The Empyrean Sage Order was commonly known as the unapproachable household. Only females born with special skills were invited - those who knew words before they were spoken, could tell a lie from the truth and could weave the threads of magic between their fingers. The lucky males they bonded to were invited to live with the Order, forming a revered family.

The Sages did not mingle with the public often, their practices kept secret, but Ansgarde had spotted a few at the Tower of Sacred Scrolls. She had bowed to them as was custom and kept her distance but managed to sneak a peek. Their fine, white ankle-length tunics were embroidered in gold, split up to their tights, and had sleeves that covered their hands as if they carried secrets on their skin. A broad silk ribbon pinned to their hair fell between their wings like a veil. The Sages were the advisors, the wise council, the impartial jury.

What was a human version of a Sage?

Unlike most Empyreals, Ansgarde was familiar with other demon cultures. She experienced them in Lower Heliodor and read about others in historical scrolls. Her imagination could spin up any type of holy person.

While waiting in front of the Mystic’s tent, she imagined an odd combination of Lower Heliodor healers, enchanters, alchemists, and hexers combined into one person. This left her with an image of a woman adorned with an excessive number of beads, oversized earrings, and shimmering clothes. She would emerge from the tent in a cloud of scented oils and a visible magical aura that rippled the air around her. But it could also be a frail old woman, hunched over, white-haired, blind in one eye, speaking in riddles that would keep her up at night.

Whatever she would turn out to be, Ansgarde had to be smart when phrasing her request. She was outnumbered by a population of vermin who might not care about the fate of dragons at all, but a Mystic might believe in prophecies. Convincing this woman that she was the prophesied hero could be the way to gain their cooperation. She had to sound like an equally important person and not allow any doubts to show through her words.

While the man looked at the tent, waiting for his Mystic, Ansgarde straightened her tunic and smoothed out her hair. Spinel snuck out of her hiding spot, landing silently in a clump of bright leaves. Ansgarde shook her head at her glutton of a friend.

“I’m supposed to be your sidekick,” she mouthed at her. Spinel grinned widely, already chewing on a yellow leaf.

A small yelp brought her attention back to the tent. A figure clambered out, stumbling at the entrance, and the man helped her up. Ansgarde’s knees nearly gave out when she took in the woman known as the Mystic.

Humans had short lifespans, so she could be wrong, but the woman appeared rather young to be a Sage or whatever this Mystic title was supposed to mean. She was tall like a limber tree and flimsy like a thread that refuses to go through the needle eye. She was not ugly, but her sharply pointed nose distracted from her beauty. She was wrapped in the same crude brown fabric as her tent. No visible traits identified her as special, but looks could be deceiving.

She gasped, seeing Ansgarde, and covered her mouth. “You have wings!”

She laughed in a silent but open-mouthed fashion, looking from her to the hairy man who showed no reaction. Seeing them next to each other, Ansgarde couldn’t miss the resemblance. Their dark-blue eyes and brown hair were a match, though the Mystic at least combed hers and held it with a strip of fabric tied around her head.

“An Empyreal demon?” the Mystic exclaimed. The man grunted in response, and she continued, “I’ve never met any demon. And you’re a winged demon! Oh, what a day!”

She recognized her race with the ease of someone who knew more than the masses. Ansgarde sighed in relief. The Mystic was some kind of Sage after all.

“If you know who I am, then you must already know why I’m here.”

The Mystic grinned broadly. “Oh, sweet winds. But you haven’t told us your name yet. I’m Olivine. You’ve already met my brother, Larimar,” she touched his arm while he continued glaring at Ansgarde, unflinching, “and if you tell us your name, we will know each other like good old friends.”

“I’m Ansgarde of Upper Heliodor,” she said, holding her chin up high. “And this is Spinel of Heliodor Brumals.”

Olivine looked around. “There are two of you? Where?”

Ansgarde looked down at the yellow clump, but her little friend was not there. The introduction would have to wait.

She tried to mimic her mother’s tone of authority to make up for how small she felt next to them. “I have journeyed here on an important duty and would appreciate your assistance if you’re able to provide it.”

“What duty would that be?” The Mystic’s eyes were wide open.

“She thinks she can break the Dragons Curse,” the man replied.

“Let the girl speak.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I am the Mystic. She’s come to talk to me.”

He glared at her, eyes narrowed, while she held back a giggle, then he looked away with a huff while she laughed soundlessly.

“Oh, I’m loving this,” she clapped her hands together and turned back to Ansgarde. “You look tired. Let’s sit down.”

“That’s kind of you. Thank you.”

Olivine gestured at a set of tree stumps scattered around a cold bonfire ring. They looked about as comfortable as lounging on sharpened spikes, but Ansgarde’s feet were killing her, so she reluctantly accepted the invitation. When she settled down, she fully felt the toll this gravity had on her body. But this wasn’t the time to show weakness. She was stronger than silly fatigue.

“What help do you need?” Olivine leaned forward, elbow on one knee, fist supporting her chin. “If you truly know how to break the curse, we would do anything to assist you.”

Larimar stood behind his sister like a silent bodyguard.

Ansgarde straightened her back. “I could use a guide that knows these islands.”

Olivine nodded eagerly. “Which island do you need to go to?”

Ansgarde blinked a few times, hands together in her lap, fiddling with the edge of her tunic. She had no idea where to start. “We will travel to important places until we find the one. Which one would you recommend?”

“What are you looking for?”

Ansgarde wished Larimar would sit down instead of looming over this meeting like midday shadow. And where was Spinel? “Old places. Places that were once important. Ancient writings… relics.”

She swallowed, her ideas running out, but she quickly caught herself. She had to sound confident. She gestured to the village. “Are there more ruins like these?”

While looking in the direction of the village center, she spotted the buck-toothed man jumping around the clumps of vegetation, swatting with his hands at the insects again. Was that Felsic or Mafic?

“These ruins are specific to this island,” Olivine answered. “Each island is special in its own way.”

“You won’t find treasures on any of them,” Larimar grumbled.

Ansgarde replied, “I didn’t come here for treasures.”

He stared into her eyes, his face stoic but words sharp. “Came alone, unprepared. Forgive me if I don’t believe the curse-breaking story.”

Ansgarde huffed. “I have no interest in treasures.” She looked around her. “And I didn’t come alone.”

She could use her little friend’s encouragement right now. She searched the clumps of grass swaying with the frigid wind, but Spinel was nowhere to be seen. A sound of laughter carried from behind her. Felsic and Mafic were playing in the grass like children. Some villagers got back to work. Others formed chat circles, glancing in her direction.

She looked to the Mystic for support. “Olivine, I’m here to fulfill a prophecy. Will you help me?”

Larimar grunted, his arms crossed, but Olivine put a gentle hand on his arm. “Let her speak. I want to hear about this prophecy.”

“Dragons await the arrival of Spawn of Heliodor who will save them from their fate,” Ansgarde recited.

Playful shouts of humans behind her were distracting. “Get it, Mafic!”

Olivine exchanged a loaded look with her brother. “And you’re the Spawn of Heliodor?”

“I am.”

“Come here, green meat.” One of the men grunted, followed by laughs of the other. “You almost got it this time.”

Olivine asked her another question, but Ansgarde’s ears went numb as if stuffed with clay. Her stomach dropped as she slowly turned to watch Felsic and Mafic jump through the bushes, trying to catch something. Something small. Like a Brumal-sized insect.

“Spinel?”