn't explain it...

  Hmm, perhaps an external opinion would be helpful. Sael turned his head to the left.

  A chicken sat beside him on the cloud's edge, feathers ruffling slightly in the wind, beady eyes fixed on the horizon. It was watching the sunrise with what appeared to be genuine contemplation, head tilted at a thoughtful angle.

  Ozyarathes had wiggled out of Sael's robes a few hours ago, once the others had all fallen asleep. He'd said nothing; just extracted himself, waddled to the edge of the cloud, and settled down beside Sael with his gaze fixed firmly on the darkness that had since softened into dawn.

  Sael suspected the former dragon preferred not to be seen in this form. Embarrassment, perhaps, or simply the wounded pride of a being who had once commanded nations reduced to... this.

  So they had sat together in silence, watching the stars fade and the sky lighten, and neither of them had acknowledged the strangeness of the arrangement.

  "Tell me, Oz, are you good with people?" Sael finally broke the silence.

  The chicken turned to look at him. his expression, insofar as a chicken could have an expression, suggested mild bewilderment.

  Sael took another draw from his pipe. "I'm asking genuinely. Social dynamics have never been my strength. You ruled a kingdom for years; you must have developed some insight into how to make others feel... comfortable. Connected."

  He paused.

  Ruled a kingdom, yes, but through tyranny and fear. Sael realized he had just asked a despot for advice on warmth and human connection.

  But the question was already out, and the long silence between them had been growing increasingly awkward anyway. Ozyarathes had spent most of the night staring at the horizon, but every so often his beady eyes would slide sideways toward Sael, and the pure, undiluted hatred in that gaze was difficult to ignore. A conversation—even a poorly conceived one—seemed preferable to another hour of pointed chicken glares.

  "I've been trying to understand why Ilsa hugged me earlier," Sael continued, committing to the inquiry. "And I can't identify the cause."

  The chicken continued to stare at him.

  "It's not that I minded," Sael added, in case that needed clarification. "I was simply unprepared. And I worry that my reaction was... inadequate, you see. Stiff."

  A long silence stretched between them.

  "Did you just call me 'Oz'?" the chicken asked finally.

  "I... yes. I did."

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  "My name is Ozyarathes."

  "I'm aware. And it is a rather great name, but I thought..." He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. "I read somewhere that using shortened names, or special nicknames, tends to foster familiarity and makes others feel closer to you. More open." He paused. "I was attempting to be personable."

  The chicken kept staring at him.

  "Is it working?" Sael asked. The question was entirely serious.

  "No," Oz said flatly.

  "...Can I keep calling you Oz?"

  "No."

  Sael nodded slowly, taking another draw from his pipe.

  He was beginning to notice a pattern in the dragon's responses. Short. Clipped. Devoid of elaboration or engagement. He'd read about this once, in a treatise on interpersonal dynamics: monosyllabic answers were often indicative of hostility, a deliberate withholding of conversational investment designed to communicate displeasure without direct confrontation. The respondent was present but refusing to participate, offering the bare minimum required by social convention while making clear that further interaction was unwelcome.

  It was, Sael reflected, a rather elegant form of passive aggression.

  He considered his options. Direct confrontation seemed unlikely to yield results; Ozyarathes was not in a position to do anything about his circumstances regardless of how the conversation went, and pressing the issue would only deepen the resentment. But perhaps there was another approach.

  "Well," Sael said, keeping his tone mild, "the familiarity thing is quite important, you understand. It helps foster connection between two parties. Builds trust. And the closer we become, the more inclined I might be to..." He paused, letting the implication hang in the morning air. "...restore certain things."

  The chicken's head had gone very still. The usual heavy silence came back, broken only as the wind ruffled Ozyarathes' feathers. A bird called somewhere in the distance below, and after a few seconds of what looked like deep reflection...

  "...You may call me Oz," the chicken said finally.

  "Excellent." Sael allowed himself a small smile. "And... what about Ozzy?"

  "Bwok."

  The sound came out sharp and involuntary, a noise of pure chicken indignation that seemed to surprise Ozyarathes as much as it did Sael.

  "Was that a no?" Sael asked.

  Smoke curled from the chicken's beak.

  Sael watched it rise with mild interest. He had left a few draconic attributes intact when he'd reshaped Ozyarathes; fire breathing among them, along with the enhanced durability necessary to survive producing it. It had seemed only fair; stripping away everything would have been needlessly cruel. Now, watching thin wisps of smoke leak from between the chicken's mandibles, he wondered if that decision had been entirely wise. A fire-breathing chicken was still, literally, a fire-breathing creature.

  But Ozyarathes seemed to be making an effort. The smoke thinned. The chicken's feathers, which had puffed up considerably, slowly flattened. There was a long, deliberate exhale—a sigh, really, though it came out as more of a heated wheeze.

  "...You may call me however you want," Oz said, his voice carefully controlled.

  "That's very gracious of you, Oz."

  "Don't."

  "You could call me names, if you wanted," Sael offered. "It might help. A release valve, of sorts."

  "I would prefer not to."

  "Are you certain? I've once been told I have a face that invites creative insults."

  "I am certain."

  "Not even one? I promise not to take offense."

  "No."

  "You could try—"

  "I said no."

  Sael was about to respond when he heard movement behind him, the rustle of fabric, a soft groan, the particular sounds of someone transitioning reluctantly from sleep to wakefulness. So he turned his head.

  Orion was sitting up, hair disheveled, one hand rubbing at his eyes. The boy blinked several times, squinting against the early morning light, and then his gaze drifted toward the edge of the cloud where Sael sat and landed on Oz.

  For a moment, Orion just stared, his sleep-addled brain clearly struggling to process what he was seeing.

  "Is that a..." He paused, squinting harder. "Is that a talking chicken?"

  Oz turned around, feathers bristling.

  "I am not a chicken, you fuc—"

  Sael cleared his throat.

  The sound was quiet, but it carried. Oz's beak snapped shut mid-word, whatever tirade he'd been preparing dying in his throat. The chicken took a visible breath, smoke curling faintly from his nostrils.

  "I am not a chicken," Oz repeated, his voice strained but controlled.

  Orion looked at back and forth between Sael and the talking chicken. Sael could practically see the pieces clicking together behind the boy's eyes and eventually...

  "You have the same voice as the dragon!" Orion's arm shot up, finger pointing directly at Oz. His eyes went wide. "You're— that's— what?"

  Oz turned away, fixing his gaze firmly on the distant horizon. He said nothing.

  "He— you— Master, did you turn a dragon into a chicken?" Orion scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own staff in his excitement. "How did you even— that's incredible! The magical theory alone— I mean, where does the rest of him even go? Is it compressed? Redistributed? And maintaining the breath capability suggests you kept the core draconic essence intact, which means—"

  "Orion," Sael interrupted gently.

  The boy stopped mid-sentence, mouth still open.

  "Perhaps we might discuss the technical details another time." Sael glanced at Oz, whose feathers had gone very still in a way that suggested intense emotional suppression. "Our friend is still somewhat... sensitive about the situation."

  "Oh." Orion's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. "Right. Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

  "It's quite alright. You were simply curious." Sael gestured between them. "Oz, this is Orion, my apprentice. Orion, this is Oz. I do hope you'll get along well."

  Oz said nothing and the silence stretched.

  "Um," Orion tried. "It's... nice to meet you?"

  Nothing.

  "I really am sorry about the chicken comment. I didn't know."

  Still nothing. The dragon continued staring at the horizon as if the conversation simply wasn't happening.

  Sael took a contemplative draw from his pipe, studying the interaction. There had to be some way to draw Oz into positive engagement, some topic or approach that might thaw the icy silence. He considered and discarded several options. Complimenting Oz's former kingdom seemed patronizing. Asking about his interests felt forced. Discussing the weather was beneath both of them.

  But nothing he thought of seemed right, and Oz remained resolutely, stubbornly silent, a small ball of feathered resentment perched at the edge of the cloud.

  What a social challenge this was turning out to be.

  Sael knocked his pipe against the cloud's edge, watching the ash scatter into the wind below, and tucked it back into his robes. Behind him, Robin was stirring now too, and Ilsa had begun to shift beneath her blanket.

  "We're close," he said, to no one in particular.

  The cloud had slowed considerably over the past few minutes, drifting now at a leisurely pace that allowed them to take in the view. Orlys spread out beneath them like a map brought to life: the familiar sprawl of the outer districts, the merchant quarters with their colorful awnings, the academy's spires catching the morning light. It was almost exactly as he'd left it, less than a day ago. Almost.

  Sael's eyes narrowed.

  The city walls were lined with additional guards. Formations, organized and ceremonial, stood at attention along the main thoroughfares. And there, fluttering from the gatehouse towers, from the palace ramparts, and from what seemed like every major building in the central district...

  Flags.

  The colors of House Eryndor still flew, but they had been joined by something else. Overshadowed, really. A deep crimson banner bearing a golden lion rampant, crowned and regal, claws extended.

  It was the flag of Albyon. The royal flag of Albyon, to be more precise.

  Sael leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening. There—in the plaza before the academy—a contingent of riders in ceremonial armor, their horses draped in red and gold. And there, near the palace gates, a cluster of figures in unfamiliar robes.

  Their uniforms had changed since he'd last visited the capital. Different cut and embroidery. But the badges pinned to their chests remained the same—a golden sun encircled by a serpent, the mark of those who served the crown's magical interests directly.

  Mages of State.

  He had encountered them before, here and there across the kingdom. They served the crown directly, answered only to the King's Council, and were deployed wherever royal interests demanded. Sael simply found it rather odd to see them in Orlys now.

  His mind was already working through the implications. The flags. The formations. The Mages of State. The sheer pageantry of it all, the unmistakable markers of royal presence that no duke, however powerful, would dare to imitate. There was only one explanation.

  "Master?" Orion had come to stand beside him, peering down at the city with curiosity. "What are all those red flags? I can't quite make out the details."

  "The King," Sael said quietly.

  "What?"

  "The King is here, it seems."

  Orion's eyes went wide.

  "Why would the King be in Orlys?"

  "I don't know," Sael admitted. A royal visit to a ducal seat required months of preparation, endless negotiations over protocol and precedent, a small army of bureaucrats to manage the logistics. It didn't simply happen. Sael knew that because he'd seen Bran deal with it more than once, and unless the rules had changed since then, which was unlikely given how stubbornly such protocols tended to persist, this was not a normal visit.

  From what he had heard of the current king, the next few days promised to be rather entertaining. And not in a good way.

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