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Whitewillow, the Scaled Courtesan ~ Part 5

After a long and lonely flight from the medical station of Dragonwing Express, Whitewillow limped into her makeshift roost and plopped down on the musty carpet with a pained groan. Her muscles ached from overexertion. And her freshly-stitched wounds still bled down her scales. But all that pain in her body paled in comparison to the pain in her soul.

The crude shelter of salvaged cargo boxes and tattered sail canvas did little to provide a sense of comfort or security. In times like this, she missed the velvet, gold-trim pillows of home, lush silkworm sheets that slid so smoothly across her scales. The smell of burning incense and ginkgo leaves rather than the odor of this city. The Temple of Husia was more than a home - it was her safety net, her social circle, and her place of worship. And currently it lay half a world away. These memories of Zenshin felt hollow and distant in her mind, and tasted bitter.

Whitewillow ripped off her blood-soaked scarf and threw it on the floor in disgust. Then she curled up in a ball and wrapped her ivory tail around herself for comfort. Even as she squeezed her eyes closed, she could not rid her mind's eye of the terrible scene of the dying Thorntail, nor the taste of his metallic blood on her tongue.

Ever since leaving Zenshin, Whitewillow's days had been a constant struggle of balancing her beliefs with the realities of a harsh, uncivilized land that did not value the sanctity of love and the harmony of peace. She had broken more than a few tenants during this journey in the name of survival. But this … murder, the snuffing out of a life … this, she could not reconcile. Her kaa had become tainted, and such spiritual corruption could never be fully purified.

According to the tenants of Taishui, intentionally inflicting harm for any reason was an act of zussu. No matter how many times Tristan reminded her that her actions were necessary to save both their lives, it didn't change the fact that she had committed a grievous sin. Taishui lived the mortal part of her life as a consummate pacifist, and went as far as to only consume meat that had been slaughtered without suffering. What did the goddess think of her loyal disciple now?

Whitewillow had prayed to Taishui and begged for forgiveness dozens of times already, but in return she felt only emptiness. Was this silence some sort of punishment? Or was the zussu of her sin so great that it severed the divine connection to her goddess completely? And what would the High Priestess of Husia do with her once she found out? Whitewillow had taken a life … a life of a fellow dragon, no less! Acolytes had been excommunicated for less …

As Whitewillow licked the blood oozing from her wounds, her thoughts turned to Tristan: the only one in all of Concordia who could possibly ease her sorrow. The dragoness replayed the memories in her mind of how the dragonhunter had stayed with her in that alley, comforting her until the police arrived on the scene. How he had pleaded her innocence in killing the Thorntail when the police arrived, how he had taken the full brunt of the blame for the two deaths upon himself. She remembered how, in the midst of all the chaos and confusion of the aftermath, Tristan had continued to come check on her, to console her and make sure the district constable wasn't harassing her.

Whitewillow imagined herself flying to Tristan's house, sneaking in through his bedroom window, and curling up on his bed. If only a dragon of her size could fit through his window, it might not have been a mere fantasy.

Whitewillow curled into a tight ball, moving slow to mitigate the spikes of pain. She closed her eyes with a concerted effort to find sleep, if only to seek solace from her tumultuous thoughts in the oblivion of unconsciousness. In her last moments of lucidity, she hoped the events of this day hadn't traumatized him as much as it did her ...

–=-=–

"Barmaid! Another beer for the dragon slayer! This one's on me!"

The cacophony of the White Wolf Tavern surged as cheers from fellow guildmates erupted around Tristan. The tavern wench - dressed in a low-cut bustier - refilled his mug with foaming red ale: Crimson Gold, one of Concordia's most well-known exports. Tristan held out hand to quiet the crowd, who expected yet another toast.

"Alright, alright, you magnificent bastards ... this one goes out to my mentor, Guild Knight Lillian!" He paused to focus his ale-clouded mind. "Lil, you taught me everything I know about dragon slaying. Your guidance honed my mind as well as my body for the fight I faced today. You're always looking out for me, always pushing me to be better. And your training is why I'm still standing here today. " He raised his mug too quickly, causing froth to spill down the side. "To Lillian!"

"To Lillian!" Echoed his guildmates. Lillian forced a polite smile and raised her mug along with the rest of the crowd, then took a long sip of ale. Her eyes remained on him the entire time, peeking through her dark bangs.

Tristan looked around the warm, lamp-lit tavern, seeing the smiling faces of his fellow dragonhunters who had come out to celebrate with him. Not only were the rest of the field scholars here with him, but many knights as well: the real muscle of the Guild. A field scholar managing to take down a dragon had happened only twice since the reformation of the Guild in the wake of the Dragon Citizenship Act. But for that field scholar to take down two of the most dangerous breed of skyscale at once? No guildmate had accomplished such a feat in history. In one single day Tristan had earned the respect of every knight in the charter, when before many of them had treated him with dismissive indifference at best. Guildmaster Wilhelm himself had personally presented Tristan with an emerald medal of heroics, a 500 reale bonus in his next paycheck, and one tooth from each Thorntail to affix to his necklace. And by tomorrow morning, the whole city would know of his heroic defence of Lady Jenivive Broyal when the Concordian Chronicle published her interview with the press.

This was quite possibly the best day of his life!

Tristan took another sip and then turned his attention to a buxom blonde who had managed to insert herself into the crowd of muscly, scarred dragonhunters. She leaned forward, her bustier exposing a tantalizing amount of cleavage.

"You really killed those two terrible lizards with just a sidearm?"

"A popular misconception: dragons aren't lizards. But yes, I killed them with just a revolver and six bullets to my name. Erm, Lady Jenivive Broyal helped, of course. She bravely provided a distraction for me to line up my shots."

By necessity, the version of events Tristan had been passing around left out Whitewillow's involvement. The very idea of a dragon and a dragonhunter teaming up in a fight would have brought up far too many questions, none of which Tristan wanted to answer. So while they waited for the city police to arrive, he and Lady Jenivive discussed the optics and agreed that the story they would tell the authorities would stick better if Whitewillow wasn't in it.

"And you did this in the middle of the day, with no armor, no shield?!" a mustachioed man in a bowler asked, eyes wide with wonder. "Astounding! Marvelous, even!"

"I did what I had to. Mrs. Broyal needed me," Tristan said with a flourish of his hand.

"What's the Lady like?" The man asked. "Is she as eccentric as people say?"

"Well, she's ..." Tristan struggled to find the right words.

"I heard that Lady Broyal prefers the company of dragons to humans," the tavern wench remarked with clear disdain.

"Bah, House Broyal are skyscale sympathizers, the lot of 'em!" Another patron interjected. "Serves her right to get a taste of what a dragon is really like."

In his inebriated state, Tristan struggled to keep up with all the discourse being thrown around the tavern. By now he had been drinking for hours, telling the story of his epic battle over and over again to patrons of the White Wolf, and getting rewarded for it by the pint. He took a slow draught to stall for time, then slammed his mug down.

"Mrs. Jenivive is a clever and brave woman who handled herself well today. I have nothing but respect for her."

A bearded patron in the corner spoke up. "House Broyal are a bunch o' nancies, I tell ya." He wiped the froth from his mustache. "Dragon-loving traitors, every last one."

"Ah, sssod off!" Tristan slurred.

"You think you're a big shot 'cuz you carry a heavy iron, huh, boy?" The man retorted.

"Hey! This 'boy' dueled two Mossback Thorntails and won," a heavily-muscled guildmate interjected, slinging his humongous arm around Tristan's shoulders. "So why dont'cha respect him like ya ought to?"

"Yeah!" Another guildmate shouted. "An' he solved the cause of the Citadel tower explosion. Don't insult Concordia's newest hero, ya old codger!"

The bearded man grumbled and took a long, quiet draught of beer, and a burst of pride welled up in Tristan's chest. Mere days ago, he had overheard some of the knights gripe about having to put up with the "bookworms with guns" on their outings. But tonight, the entire Guild had his back. And it felt incredible.

The celebration continued as the tavern band struck up a lively tune on the fiddle and lute. Several of the guildmates started up a line dance across the floor, egging on their brethren to join them in a jig and reel. Others sat 'round and sang along to the jaunty tune. The lyrics told the story of a farmer fending off a dragon who keeps eating all his cabbage, then his carrots, and finally his celery! And when the farmer finally traps the dragon and asks why, the dragon reveals that he already eaten the goats from the farm next over, but had forgotten to fatten up the goats first!

Tristan's head spun too much to put on a convincing jig or sing along to a tune, so he turned his attention back to the blonde woman and her bosomy chest.

"Miss, I must confess that they are very pretty," he slurred. "I mean you. You are very pretty."

The blonde laughed off his slip of the tongue. "Do you have any battle scars you can show me?"she asked, fingertips dancing along his chest.

Tristan gingerly rolled up his sleeves, revealing his wrapped and salved forearms. "These here are burns from pure liquid dragonfire." He turned and lifted up the back of his shirt, revealing red-stained medical gauze. "I also have some gnarly claw gashes here."

Those were actually from Broodmother T'sarrak's lovemaking and not from the fight, but nobody needed to know the difference.

He paused to burp without covering his mouth. "Did you know that dragonfire burns at over 2,400 degrees, hot enough to melt iron? It's possible due to a hypergolic chemical reaction of a dragon's caustic enzymes and organic hydrazine. It's both extremely toxic and spontaneously combusts in the presence of elemental oxygen. Isn't that … just awesome?"

"Oh wow!" the blonde gushed, understanding half his words. "Does it hurt?"

"Of course it does. But you're providing a fine distraction from the pain." Tristan leaned in close and repeated a line he had overheard one of his fellow guildmates use, "How about we take a walk and I'll show you how to handle a dragonhunter's gun?" He waggled his eyebrows.

To his right, he heard Lillian audibly groan, apparently having heard enough. She stood up and took Tristan by the arm, causing him to wince in pain. "Actually, I think our hero has had enough action for one night."

Tristan sputtered as he was forced out of his bar stool and onto his wobbly legs. "Lillian?! W-what the hell do you think you're doing?" His cheeks turned a shade of red, nearly matching the tavern wench's lipstick that stained the collar of his shirt.

"I'm making sure you don't embarrass yourself in front of the entire Guild," Lillian muttered, dragging him away from the woman.

"But ... but Lil!"

"You have better things to do than to catch the clap from a strumpet," she snarled, causing the painted lady to scoff and glare daggers. "Come: we need to talk."

Lillian marched Tristan out of the White Wolf Tavern and onto the streets. There, a cool night breeze hit Tristan in the face, sobering him up a bit. The humid downtown air of Concordia was heavy with the smell of rain and burnt coal from steam engines running through the night.

"What's the big idea?" Tristan demanded as soon as they were far away from the raucous crowd inside.

She glared at him, deadpan. "I want to know why you were traveling alone with the owner of Tailwind Shelters on the ass-end of Concordia. And don't feed me that bullshit you told the Guild."

Tristan's heart pounded as Lillian put him on the spot. She always had a knack of getting straight to the point, much like her lance. How could he even begin to explain the circumstances that led the two of them to travel to the den of Cracked Shell? Or what happened inside? Lillian would explode like a powderkeg if she found out that he managed to bed the matriarch of a dragon clan!

Lillian leaned against the brick wall of the tavern, her arms crossed. "You're too quiet." She stared at her field scholar long and hard, making Tristan squirm.

His beer-addled mind screamed that it was a bad idea to talk, and yet his loosened lips moved anyway. "Okay, you remember that weird albino dragon wearing all that gold and a silk scarf? The one that was asking around about Kodakoa – that drake wanted for triple homicide?"

Lillian's brows furrowed with anger. "Don't you dare tell me you actually got involved with her!"

In more ways than one, Tristan thought. He shook his head and tried to focus on the important details. "Listen, listen ... that dragon, she, uh … well, she sort of convinced me and Lady Jenivive into helping her track down Kodakoa. That's how we ended up deep in dragon territory. And it was amazing, Lil! I mean, Lady Jenivive's reputation allowed us to step inside Cracked Shell's den without being disemboweled! Did you know their matriarch is actually a fat little Ebony Scalehawk?"

Lillian's jaw dropped. She had so many questions vying to be the first one out of her mouth that none of them actually managed to come out. "Tris ... what the ... you ... why?!"

"It all happened so fast!" Tristan threw his hands up in the air. "We trod into that den of dragons like we belonged there, and Cracked Shell's matriarch willingly gave us the evidence needed to crack the tower explosion case." His head spun and he paused for a moment, knowing he must choose his words carefully. "But not everyone under her wing liked that. So the two Thorntails, they, uh …" caught up in his improvisation, Tristan couldn't finish the sentence and simply gesticulated. "Well, you know what happened."

"How could you take on such a dangerous job?!" Lillian barked. "And from a dragon, no less!"

Because Whitewillow seduced me into helping her, of course. Tristan almost blurted the words out loud. "It … was Jenivive's idea for me to come along," he managed. "She wanted to go but needed protection, someone from the Guild who understands dragons."

"Look at me, Tris," she demanded, sensing untruth.

Tristan forced himself to look her in the eye. He tried blinking away the alcohol. "Talk to her if you don't believe me."

Lillian's nostrils flared. She pointed an angry finger at him. "You ... are a field scholar. Not a knight! I don't care what that noblelady said to you: only knights have authority to take on jobs."

"But this wasn't guild work, I did this off the books."

"And gods – that was even stupider of you!" Tristan winced at her words. "And at no time during this fool's errand, you thought to come to me?"

Think fast, Tristan. "Uhhhh … with the Praetorians suspending Guild operations due to the Citadel crash investigation, I thought there was no way you would have taken the job."

"You're damn right. Because no dragonhunter in their right mind would accept a job from a dragon. You're lucky you weren't set up to be murdered!"

"Nooo," Tristan slurred. "Whitewillow wouldn't do that. She's as gentle as a snowflake!"

Lillian recoiled in mild revulsion. "Whitewillow? So you're on a first-name basis with this albino, now?"

Tristan swore. Quick, think of something, anything to change the subject. "Rrg, why can't you just be happy for me, like everyone else in the Guild?"

"Because I wasn't there to protect you!" she yelled.

Lillian's booming words shocked him into momentary sobriety. He fell silent and cast his gaze down to the brick sidewalk. With how tough Lillian was on him, it was easy to forget that she genuinely cared. Yes, she worked him hard, put him through intense training, and held him to high standards. But she was also the closest thing he had to family.

Lillian sighed and reeled in her emotions. She rested a hand on Tristan's forearm, causing his wounds to sting. "I know you've been a bit lost, ever since your mother and father died. You've been struggling to find a new purpose, and I get that. Hell, I also lived dangerously when my parents died. But running off without me and getting involved with the Cracked Shell clan is not the way to find a new direction in life … unless your intended direction was straight into a coffin."

He looked back up at Lillian, seeing her dark brown eyes and realizing how much this incident had worried her. The truth about his parents stung, but so did the look on her face. There was a brief moment – between burying his parents and getting hired by the Dragonhunter's Guild – when a coffin didn't seem like such a bad option. In one single day, he had lost both parents, the house he had lived in, and any sort of inheritance they would have left him had been consumed in the fire. Tristan had nothing until the Guild came along.

"I ... I'm sorry," he managed. "I got caught up with the search for Kodakoa and wasn't thinking about you or the Guild."

"Look at me. You have to be smarter than this. You did something foolhardy today and you could have died because of it."

"But I didn't!"

"You got lucky. Extremely so. Two Thorntails, by yourself? Pah! Whichever god favors you must be generous."

Tristan scowled. "The gods can fuck off. I earned my own success today, you hear that? Me! I killed those dragons, not them!"

"Blasphemy never helped anyone, Tris," she warned.

"And besides, Whitewillow helped! She saved my life during that fight."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Tristan regretted them.

"That dragon was there too!?" Her words came out shrill.

Tristan said nothing.

Lillian snapped her fingers. "That makes sense. I knew there's no way a pregnant noblelady would put herself in harm's way, but a dragon …? Gods, if the rest of the Guild hears you've been working with the enemy–"

"Whitewillow is NOT the enemy!"

Lillian stared back at him, mouth agape. The next several seconds felt like an eternity.

Tristan groaned, knowing he was way too drunk for this conversation. "Pleeease don't tell the Guildmaster about Whitewillow," he begged.

Lillian thought for a moment. "No, I won't."

Tristan breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed his shoulders.

"Not until I get to the bottom of this situation with your 'Whitewillow'."

He immediately stiffed back up. "What?"

"First this strange dragon shows up asking questions about Kodakoa that no dragon should be asking. Then she convinces you and Mrs. Broyal to go on a suicide mission to Cracked Shell's roost. Then she ends up saving your life in a fight with two Thorntails. There's a lot going on here. I need to know more before I make a full report." she paused. "And you're going to help me."

Tristan cursed his predicament.

"Next time you meet with her, you'll ask her where she roosts. And then we'll go talk to her. Together, as a team. No more solo adventures, understand?"

Tristan pursed his lips tight and nodded. He hadn't realized what an awkward spot he had gotten himself into until just now. Torn between keeping secrets with Whitewillow and staying loyal to Lillian and the Guild, Tristan's head throbbed with stress as much as the alcohol. What a mess he had gotten himself in ...

Lillian gave Tristan's shoulder a rough pat and let go. "Good. Now, it's late and I'm ready to turn in. What about you?" She pressed.

With the mood being what it was, Tristan had lost any desire to return to the bar. "Yeah. I suppose I should too." An uncomfortable silence followed. "Listen, I'm sorry for—"

"Ah, save it for when you're sober. We'll have a loooong talk then. But for now, let's get you home and in bed. I'll pray tonight for the gods to spare you from a hangover."

Tristan leaned his head on her shoulder as she guided him down the steps of the tavern. "Ya know, you're not bad, Lil."

"I have my moments."

–=-=–

Guildmaster Wilhelm was one of those people who could effortlessly command the attention of an entire room. A mountain of a man with silver locks of hair and a magnificent waxed mustache, his charisma rivaled the finest politicians. Wilhelm demanded respect due to the simple fact that few dragonhunters survived as long as he had. That, and his dragontooth necklace bore so many teeth that it had become too cumbersome to wear. Age-worn and battle-scarred (having a mechanical claw where his right hand would go), he spent most of his time nowadays behind a desk, and had accumulated a layer of fat over his sinuous muscles. Tristan had taken a liking to him upon first meeting the man, as a wide-eyed college recruit. How could he not? Everybody loved Wilhelm. Rumor had it that the Guildmaster had once used his claw to clamp a Needlemouth's maw shut while he pummeled it into submission with his bare hand, and Tristan believed it without question.

Guildmaster Wilhelm made a habit of reading aloud news articles that featured guild work, as a way to foster camaraderie and boost morale. The next morning, he gathered the Guild around a table of fresh honeytea kettles and Concordian breakfast pastry stuffed with walnuts and raspberry jam. Feeling groggy from the night prior, Tristan gorged himself in hopes of mitigating his mind fog. Nearly everyone was in attendance – save the knights and scholars out on morning patrol. Wilhelm proudly held up a stack of the day's Concordian Chronicle and cut the bundled papers with his claw. He picked up the top of the stack and cleared his throat before reading aloud the front page with a booming voice.

"BLOOD ON THE COBBLESTONES: Lady of House Broyal Ambushed by Scaled Terrors in Heart of City!"

Tristan glanced at one of the copies. Below the headline featured a black and white photograph of two Praetorian Skyknights holding up a dead Thorntai's head by the horns. The subtitle read:

"Two Beasts Slain, Dragonhunter's Guild Praised for Swift Action as Mullberry Street Left in Ruins"

At the mention of the Guild, several members whooped. Tristan felt rough pats on his shoulder from behind. He couldn't help but swell with pride.

"The afternoon tranquility of the Western Quarter's Mullberry Street was shattered yesterday evening by a maelstrom of tooth, claw, and gunpowder as Lady Jenivive of House Broyal was ambushed in a brazen daylight attack by two dragons. The cobblestone lane – typically witness only to the quiet passage of horse and carriage – transformed into a scene of feral violence that left two scaly carcasses bleeding out and a neighborhood trembling in fear.

"The beasts, identified by authorities as Mossback Thorntails – a monstrous breed notorious for dueling with its club-like tail – descended upon Lady Broyal with savage fury. Witnesses reported a deafening roar that shook windows from their frames, followed by the splintering crash of wood and metal. The home of the Gable family, directly adjacent to the attack, had its entire second-story balcony torn from its moorings by a sweeping tail.

"At the center of the maelstrom was Lady Jenivive Broyal, a figure whose rapid ascent from lowborn dragon handler to noble lady has been the subject of ceaseless city gossip. Through dubious ventures like the Dragonwing Express shipping company and Tailwind Shelters, she and her husband Lord Jacob have championed closer integration of dragons into Concordian society. That progressive stance seemed a naive gamble yesterday as the very creatures her house advocates for turned on her with lethal intent."

Tristan rolled his eyes at the Concordian Chronicle's anti-dragon rhetoric. They always had an angle!

"Speaking exclusively to The Chronicle_, Lady Broyal dismissed the terrifying assault as little more than a business disagreement._

"'This was another housing dispute,' she stated, her words doing little to soothe a city on edge. 'Every free dragon in Concordia would live at Tailwind Shelters if we had space for them. A vacancy opened up recently, and competition for that space was fierce. Unfortunately, the situation escalated into violence when I made it clear that the vacancy had already been filled. This whole altercation wouldn't have happened if the City Council would grant me a permit to build another tower.'"

Tristan couldn't help but inwardly smile at Jenvivie's fabrication. Not only had she covered for Tristan and Whitewillow, she had managed to plug her own business in the process. Good on her.

"Residents of Mullberry Street and citizens across Concordia are left to wonder if her so-called 'solution' to the violence is, seemingly, to invite more of its kind into the city's heart."

One of the knights in the crowd yelled "Screw the Broyals!" Mutterings of agreement followed. Many blamed House Broyal for the Dragon Citizenship Act. The sudden prosperity of Dragonwing Express had spurned King Edwin to issue the new laws so they could tax and regulate this source of income. Consequently, the new laws made it illegal for the Guild to hunt and kill dragons who paid for the right to become second-class citizens. Understandably, life for a dragonhunter was easier back when dragons were legally defined as pests and not people.

"The Lady of House Broyal would have likely perished in the fighting, if not for the speedy response of an off-duty dragonhunter in the area. Armed with only a revolver, he dropped the two Thorntails before our loyal city police could arrive on the scene. The question that now hangs heavy in the air is a chilling one. If House Broyal – the city's foremost dragon sympathizers – are not safe from their claws, who is?"

A smattering of applause erupted as Wilhelm folded the paper up.

"Wait … that's it?!" Tristan jumped out of his chair. "They didn't even print my damn name!"

Guildmaster Wilhelm shook his head. "Sorry, lad. Your name doesn't sell papers like the Broyals' do."

"But … but … she didn't kill those dragons, I did!"

Tristan received a few murmured condolences as the crowd dispersed. One of the Guildknights – a tall, tawny man twice Tristan's age – patted him on the shoulder. "Kid, the Chronicle once ran a story on the death of Hookclaw the Fireshrieker – a 60,000 reale bounty that I earned after thirteen days of tracking. And they didn't print my name either. We're not the story, they are."

Tristan stood there, slack-jawed as some ventured to the table for a second round of honeytea, others returning to their desks or to the training room for exercise.

Wilhelm handed the newspaper to Tristan, who snatched it and scanned the lines of text just to be sure. "This is horse shit. What about the Citadel tower explosion? Did they print my name for that story?" He began fanning through the pages of dense articles.

Wilhelm shook his head. "Those damned Praetorians have that story on lockdown until they finish their investigation. Speaking of which …" he gestured with his claw to Lillian's desk, upon which a bloodied goat skull sat. "I believe you have some paperwork to fill out. Up and at it, boy." He saluted Tristan with his good hand.

Tristan scowled as he returned the salute. "Yes, sir."

Paperwork: the bane of all Guildmembers. The knights always passed off the burden of documentation to the field scholars whenever possible. Even if this particular job wasn't Tristan's responsibility, Lillian would have ensured that he'd be the one doing it regardless.

First, he filled out evidence forms for the goat skull he acquired from Matriach T'sarrak. Next came a thorough written testimony of the markings on the skull – which denoted it as a Red Mark from clan Cracked Shell. He detailed how the item was once owned by a Highland Ridgeback Kodakoa, who was honor-sworn to smuggle liquid dragonfire that ended in a tragic accident that crashed into one of the Citadel's cannonade towers. At Matriarch T'sarrak's demand, Tristan deliberately left Ragn'mawl's involvement out of the documentation. That was fine by him. The less he dealt with Ragn'mawl, the better.

Next came the additional forms provided by the Praetorean Skyknights, to be submitted as evidence to the Crown. Tristan copied everything down, word for word. Next he filled out the documentation for the two slain Thorntails. Then, an itemized list of estimated property damages (which the city would reimburse). After that, a bill of medical expenses, so that the Guild could pay for Tristan's wounds. And he still had two more forms. Bureaucracy was such a pain in the ass …

As the hours passed, Tristan's mind wandered to Whitewillow. He wondered how she was holding up. If her wounds had stopped bleeding, and if the medical treatment she received at Tailwind Shelters would be enough. Whether or not she would mentally recover from the shock of ripping out that Thorntails throat.

The first time taking a life is always the hardest – Tristan knew that all too well. He clutched the first tooth on his necklace as he replayed that particular bounty in his mind. That Ridgeback could have turned herself in. But she chose to attack and paid for her hubris with blood. Lillian was so proud of him for landing the kill shot, and took him out for dinner in celebration. But Tristan didn't get much sleep that night. As he lay in bed, he kept replaying the dragon's last, gurgling breaths in his mind. Her death had bothered him so much that Lillian had to sit him down for a talk the next day. She explained that in life-or-death situations, you can't look back and wonder about what could have gone differently. Either you fight, or you die. And he had made the right choice by fighting. It had taken Tristan him some time before accepting that.

Was Whitewillow going through the same turmoil? He truly hoped not. She's a dragon, he reminded himself. And dragons are resilient creatures. Carnivores. Natural-born killers. She'll get over it eventually. He hoped.

"Shit."

Tristan realized he had been thinking about Whitewillow for so long that his inkwell pen had dripped onto the ammo requisition form he had been filling out. He blotted it up in haste, then realized he'd be better off starting a new one from scratch.

The rest of the day progressed without incident. As Tristan headed home, he half-hoped to find Whitwillow waiting for him on the rooftop. Perhaps she would show up at his window at some inopportune moment, like she preferred to. But dusk came and went. No matter. She likely needed time to recover, he reasoned.

But then the next day passed, and the next, and the next…

Tristan tried to tell himself it wasn't a big deal. Despite everything they've been through – the intimate encounters, the adventures – he actually hadn't known Whitewillow for that long. And there's still much about the dragon that remained unknown to him. Perhaps Whitewillow had friends in Concordia that she could rely on while she recuperated? Or maybe she simply preferred solitude while she healed. She was probably praying, or meditating, or … doing whatever holy courtesans did in their spare time.

But a part of him worried. He felt surprised at just how much he worried. Words kept bubbling around in the back of his mind, like a nagging voice that wouldn't stop talking. She's hurting. She needs you. Go to her. At first he ignored the voice, considering it out of the question. Concordia was, after all, a big city. And Whitewillow was only one dragon. But the more time passed, the more those whispers weighed on his heart.

So he went looking.

Though his memories of the abandoned roost on the night of their consummation were fuzzy, he knew that location had to be close by. And if there was even a slim chance for Whitewillow to still be there, he had to check. Tristan knocked on doors, presented his dragontooth necklace, and made up an excuse about the Guild needing to search the rooftops for a wanted dragon. By law, Tristan required a Writ of Passage to enter any building. But most Concordians didn't know any better. They saw the necklace with three dragon teeth dangling from it and were more than happy to let him inside if it meant ousting a dragon on their roof.

The Eastern Quarter had few surviving roosts, on account of the Guild driving most dragons out. But Tristan searched every one within a kilometer of his apartment. And he found nothing, save a few angry skyscales. One of them almost bit him – he had to draw his revolver to fend her off.

On the evening of the fourth day, when he heard the sound of whooshing wings outside his window, Tristan immediately raced to it. But to his surprise, he saw not a Zenshin Lionsmane, but the much larger red wings of a Concordian Cinderscale.

"Shit!" He slammed his shutters closed.

A Praetorian Skyknight! It had to be for him. He couldn't imagine any other reason.

Nothing good ever came out of an encounter with a Praetorian. As King Edwin's personal guard, they carried out his orders with total impunity, and answered to no one but the Crown. In a flash, Tristan rushed about his apartment to make it look more presentable for a guest of such prestige. He had time – the elevator was still broken and he lived on the sixth floor.

Eventually, a loud rapping on the door interrupted his cleaning efforts. "Tristan Cornwallus, of the Dragonhunter's Guild," came a stern feminine voice. "This is Decaturion Hespera Dominia of the Praetorian Skyknights. I am here on the authority of the Crown. Open up."

Tristan stalled for time as he shoved dirty clothes into his hamper. "Show me some identification, please," he shouted from across the room.

After finishing up, he raced to the peephole and saw the gleam of silver and inlaid gold thrust in front of the lens on the other side. The badge depicted a Skyknight's characteristic winged helmet resting on crossed lances, flanked by thorny roses. A stamped mantra in Old Concordian lay below the helmet: Κυριαρχία των Ουρανών. Only the nobles knew how to read that script nowadays.

Tristan flipped the deadbolt open and unlocked the door. He cracked it open just enough to peek into the apartment hallway. A tall, slender figure stood at attention on the other side. She wore a well-fitting military uniform of royal red and gold, complete with masculine riding pants and a set of brass flight goggles around her neck. Her sharp facial features were complimented by long blond hair braided neatly behind her. Her lips seemed to be fixed in an expression of mild disapproval that failed to fade even when she offered a polite greeting smile. Tristan recognized her as the same Skyknight he encountered on the night of the Citadel tower crash. Though still taller than him, she looked so much smaller without her plate armor!

"Mr. Cornwallus," she nodded in subtle acknowledgement. "How curious that we seem to keep running into each other. I wish to speak with you in private. May I come in?"

"Am I in any trouble?"

She rested a hand on her hip, above a sheathed sabre. Nobody carried swords around these days, except high-ranking military figures. "That depends on if you let me enter willingly or not."

Reluctantly, Tristan opened the door wider and stepped aside. Hespera Domina walked in, her heavy riding boots clopping on the wooden floor. She looked around briefly at his meager, cramped apartment with an expressionless face. "The Guild doesn't pay its members well, does it?"

Tristan cast his gaze down. "I'm just a field scholar, not a knight."

Hespera detached her sabre from her belt and deliberately placed it within arm's reach, leaning against his squeaky, hand-me-down sofa. Tristan studied the weapon for a moment, noting the elegant basket-shaped guard and brass pommel in the shape of a dragon's head. The praetorian crossed her legs in a ladylike posture and leaned back, indicating her placidness. But she deliberately placed her right hand close enough that it would take less than a second to draw that blade, if necessary.

"Let's talk. Take a seat." She gestured to the wooden chair at the dinner table that he used as a workdesk for his tinkering projects.

Tristan pulled the chair out and tried to act casual, but on the inside he trembled with dread. "How can I be of service to the Crown, Ma'am?"

Hespera tilted her head ever so slightly, as if to indicate that was a good reply. "You seem to have stuck your hands in quite a lot of cookie jars recently." She started counting off fingers. "Showing up at the site of the Citadel tower explosion, uncovering crucial evidence for the cause of said explosion, thwarting the attempted assassination of Mrs. Jenivive Broyal, killing two Mossback Thorntails in the process … all quite exceptional for a field scholar. And so young, too. Still in your twenties and you've already done more for this city than most will in their entire lives. On behalf of the Crown, I commend you for your heroics."

Tristan felt unnerved by how much this woman already knew about him. "Ah, thank you," he managed.

Hespera pulled out a small leatherbound notebook from a hip pouch and opened it, skimming some handwritten notes. "But one thing doesn't add up. When I interrogated the residents of Mulberry Street, they described a third dragon at the scene of Mrs. Broyal's attack: one of pale scales and unusual, fish-like fins. This third dragon allegedly aided you and Mrs. Broyal during the altercation. Yet, the official report I reviewed by your Guild – signed by you personally – mentions no such dragon."

Tristan gulped. So she had been to the Guild and checked the records before coming here. How much trouble was he in? Who else had she visited? Did she talk to Lillian? Lady Jenivive?

The Praetorian waited to see if he had something to say. When he didn't reply, she continued, flipping a page in her notebook. "Recently, city police received multiple reports of a 'mid-sized dragon with white scales and fishy spines' making visits to this very apartment complex, to harass residents through the windows."

Tristan almost replied, "She wasn't harassing anyone!" but forced himself to remain silent.

"As I circled your apartment complex on my Cinderscale, I couldn't help but notice the claw marks on the northern wall. They seemed to be … oh, right about where your apartment is located, if my sense of direction is true."

Again, she paused in case Tristan had anything to say. Fearing for his safety, he remained tight-lipped.

"Now Mr. Cornwallus, I am no expert on dragonology, but I do know that out of the dozens of species that inhabit this continent, none of them have white scales, nor spiny fins like fish. I reviewed the dragon citizenship registry and found nothing. I checked in with Dragonwing Express and Tailwind Shelters for their records, and found nothing. I asked a few of my personal contacts and received only rumors and chance sightings spanning the last month. This white dragon is for all intents and purposes, a ghost. And it appears that my only lead on this ghost … is you." Her frown grew more pronounced. "I want you to tell me everything you know about this ghost."

Tristan remained silent for a while before finally deciding to speak. "What do you want with her?"

"So it's a 'her'." She scribbled something down in her notebook as Tristan mentally kicked himself. "As for what I want, that is a matter of Imperial security."

Whitwillow, a threat to the Crown? No way, Tristan reasoned. His mind raced for an appropriate response. He wished he had Lillian on hand; she always seemed to know what to say in serious matters like this one. Unsure of what to say, he decided to try fishing for more information. "What can you tell me?"

"Some within the Citadel believe this dragon arrived on our shores at the behest of a foreign empire, perhaps Akkadia … the city-states of Tallus … or even Zenshin."

Her eyes were on Tristan the whole time, checking him for changes in expression at the mention of each empire. He did his best to remain stoic.

"This dragon's reasons for stepping foot in our city are unknown and presumed nefarious. I do not consider it out of the question that she may have had a hand in this so-called 'accident' that resulted in the destruction of the south cannonade tower on the Citadel mount. Your connection to her, combined with your sudden appearance at the crash site, also raises legitimate suspicion. You're protecting this dragon for reasons beyond my understanding. And I want to know why." Hespera uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. "So for the last time, I will ask you nicely: tell me everything you know."

Tristan felt goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. If that was her way of asking nicely, he didn't want to find out what the alternative was. "I met Whitewillow about a week ago. She's a Zenshin Lionsmane – an albino, at that. And she's a holy c–" Tristan searched for better words. "A priestess and missionary from the Imperial City of Zenshin."

"A dragon and a priestess …?" Hespera repeated in disbelief. Her pen fluttered across the page of her notebook. "And you believe this Whitewillow's claims are truthful?"

"Absolutely: her religion is all she talks about."

"Tell me what she's shared. Leave nothing out."

Tristan did so, starting with Taishui – the goddess of love and harmony. Then he mentioned Whitewillow's obsession with "raashka" and "zussu", and what he remembered about the Temple of Husia. He also explained Whitewillow's missionary work as plainly as possible, without getting into specifics. "Whitewillow came to Concordia to – in her words, 'cleanse the zussu from this city'. Zussu is …" Tristan gesticulated vaguely. "Some kind of evil energy that grows from discord, hatred, and spite."

Hespera's permanent frown tightened. "And how does this dragon intend to 'cleanse' the city? Through fire and ash?"

"Nothing of that sort, I assure you! Her religion's main tenant is universal love. And she cleanses zussu through acts of passion – excuse me, _com_passion."

More scribbling. "Do you believe it possible that this dragon is radicalized to incite violence?"

"Absolutely not!" Tristan sat up in his chair. "Ma'am, I am certain that Whitewillow is harmless. Her religion preaches harmony, peace, and empathy. She acts as fearsome as a butterfly. And I can attest that she had nothing to do with the Citadel tower crash, because I was with her at the time."

Hespera raised a finger to pause as she continued jotting down notes. Tristan listened anxiously to the gentle scrape of her fountain pen across the paper. "A religious dragon and a dragonhunter … strange bedfellows."

Tristan formed a tight-lipped frown.

After the Praetorian had caught up with her note-taking, she looked up. "And what were the two of you doing at the time of the incident?"

What a loaded question! "A dragon from another country – and a religious one, at that – piqued my interest, so we got to know each other. I had a lot of questions: about her religion, her country, her species …."

More note-taking. More heavy silence. "Why did you leave this dragon out of your official report on Mrs. Broyal's attempted murder?"

Tristan let out a heavy sigh through pursed lips. How truthful should he be? "She was there at the scene but the fight didn't concern her. Those two Thorntails came for Lady Jenivive."

"Mhm. Does the Dragonhunter's Guild have any idea that you've been withholding information from them?"

"I'm not withholding anything!" he shouted, louder than he intended. "Whitewillow's presence was irrelevant. There's no reason to complicate the report."

"You don't think a foreign dragon who arrived in our country at the behest of a religious cult should be of any interest to your guild?" she pressed.

Ugh, a frustratingly valid question. "Why should she? She's broken no laws, accrued no bounty."

The praetorean stared straight through him. "The claw marks on this building indicate otherwise. Section 3.12 of the Dragon Citizenship Act states that dragons may not attempt to ingress any building except for those with designated dragon entryways."

"I know every single law in the Dragon Citizenship Act by heart," Tristan replied with indignity. "But can you reasonably expect the same for a foreigner? I let Whitewillow off with a warning."

"I … see." A cold silence hung in the air. Tangible, uneasy. "Can you tell me where this Whitewillow is now?"

"I don't know. She was wounded in the fight a few days ago and I haven't seen her since. To be honest, I'm worried her injuries were worse than I thought"

The Praetorian let out an amused huff. "Never knew a dragonhunter to be so protective over a dragon. You sound like someone in the wrong line of work."

Tristan clenched his fists at the indignity. "Whitewillow is nothing like the brutish Concordian breeds I deal with on the job! And for the record, I love working for the Guild. It's where I'm meant to be."

Hespera began scribbling furiously, leading Tristan to wonder if he had just said something wrong.

"Do you know if she has had any contact with the Zenshin delegation that visited recently?"

Tristan remembered reading about that in the paper several weeks ago. Supposedly they arrived to offer their own advice on the integration of dragons living in human society. Their stay in Concordia was marred with political backlash that inspired them to leave earlier than planned. "No."

"Has this Whitewillow shown interest in topics such as Dragonwing Express, Concordian politics, the Royal Citadel, or the King?"

"No. I'm telling you, she's harmless."

Hespera's frown deepened. "Is there anything else about her you can tell me? Contacts, associates, the location of her roost?"

"If I knew where to find her, I would have done so by now."

The Praetorian examined Tristan for signs of untruth. He felt uncomfortable under her hawk-like gaze. Satisfied (though still not smiling), she clasped her notebook shut. "Then I believe our business is finished for now. If you uncover any new information about this dragon, you will contact me at once."

She handed Tristan a small card. On it was printed the same sigil as her badge, along with the telegraph address for the Office of Praetorean Civil Affairs: "RPSK-02", along with several listed wire signals and their meanings. Hespera had added a hand-written passphrase to indicate if the telegram needed to be for her eyes only.

"I want you to continue meeting with this dragon in the meantime. If you learn the whereabouts of her roost, send a telegram to this address using the passphrase "IRON BOW". And if you uncover anything about this dragon that could threaten the security of the city or the Crown, begin the message with wire signal 27. That signal is only for emergencies, understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good. There's a telegram station on Vixen street, four blocks from here. I trust you'll do what is necessary for the safety and prosperity of Concordia." She stood up and re-attached her sabre. "That concludes my questioning. Now I must take my leave."

Tristan escorted the Praetorean to his door and opened it for her.

She paused in the doorway, not looking back at him. "Have a pleasant day, Mr. Cornwallus. I hope I don't need to return: in my line of work, second visits are rarely for conversation."

Tristan felt his stomach twist in a knot. "I understand."

He closed the door behind her without saying goodbye and immediately slumped against it with a heavy sigh. First, Lillian, and now this Praetorian? Now he really needed to find Whitewillow, and fast!

He took one more look at the card in his hand. And then tossed it into the trash bin.

–=-=–

The top floor of Tailwind Shelters loomed high over the city. Tristan felt like he was on top of the world. He hated being up here.

When Lady Jenivive first announced the renovation of Tailwind Shelters, she had proposed Concordia's first multi-story building constructed entirely out of metal. While that wouldn't have looked out of place in the northern quarter – famous for its stained glass rooftops – the impoverished western quarter was more well-known for its aging, soot-stained brick buildings. These metal, honeycomb-like towers stuck out like a sore thumb. Most of the citizenry hated it … and heck, Tristan had heard that even the dragons hated it too. But with the limited space Mrs. Broyal had available to her, the only direction to build was up. And only forged steel could be used for such a tall structure with multiple landing platforms on every floor. When the three towers were constructed, Tristan assumed them to be the first of its kind in the world. Only after traveling with the Dragonhunter's Guild did Tristan discover that metal buildings had already popped up in younger cities like Wren's Passage and Drakesfell, where vast iron deposits were mined from underneath the nearby mountains that dragons once called home.

The more Tristan traveled as a Guild's field scholar, the more he realized that Concordia was one of a kind. The city was so old that she had been rebuilt upon herself thrice. Only the first Concordia had been built from wood - a grave mistake corrected after the Great Flagration of Clan Foulmaw. In ages since, Concordia's stonework had been praised as the finest in the world. The weathered, angular facets of polished marble projected a timeless strength. None could match her famous skyline: a wavy sea of clay shingles, stained glass, and patina-covered roofs. And she's the first in history to debut the technological marvels of steam-powered trollies, electric streetlamps, and floating barges powered by dragon wings. Not even the goblin undercity of Silverhill – the wealthiest trade hub on the continent – could compare to Concordia's indomitable beauty and industrious innovation.

But right now, Tristan couldn't bear to look upon her from so high up.

Today, the dreary clouds covering Concordia's skies billowed with the threat of heavy storms. Harsh, chill winds blustered from the sea and through the hive-like towers, causing the hollow structures to sway ever-so slightly. Even dragons didn't like to fly in winds this strong. Tristan felt sick to his stomach, worrying that the wind could knock him right off the landing platforms. He stayed as far away from the edges as possible.

As usual, Lillian did the talking. Tristan stayed close with a hand on the metal wall for support.

"You can't wiggle your way out of it this time, Rothaak." She unfurled a signed testimony from a scroll tube and thrust it in front of his snout. "There's only so many blue dragons living in Concordia, and we ruled out every other one. You're formally charged with stealing an entire pig carcass from Comstock and Sons Butchery. Now, either pay the 300 reale fine, or get your citizenship - and right to work - revoked."

The Cobalt Shrieker snarled at the two dragonhunters, who made an effort to remain unflinching in the face of his rancid, smoky breath. This eight meter-long species hailed from the far west, had a reputation for being territorial loners, and were aptly named for their shrill warning cries. Cobalt Shriekers were known for their smooth, rounded scales that shone a slight iridescence in bright light, like opal. In ages past, they used to be hunted and skinned for jewelry. Even nowadays, Shriekers were a rare sight to see outside the western coast of the continent, deep in goblin territory.

Rothaak billowed out his dark blue wings to appear even larger and more threatening. "Maal u'thakk nosh! If I cannot work, how can I pay the fine?"

"That's not my problem."

"Gnnash, I should tear off its head for its audacity!"

In quick and practiced form, Lillian whirled her Longneck rifle off her shoulder. Within two seconds she had the hammer cocked and the barrel pressed under his jaw. "Want to try it, big guy? Go ahead."

Having called his bluff, the Cobalt Shrieker dared not move a muscle. A low growl rumbled deep in his throat. "The homn thinks itself brave because of its thunderstick."

"I think myself brave because I've trained my whole life to deal with bullies like you," Lillian retorted.

"Rrrrm, in its arrogance, the two-legs forgets it is but a soft, fleshy morsel waiting to be devoured." He snorted hard in Lillian's face - the dragon equivalent of spitting in disgust.

She coughed at the foul smell of acrid dragonbreath. "Try it if you want. Your head will be on a stake before sundown."

Tristan let out an annoyed sigh. As good as she was at her job, Lillian had a remarkable ability to antagonize dragons whenever she opened her mouth. She was, of course, part of the older generation of dragonhunters: the kind more used to actually hunting dragons rather than chasing down fines like a glorified debt collector. Tristan stepped forward and gently pushed the barrel of her rifle down. Lillian scowled but said nothing. Situations like this were exactly why the Guild employed field scholars nowadays.

"Rrall, draa. Gaarm rii, kriss'uu thokk," Tristan began with a general apology in dragontongue. Dragons had thirteen different words for apologizing based on the severity of the grievance and the social status of the offended, but kriss'uu – roughly meaning "We are guilty" – was his go-to.

At the sound of dragontongue, the Cobalt Shrieker jerked his large head Tristan's way and glowered. The uncanny way a dragon's slit-pupil eyes narrowed their focus never failed to fascinate him. "Do not attempt to flatter me, hunter-homn. Hearing it speak draa-tongue offends my ears."

"Okay, let's all relax. Nobody is eating or shooting anyone today, hmm?" He glanced to Lillian. "We're just here for the fine. If you can pay now, we'll clear your bounty and take our leave."

"I cannot pay 300 reales. I cannot even afford food! Before finding that carcass, I had not eaten for five days!"

Tristan knew that was likely a stretch of truth at best, if not an outright lie. "There's other ways to get food aside from stealing."

The Shriker growled, baring long and yellowed fangs. "The butcher-homn lost nothing of value! That pig carried a rancid smell, and tasted sour. It was destined for the dumpster!"

"We already have an affidavit that claims otherwise, you silver-tongued snake," sneered Lillian.

To be called a snake – a beast cursed to wriggle in the dirt – deeply offended dragons, and Lillian knew it. She smiled as Rothaak snorted smoke in her face. Then tried her best not to cough, and failed.

"The butcher-homn speaks lies!"

"Let's all be civil, please," Tristan begged, forcing his way between them. "We can cut you a favorable deal if you're cooperative. How much do you have on you?"

The Cobalt Shrieker clutched his chest satchel with his left forepaw. "Gnassh-grn! Foul two-legs. It comes to my roost, harasses me, demands I hand over what little coin I earn … yet it acts as if granting me a favor!?"

"Just answer the question, skyscale," said Lillian.

The dragon's claws dug ever tighter into his leather satchel. "Twelve reales."

"Frisk him, Tris."

With her long gun raised and leveled at Rothaak's muzzle, Lillian waited as Tristan reached into his chest satchel. He fished around the haphazard collection of trinkets and junk (Eww, what's that cold, slimy thing?!) until his fingers touched coin. He counted 21 reales, along with a handful of lancets – so-named for the crossed lances on the back – each worth five times as much.

"I got here, hm … 141 reales."

Rothaak growled, but said nothing.

"Okay, here's what we'll do," said Lillian, keeping her rifle steady. "Tris, leave him 41 and hand me the rest. Now, dragon: I want you to go down to the docks and ask for the Harbormaster, Edmund Marsh. He'll give you a job hauling heavy cargo off the windjammers. You work 100 hours – without pay – and we'll clear the 200 reale balance. In a month, if I hear from him that you haven't logged enough hours, we'll add 100 reales to your bounty. Understand?"

"But I already have a job at Dragonwing Express!"

Lillian smiled. "And now you have two. Unless … you have more money you're hiding somewhere, hm? Perhaps in your hoard?"

While most likely true, no dragon tolerated threats to his or her hoard. The blue-scaled dragon gnashed his teeth at her. "Vile homn, thieving homn. Saak'u scit-ssithiss!"

Lillian's grasp of dragontongue wasn't nearly as good as Tristan's, but she had made a point to memorize every racial slur dragons had invented. Annoyed, she raised her rifle back up to his snout. "Care to repeat that?"

Rothaak lowered his head in smoldering defeat. "I said, I shall work."

It came as no surprise to Tristan that Rothaak would rather work without pay than suffer the shame of surrendering even a portion of his hoard … especially to a human! A dragon's hoard was everything to them: not only a measure of their material wealth, but a measure of their prestige and worthiness. Enduring 100 hours of servitude was a small price to pay for preventing a human from getting their hands on even a single coin.

Grumbling curses, Rothaak turned away toward his roost. "Now you have taken both my gold and my dignity. Begone."

Tristan reached out to stop the dragon, barely missing his tail. "Wait! Before you go, I have a question for you." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lillian grimace, knowing what was coming. He had asked this same question to every single dragon they had met with over the last few days.

The drake didn't even bother looking back. "Riss."

"I'm looking for an albino dragoness named Whitewillow. White scales, pale stripes, long finned spines down her back and tail. Maybe you've seen her?"

"Riss!" Rothaak used his left wing's thumb claw to pull a heavy iron key out of his pouch.

"Please, it's important. She's injured and could be dying."

Rothaak inserted his key and pressed down on the foot latch.

"She's not a bounty, she's a friend."

The drake pushed open the hexagonal door with a heavy creak. "Go sit on your horns,' he growled in his native tongue – the dragon equivalent of "go fuck yourself".

"She calls me draa-maakt!"

The Cobalt Shrieker froze in place.

As Tristan understood it, draa-maakt – meaning "dragon-friend" – meant more than a term of endearment. Like many platitudes in dragontongue, draa-maakt was a title: one that dragons only ever used to describe non-dragons. And like all titles, it had to be earned. Most draa-maakt were nagas and mushikas - the ratfolk. Tristan had never heard the term used to describe a human before. Not before Whitewillow.

The drake's shimmering blue tail twitched. "The hunter-homn lies," he said, after deliberation.

"I would swear it under gneff-thuus."

Rothaak recoiled in disbelief. "It would claim gneff-thuus?" He stood still for a moment to judge this unusual situation. After a while, he relaxed his wing shoulders, letting the dactyls fall to his sides. He then backed up out of the doorway to face Tristan, examining him. After a long silence, he grumbled, "Never has a two-legs has claimed gneff-thuus before. It is a clever homn – or a tricky one."

Out of her depth, Lillian could only stand and watch in silence. She looked confused. Most likely she'd save her chastising for later. Tristan stepped forward and bowed with his arms splayed out. "Please help me, Rothaak. She's wounded, alone, and could be dying."

Rothaak seemed pleasantly surprised at Tristan's formal bow. "Hrrrumm … yesterday, I had an ingrown scale on my haunch pulled. Before the medic-homn could see me, I had to wait for a draani with scales like snow-topped mountains who had many stitches removed. I know not her name, but no draa in all of Concordia has scales that pale. She must be this … Whitewillow."

What a relief! If she's flying, then she must be in good health. Tristan relaxed just a bit. "Do you know where she roosts?"

"Riss. But she flew off toward the Great Sea."

Then she must be roosting in the Southern Quarter, Tristan thought. That's still a large area to search. A fair number of dragons roosted on the rooftops around the docks so they could live close to where they worked. This wasn't legal according to Section 8-1 of the Dragon Citizenship Act, but the Guild turned a blind eye to it because the harbormaster would raise hell at the Town Hall if all his freight-pullers got evicted. As much as the politicians loved to imagine it was they that ran the city, Concordia's heartbeat pulsed to the rhythm of trade and commerce, and the harbormaster wielded considerable influence.

"I could really use a dragon to search the quarter by air …"

Rothaak flashed a fang-filled grin. "If it pays back my 100 reales, I will fly it to her roost myself."

Tristan grimaced. "I'll give you 10."

"Pomf! Your offer insults me. 70."

"30 reales, and no more."

"50."

"I said 30!"

The Cobalt Shrieker narrowed his yellow, slit-pupil eyes to a glare. He rumbled a low growl in an attempt to intimidate Tristan. Remembering Lady Jenivive's negotiation tactics, he stood tall, chest out and chin held high, and glared right back at him. A tense silence followed.

Abruptly, Rothaak relaxed and extended his wing palm for a handshake - a gesture many urban dragons picked up during their time among humans. "It appears we have a deal, two-legs."

As Tristan gripped the scaly palm in his hand, the drake's large wing thumb curled inward, pinching his skin. After he let go, Lillian stepped next to him. She grabbed his arm - hard. "Tristan?" she muttered, wearing a forced smile. "Let me ask this just once: what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm finding her."

"Reappropriating money collected from fines is embezzlement."

"She saved my life, Lil! I have to find her."

"If you do this, I'm writing you up."

Tristan sucked in a sharp breath. She wouldn't … would she? No, that had to be a bluff. "Go ahead."

"You don't even care? This will go on your permanent file."

"It's not embezzlement if I pay the difference out of my own pocket later."

"Can you afford that much?"

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know. Either way, I'm going to find her."

Lillian grumbled something underneath her breath, but relaxed her shoulders. "Okay. But I'm coming with."

"No! Something's wrong with her, I can feel it. If you show up, you'll just make things worse."

She let out a groan but didn't argue. "Fine. But you'll show me where she roosts. And if she asks you to go anywhere with her, you say no. Understand?"

"I do."

Surprising Tristan, Lilian shoved 30 of Rothaak's reales back into his hands. "Don't pay out of your pocket. Take this."

"Thanks, Lil."

She gripped his hand hard as she passed the coins. "You know … I've always questioned your soft spot for dragons. But your recent behavior is extreme, even for you."

Tristan pursed his lips as he pocketed the money. "You're not wrong." He then pulled out his pocketwatch from his vest. "Rothaak, when the clock tower strikes seven, I'll be waiting for you in front of dock A. You'll get your money then."

The drake bowed his gnarled head. "Ferduus."

–=-=–

The smell of salt water and caught fish permeated the air long before Tristan caught sight of the docks. Situated in the great bay to the south of the city, four great dockyards formed the nexus of all trade on this side of the continent and beyond. Dozens upon dozens of ships moored within Concordia's docks, while others floated out in the expansive bay, waiting their turn to unload. Over time, Tristan had seen ships from all over the known world dock here: sloops from Akkadia, Tallusian galleys, Zenshin-made junks, and even the occasional goblin dhow bearing the pointed sigil of Silverhill. Tristan always wondered why Zenshin ships were called "junks" … there was certainly nothing junk-like about those beautiful painted hulls! Their lightweight sails and bamboo scaffolding inspired the skybarges that Dragonwing Express used to dominate the airborne trade market.

Dragons roamed here often – mostly the bigger breeds that could pull heavy cargo that would take a dozen workers. But for all their strength, a single skyscale got paid the same as one man. Still, it was easy work for a dragon, the sailors appreciated their gruff, no-nonsense demeanors, and the local bars loved their thirst for ale after a hard day's work. Not to mention the harbormaster, who loved saving money on wages most of all.

Tristan leaned against a gas lamp post and waited, listening to the sound of gentle waves lapping against the barnacle-covered ships. He didn't have to loiter for long. Less than a minute after the clock tower chimed, Rothaak touched down in front of him. He gave a quick, informal bow of his head.

"I have scouted ahead. The draani roosts far from here," he began, not bothering with a hello. "If it returns my 30 reales, I shall reveal which direction. If it pays 30 more, I shall fly it to her myself."

Tristan scowled. "You flying me there was part of the agreement!"

"If," the Cobalt Shrieker began, chin held high, "it paid back the 100 stolen from me. But the pomf negotiated for less. 30 reales buys only information." He paused to groom his wing with the oil glands on his snout, looking prim and proud. "It is a good deal, hunter-homn. I wanted 100, yet offer 60. It should be grateful for my generosity." Tristan could see the corner of his scaly lips turn upward as he groomed.

Damn these dragons and their greed! "I don't have that much money on me," he lied.

"50, then."

Tristan muttered swears under his breath as he yanked his coinpurse out from his inner vest pocket. "Let's see here," he made a show of rummaging around before pulling out 42 reales-worth of coins. "This is all I have on me," he lied, holding out the stack between his fingers.

"Then all is what I shall take."

The drake lunged forward and snatched the coins with his teeth, nearly taking a finger with them. He dropped them into his wing palm to count them, compulsively rubbing the gold with his thumb a bit before transferring them to his chest satchel. Tristan clutched his coinpurse tight to not let the few remaining coins clink together as he returned it to his pocket. He had to make those last until the next payday. Great, so much for buying groceries this week …

"The hunter-homn will climb on now. And it must tell no draa of this arrangement! I shall offer this privilege in secret. Only for a draa-maakt. And only once."

The drake whirled his heavy head around, making sure no other dragon was watching. Then he kneeled down and lowered his elongated, bat-like wing for a foothold. Tristan planted a foot on the wing and hoisted himself up with a grunt, straddling the back of the dragon's neck. Tristan found the smooth blue scales easy to sit on and surprisingly slippery under his trousers. He hugged the dragon's broad, tree-like neck for security.

"Whatever you do, don't fly too high. I don't like heights."

Rothaak chuffed. "And I do not like ferrying homn. Neither of us get what we want."

When he felt the dragon take off in a gallop, Tristan shut his eyes and held on tight. For being exceedingly large creatures with a reputation for laziness, dragons could move fast when they wanted. And they needed maximum galloping speed to get enough air under their wings. Tristan's belly turned frigid when he felt a sudden lurch upward from the first flap of his mighty wings. As the dragon's feet left the ground and he felt himself rising, Tristan imagined gliding a scant meter above the ground, close enough to safely land should he fall. The wind blustered his hair and howled in both ears, and his stomach did somersaults from the constant up-down motion on every flap. How the heck did the Praetorian Skyknights do this for a living? He couldn't imagine how they managed to not lose their lunch on every flight, let alone train for aerial battle!

Whumf, whumf, whumf went the beating of the drake's great wings. Tristan could feel vibrations in Rothaak's neck as great gusts of air flowed up and down his trachea. He heard the drake breathing a strained tempo from the added weight. Tristan had spent hours with his nose buried in the musty pages of dragon anatomy books – he remembered learning that dragons were unique in how they cycled air between their five lungs, and it took three full breaths before the inhaled air was finally expelled. This efficient system allowed for constant oxygenation to power their wings, despite all the time air spent travelling up and down their long tracheas. Tristan wondered what cyclical breathing felt like – having air swirl between his lungs rather than in and out. The thought distracted himself long enough to momentarily forget about the fear of falling to his death.

After what seemed like entirely too long, Rothaak touched down with a heavy thud. "I have delivered it to the draani. The deal has been honored. Now it removes itself from my back."

Tristan allowed his eyes to open as he slid off the drake's back. Ahh, solid Concordian brick felt safe underneath his feet. Now if only his vision could stop spinning. He studied the area to ground himself. Several ventilation pipes disrupted the otherwise featureless roof. Perhaps a warehouse, or an old factory – not many other types of buildings had flat rooftops. He turned around to get his bearings. Concordia's southeastern wall was close to here. Tristan spied members of the city watch leaning over the railings of the nearby cannonade tower. Perhaps dragons roosted by the wall because it was less noisy here than the roofs close to the docks. He couldn't hear the squawking of the gulls, the roaring of the waves, or the sputtering of steam engines.

Dilapidated dragon roosts dotted the rooftops in the area, built from salvaged crates, shipping pallets, and canvas. Such meager accommodations could hardly compare to Tailwind Shelters, but it was free. Each roost looked too small to fit a proper dragon, but that's how they liked it, oddly enough.

Tristan spied a few dragons laid out on their backs, sunning their wings in the last hour of light available to them. He squinted his eyes against the waning light, then let out a sigh when he realized none of them were her. He turned back to thank Rothaak, but the drake already had his wings out as he prepared to take flight. So Tristan turned his attention to the closest roost. As he approached, he noticed the scent of incense – her trademark aroma of cinnamon and cloves – and knew he was at the right place.

"Whitewillow?"

No response. Tristan peeled back the canvas flap and peeked inside.

The interior of the roost was barely big enough for a skyscale to curl up in. Being on the smaller end of dragon species, Whitewillow had enough room to sprawl her wings out a bit. She laid on a stained, musty roll of carpet. Several candles stood un-lit around the interior, having melted down into stumps with long rivulets of dried wax. And strange slips of paper hung from twine, inked with Zenshin script that Tristan could make no sense of. Her tingsha - the tiny cymbals she kept fastioned to her wing claws - lay neatly arranged on top of her folded scarf, still stained with blood. It sat before a burnt-out stick of incense and a preserved ginkgo sprig. Some sort of modest shrine to Taishui, he wagered.

Whitewillow laid on her back with her chin to the sky, eyes closed as if asleep. Her jaws parted slightly, letting her forked tongue hang out. A slimy coat of drool covered the white scales on her snout, frothy at the corners of her lips. When the parted canvas let in waning sunlight, she stirred with a groan. One of her sanguine eyes peeled open, looking lazy and unfocused.

"Rrr … draa-maakt?" Her other eye opened. Then her nares flared to take in his scent, as if not believing what her eyes told her.

"Whitewillow!" He entered the hovel and knelt down before her snout. "I'm so glad I found you! I've been looking for you for days."

"Hhhhow are you up here?" Whitewillow groaned. She didn't budge, as if glued to the floor. "Homn do not fly! They can not! Ssssilly homn …" she flitted her forked tongue out a full foot, reaching in vain for a stick of gnawed yellowish root that lay just out of reach.

Tristan recognized the plant. Concordians knew it as liquorice – a bittersweet, aromatic herb used in cuisine and the making of candies. He never cared for the taste, personally. But to creatures of wing and scale, the root was known as "chuu" – a mildly psychoactive drug that the Wildborn clans had cultivated for centuries. Chuu was almost as popular as ale, and about as affordable (though the price had skyrocketed ever since the Dragon Citizenship Act). And here Whitewillow had been gnawing on it like some addicted street dragon.

Tristan picked up the masticated root before her clumsy, fumbling forked tongue could wrap around it. The woody, yellow pulp – like her lips – was covered in thick, frothy drool. "How much chuu have you had today?"

A guttural groan of protest rumbled in her chest. Her unfocused eyes finally locked on his. "Do not ... do not take. Give."

Tristan breathed a sigh through his nose. He had dealt with enough skyscales strung out on chuu to recognize the symptoms of overdosing: stupor, ataxia, slow speech, excessive drooling. "You look like you've had enough."

"Riss." With great effort, she reached out weakly with her wing thumb, which dug into Tristan's leg. "Give now. It is not as ssstrong as opium … but it helpsss all the same."

He set the root down out of reach. "Are your wounds still giving you trouble?"

The albino dragoness closed her eyes for a moment and breathed, as if trying to muster the mental fortitude to talk. "Risssss … It is kaa'stng that I feel – a soul-pain."

Tristan nodded in solemn understanding. "This is about the Thorntail drake you killed."

Whitewillow flinched as if pinched. "Do not speak of him."

Tristan knew her fight to the death with Ragn'mawl's assassins had upset her greatly. But a week had passed and he had assumed she would have gotten over it by now. After all, Tristan had never known a dragon to be squeamish about killing. He knew them to be natural-born predators, fond of ripping their prey open to devour the liver first. Wildborn clans notoriously killed each other in the pursuit of honor or influence. Just last month, Concordia woke up to a headless, disemboweled member of clan Star Scry laying in the middle of the Central Promenade (the head removed by her allies for proper funerary rites).

But once again, Tristan had to remind himself that so many things he understood about dragons didn't apply to Whitewillow. She hadn't lived her life under the rigid law of a Concordian Wildborn clan, raised from birth to embrace her natural ruthlessness and pride. Not even the domesticate dragons – born under the thrall of highborn humans – behaved so contrarian to Wildborn inclinations as Whitewillow did. Her gentle nature, kindness, and empathy must be inherited from her Zenshin bloodline, he reasoned. Or maybe learned from her priestess training. Regardless, it was yet another reason he found her so captivating.

Tristan sat down cross-legged on the moldy, dragon-scented carpet roll and laid a hand on her scaled chest. What could he say to her that could possibly ease her turmoil? He thought for a while before speaking up.

"I'm so sorry, Whitewillow. Had I known how much it'd upset you, I'd never tell you to kill that Thorntail."

"Riss."

"No? Why not?"

"Risssss," she hissed, unwilling or unable to explain due to her befuddled mind.

Tristan began stroking her chest scales. "I underestimated how much being in a life-or-death situation would affect you."

Whitewillow shut her eyes tight. "It broke me. I am no longer whole."

"Care to talk about it?"

"Riss." She turned her upturned snout away from him, horns audibly dragging across the old carpet.

"Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?"

She tensed up but didn't answer.

"Okay … if words won't help, may I sit with you for a while?"

She let out a long, weary sigh. "Rrah."

Tristan scooted over and laid against the dragon's shoulder. After a moment, she curled her wing to rest in his lap. He took her palm in his hand and held her, running his thumb along the leathery texture of the albino scales. He stared outside at the city skyline, listened to her breathing, felt the expanding of her chest with every inhale. And he said nothing.

Lillian had done the same with him, after his parents died. The hollow ache that consumed him had been the deciding factor in signing up with the Dragonhunter's Guild so soon after college. Guildmaster Wilhelm saw that Tristan needed not just a job, but family. Which is why he chose Lillian for Tristan's mentor. Granted, Lillian never was much for opening up or sharing vulnerabilities. But, having lost both parents to a dragon attack, she understood his loss better than most. At a time where he had lost everything, she was there for him: a shoulder to lean on, an ear to rant to. That was enough.

And now, Whitewillow needed that same support. He wasn't going anywhere.

The sky outside the roost turned purple as the sun kissed the snow-covered tops of the Beretti mountains. And Tristan said nothing. His mind wandered to what that scaly bastard Ragn'mawl was up to. At this time, no doubt he was getting drunk off cheap ale alongside his cohort without a single care in the world. Was he even bothered by the fact that he had lost two Mossback Thorntails in a failed honor-killing? And would he send more until the honor-debt was paid? Probably not: once the news reached matriarch T'sarrak's ears, she'd likely give "Raggy" yet another thrashing for it. He took comfort in that.

Tristan sat and squeezed her palm. He looked out of the hovel's open flap, watching the dragons fly overhead, circling on thermals rising from the warm stones from the city below. Still, he said nothing.

And it was enough.

By the time the sun had dipped behind the mountains, Whitewillow had sobered up enough to speak. "I feel better now. Rrrg – Perhaps not better, but less … worse. Thank you, draa-maakt."

Tristan squeezed her wing palm. "You're welcome."

With great effort, the albino dragoness rolled to her side and ruffled her wings. She licked her lips clean of the drool that had gathered there. "I have somber news, Tristan-homn."

"Tell me."

"I have decided I must return to Zenshin."

Tristan reared up with a start. "What?!"

Whitewillow refused to meet his gaze, instead staring out her hovel to the open cityscape. "It was a mistake to sail so far across the Great Sea. I came here to rid the city of zussu, but the rot is far too great for any one acolyte to manage. I have failed the priests of Husia, and my goddess. Not only have I been unable to bring the joy of raashka to the people of Concordia, I have committed a most heinous sin in my attempt. And now I … I cannot even …" She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence.

"You shouldn't make decisions while you're high on chuu."

"Riss!" she growled. "I have thought much of it this past week. It is time for this proud draa to admit defeat."

"Willow …"

She turned her snout away, folding her spines flat against her body. "Do not say my name like that. It hurts."

Tristan didn't know what to say.

By now, what little sunlight remained was no longer enough to see. Whitewillow reared up and puffed small plumes of flame over the half-melted candles until enough had been lit to bathe the interior of the roost in a modest orange glow. Then she let out a weary sigh and laid back down.

"I yearn to return home, to feel the air under my wings as I soar over fields of poppy and rice, to walk where the waterwork engines of the Imperial City churn and the forests of bamboo creak in the winds. I ache for the velvet pillows of Temple Husia's pleasure dens, for the sacred ginkgo tree that houses the spirit of my goddess … for a city of homn who respect and adore me, not spit at me like vermin."

Tristan couldn't blame her. She had traded her life of luxury for a scrapwork hovel and dirty, moldy carpet. He remembered Whitewillow telling him that the Temple had been given her meager supplies under the assumption that she could subsist on tithes for her services, but few in Concordia would lay with a dragon willingly, let alone pay for the experience. So many of her spines that once were adorned with golden studs and loops now lay bare against her back, all traded away for food and other necessities. He wondered if she could even afford passage back to Zenshin at this point.

"Once back within Temple Husia's walls, then I can properly atone for my failures. It is the only way I can fix myself."

Tristan tensed up with an unexpected sense of loss. In the short time he had known Whitewillow, he had made an unexpected friend, explored the exotic thrill of interspecies intimacy that he had never before dared to delve, gone on a dangerous adventure to a place where no human had set foot in years, and ended up a hero who saved a Concordian noblelady from certain death. And the sudden threat of losing the dragon who made all that possible filled him with emptiness.

Tristan reached out to stroke the waxy pale scales of her snout, which reflected the dim candlelight like orange dewdrops. "You're not a failure, Whitewillow. You helped solve the Citadel tower explosion. You fostered friendly relations between Cracked Shell and humans. Heck, you saved my life at least twice! You've done good in this city."

Whitewillow pulled away from his touch. "My good has been but a drop of pure water in the briny ocean. Not even the whole of Temple Husia could fix this seeping rot of zussu."

Tristan soured at her pessimism. "Concordia used to be worse, you know. Back before the Dragon Citizenship Act. Not too long ago, dragons could only legally live in the city if they were domesticates: fancy pets raised from birth to act subservient to humans. But Dragonwing Express changed everything. Their aerial trade routes brought in so much money that the company had to hire more and more dragons just to keep with demand. Now those dragons walk free in the streets. And not as pets, nor as Wildborn, but as Concordian citizens. So you see, DWE is proof that this city can change. It's merely … going through some growing pains at the moment."

"In Zenshin, draa have no need of homn profits to justify their existence."

"In Zenshin, dragons and humans haven't been at war for centuries," he countered.

"Has this continent really seen that much bloodshed?" she asked, both disgusted and curious.

She has no idea, he realized with shock. Tristan thought back to when he first learned about the city's bloody past. As a child, one of the most popular playground games he played was "crusaders versus dragons". At the end of the day, his father would tuck him in at night, regailing him with tales of bold knights felling mighty beasts of the sky. But even then, those seemed more like fairy tales and less like history. Those stories first became real to Tristan on the Day of Remembrance – Concordia's largest holiday. His father took him out every year to watch the military parade commemorate the three dragon crusades, while his mother stayed home to cook the traditional Remembrance dinner: fig-glazed mutton, roasted beets, and mincemeat pie. Most families would buy their Remembrance Day pie at a bakery, but his mother always made hers from scratch …

Tristan shook his head violently to clear the bittersweet memories. "Yes. War is in Concodians' blood," he answered. "It's a part of our history, our heritage. And it's something we're proud of."

Whitewillow wrinkled her lips in disdain. "This accursed empire of yours is beyond hope."

"It is not! And I think you can still do good in it."

"Riss! My sin is too great, my wounds unhealable."

"Willow, you killed someone in self defense. Surely Taishui can forgive you for acting to save your own life, and mine."

"I do not know if She can."

Tristan stared blankly at her. "What do you mean? She's a goddess of love, right? Wouldn't she forgive anything in good faith?"

"Her love is unconditional. But Her reach is finite. I fear the rift between us is irreparable unless I return to Zenshin."

"Haven't you tried … uh, talking to her? Praying to her, I mean?"

Whitewillow shrunk back as if stung. Her fins folded flat against her back. "I cannot pray," she said, softly.

"Why not?"

She turned her sanguine eyes away from him. "I have tried."

"And?"

"I have tried many times," she said, not answering the question.

"What's wrong?"

"Rrah g'daa miir tuuni. You do not worship. You would not understand."

"Try me."

Whitewillow remained silent for a while. "I can no longer feel Her," she said, softly. As if embarrassed to utter the words aloud.

Tristan blinked. "So … what does that mean?"

"It means my goddess has forsaken me!" she suddenly roared, loud enough to hurt Tristan's ears. "Taishui is gone from my heart, my soul, my life. In Her place, I feel only an emptiness. And I do not know if I can ever be whole again."

The dragon let out a mournful wail and collapsed with a gust of air. She buried her snout underneath both forepaws and wept. And Tristan felt helpless. He could offer no advice on religious matters. Nor could he even begin to understand what Whitewillow was going through. But his heart stirred for her. He rested a hand on her shoulder and wished he had proper words to share.

The dragon's lonesome cries remained unanswered as they rang out in the night. After a moment, she calmed down and wrapped her tail tight around herself for comfort. "I told you: you would not understand."

He leaned in close and spoke softly. "You're right, I don't. But if there's anything I can do to help you, Whitewillow – and I mean anything … I'm here for you."

Whitewillow avoided his gaze. "There is ... one thing. But I cannot ask this thing of you."

"Why?"

"Because a courtesan of Husia is forbidden to ask. We are encouraged to plant the seed of raashka in others. But we cannot force it to bloom. Our scripture decrees that an individual must choose to walk the path of worship of their own conviction – without coercion or suggestion – otherwise the blooming is impure."

"What, is this about needing my help praying to Taishui? Because if you need to sit on my face again …"

"Riss. All the times we have lain together, I have worshipped. But you didn't. You had sex. Do you understand?"

"You … you want me to worship with you?"

He scoffed on the inside. Him, worship a god for the first time in years? Not even the Concordian gods deserved that much, let alone some foreign god he doubted the existence of! What could the worship of a goddess of love possibly entail, he wondered. Maybe say a little prayer while in the middle of some phenomenal dragon sex? He could do that. Hell, he could even make it sound convincing, if that meant Whitewillow would get out of this rut she's been stuck in.

Whitewillow bowed her head in acknowledgement. "Worshipping Taishui has never been about one partner praying while the other enjoys the pleasures of the flesh. Love is a two-way river, and nothing pleases Her more than two partners sharing the same prayer. Temple Husia calls this 'Liang ling hoon gechang husia': the ritual of two souls singing harmony. Were I back in Zenshin, I could perform the ritual with any of my fellow acolytes and repair my bond to Taishui. But here in Concordia, I have no one to worship with."

"If you think this ritual will help you, I'll do it."

Tristan expected her to respond with joy, or even relief. But to his surprise, she turned away from his offer.

"You do not understand. This is a most sacred act of surrender, and it must be performed out of a genuine desire to connect with Her. That is why I cannot ask you to do this for me. Your reasons for wanting to worship are impure, and She would reject it."

"So all I have to do is be sincere about a desire to worship? Then fine: I formally declare that I want to worship Taishui."

"Tristan …" he saw pain in her sanguine eyes. "You do not even know what those words mean."

"So teach me, Willow. I'm sure it can't be that different from what we've done before."

"Grn'maar du griss molok! Arrogance while understanding nothing, like a hatchling." She snorted. "The ritual of singing souls is worship, not sex. Very different things."

"But … does the ritual involve sex?"

"Of course it does."

"Then I'm pretty sure I can handle this."

She let out a frustrated growl. "Listen to me, draa-maakt. Your soul will be touched by a goddess. Such an experience is not to be taken lightly. You have to want this."

"Just answer me this: if I do this ritual with you, would you stay in Concordia and continue your fight against zussu?"

Her scaled brow furrowed. "If you were to bloom, and if I were to rekindle my link to Taishui … I would no longer be alone in my fight. So yes, I would stay."

"Then I'll do it. I'll do whatever you need me to do, even worship a dragon love goddess."

Whitewillow's fans flared out in surprise, and for a moment, Tristan hoped that he had gotten through to her. But then she cast her gaze outside, to the darkness. "Tristan … you have scorned your own gods. You have resisted the very idea of Taishui existing! Your heart is hardened by bitterness. Can you truly soften it so quickly, so utterly?"

All good questions, Tristan thought. "I don't know how to answer that. But I do understand feeling empty and alone, and thinking it's time to give up on life. And seeing you like this pains me." He reached out and cupped her snout between both hands. "Ever since meeting you, Willow, my life has been a wild and fantastic adventure. And never have I met a dragon so full of compassion, grace, and charm. I … I've grown fond of you, more than even I realized," he said, the full weight of his words hitting him just now. "So I'm going to help, whatever it takes."

Whitewillow opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed a finger over her lips. "When times are tough and you lose all hope, sometimes all you need is one person to believe in you, to remind you what hope feels like. I can be that person for you, Whitewillow. If you'll let me."

In the dim candlelight, Tristan watched the dragon's slit-pupil eyes open wider, until they were perfect circles. "Maaz-grn, your seed is ready to bloom! Oh, Taishui, you clever draa! Was this your plan all along?"

Before Tristan could comment on such strange words, Whitewillow leaned in and pressed the tip of her snout against his lips. He felt her scaled lips pucker as much as a dragon could–not quite like a human's but the gesture felt familiar enough. Hers was a gentle kiss, not like the ones he had received from her before. He felt no passion or urgency this time, only tenderness and affection. What a uniquely human gesture out a dragon! Tristan felt flattered as he returned the kiss. He tasted the bitterness of liquorice root on her scaled lips.

One soft smack later and Whitewillow pulled away. Her slit-pupil eyes looked upon him with genuine affection. "You humans always find new ways to surprise me. One of the reasons why I can never get enough of your kind."

Tristan laughed as she wrapped him up in a hug with her wing. Her long, flexible dactyls stretched down behind his back, and he felt the leathery patagium stretch across both shoulders. "Honestly? I feel the same way," he said, returning the hug. "You've been surprising me ever since we met."

"Tomorrow," she said, letting go. But not before giving him one last nuzzle. "We shall worship tomorrow. When I am sound of mind and steady in spirit."

"You're in luck, I have the day off tomorrow." He peeked outside the roost, to the night air. "Though it's late and I should get going. I'll be back around noon, okay?"

Tristan felt a blunt claw grip his arm. "Riss. Do not go. Stay with me for the night, draa-maakt."

Tristan looked out the open flap of her roost, noting the dark purple sky. Now there wasn't even enough light to see without her candles ."I don't know, I need to shower, clean my teeth …"

She reached out with a heavy forepaw, blunt claws digging into his leg. "Vaashi roh diir. Please?"

He looked at her for a moment. Then leaned in and kissed her on the nose. "As you wish, my dragoness."

Such words flattered her. He knew they would. And when she raised her snout and flared out her fins in that classic draconic expression of pride, Tristan smiled.

TO BE CONTINUED

Post story notes:

~ This chapter, like the others, has been a long time coming. I've been stalling for a number of reasons, some of them beyond my control. But no longer!

~ I want to get this story finished. It's been FAR too long. I want to move on to other projects. But first, I have an epic finale planned. A LOT of plot has to be written first, and this story is going to take some turns that no one will expect.

~ I don't want to spoil too much about the story I have planned, but I will say that after this next smut scene (which is required by plot, naturally), the story will take a sharp turn and a new character will be introduced.

~ shout-out to Mercrantos for his incredibly helpful critiquing. Good critique is hard to come by, as it's not as simple as offering opinions on a story: good critique can pick out issues with plot, characterization, theme, and other broad-stroke nuances. I'm ALWAYS thirsty for valid criticism. If you have any you wish to share, don't be afraid to drop me a comment! I'd appreciate it greatly.