Chapter 13: Smaug Called, He Wants His Dignity Back

We had been marching for over three days, barely stopping for breath, when I finally felt it. That gnawing dread at the pit of my stomach, the one that screamed, Congratulations, idiot, you’re about to die. Which could only mean one thing: we were close to the wyrm’s nest.

Not that Arkanthos had been helpful. He’d shut down any further talk about magic after his little lecture by the campfire. According to him, explaining more would be a “waste of time.” Which, to me, sounded an awful lot like, Good luck figuring out how not to explode, mistress.

Serine was visibly worried, though she tried to hide it. She failed miserably. I caught her chewing her lip, fiddling with her bowstring, her eyes darting like a rabbit about to bolt.

“You’re quiet,” I said, smirking at her. “Thinking of our heroic deaths? Or just imagining how good I’ll look when the wyrm swallows me whole?”

Serine glared. “This isn’t funny, Rissa. We don’t even have a plan!”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. Plans are for people who don’t have my dazzling improvisation skills.” I winked. “Besides, Arkanthos is here. He’ll bore the wyrm to death with his speeches if all else fails.”

“Ha. Ha.” Serine did not look convinced.

“Relax, Lady Serine,” Arkanthos drawled. “Mistress Rissa will simply feel her way into the proper expression of her power.”

“Feel my way?” I scoffed. “You make it sound like I’m groping in the dark. Which, to be fair, is exactly what I’m doing.”

Serine muttered something about idiots under her breath, which only made me grin wider.

The land ahead was torn open by a massive rift, easily eight meters across, cutting the earth like an old scar. The cliffs on either side were jagged, blackened in places, as if scorched by fire. A pathetic excuse for a bridge stretched across the gap—rotting wood, missing planks, ropes so frayed they looked like one good sneeze would snap them.

“Perfect,” I said. “A crumbling bridge over a death pit. Nothing screams good idea like this.”

There were no tracks, no carcasses, no signs of the wyrm on the surface. But I didn’t need them. My skin prickled, every nerve screaming danger. The air itself felt heavy, suffocating, like the Mist Caves all over again. Only worse.

“It’s here,” I said flatly. “Hiding in the rift. I can feel it.”

“Very good, mistress,” Arkanthos replied, smug as always. “Then this is the moment. Don’t think too much. Magic is not an equation to solve. It must be felt.”

“Oh, sure. Just feel it. Fantastic advice from a guy who’s literally a talking skull.”

He ignored me.

“Catalytic magic connects core to spell. Essential connects world to will. But you… yours is something else entirely. You must recall what you felt when you gave us life. What connected in you then?”

I frowned. “I was terrified. But more than that, I wanted Serine safe. And I wanted that spider dead. Very dead.”

“Ah, excellent,” Arkanthos purred. “Fear, protection, and the desire to kill. A beautiful formula. The spider became your sacrifice. You connected your soul, and its death catalyzed the birth of us.”

Serine swallowed hard. “So… if she just thinks about protecting me and killing the wyrm, it’ll work?”

“Pfft. Please,” I said. “If it were that easy, I’d have solved all my life’s problems by glaring at people.”

“Not at all lady Serine,” Arkanthos said calmly. “If the Mistress charged the wyrm with a reasoning that poor, we’d be roasted alive in seconds. Let us continue. When you imploded those training dummies in the archery yard… what exactly were you thinking?”

I scratched my head, grinning. “Honestly? I was completely hammered, so my memory’s a little fuzzy.”

The look Serine shot me could’ve curdled milk. Total you’re-an-alcoholic-and-I-hate-you glare.

“I was pissed off at not getting results, so I just sort of wished they’d disappear—or that everything would just go to hell.”

“Good thing you didn’t literally mean everything,” Arkanthos mused. “Otherwise, you might have cracked the world in half.”

Serine gasped. “What?! And we’re just letting her try something like this? Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, run in the opposite direction?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, nodding gravely. “Best idea. I’ll start with the eastern hemisphere, you take the western, and we’ll meet up in the void.”

“Or perhaps the moon,” Arkanthos added helpfully. “We’ll need a new home once mistress accidentally erases the continent.”

Serine groaned into her hands. “I hate both of you.”

“Summing up,” Arkanthos continued smoothly, “it seems she connected her frustration with the intent of obliterating the dummies. The catalyst, in this case, was her drunken state. A failed spell, fused with her power, became an implosion. Destructive, yet unshaped. An un-spell, if you will.”

Something clicked inside me then.

“Wait,” I cut in. “I think I’ve got it.”

Arkanthos’ sockets gleamed. “Excellent. Proceed, mistress. Good luck.”

“What?!” Serine yelped as I strode toward the edge of the rift, completely unarmed. “You’re just letting her go?! You haven’t even explained how she’s supposed to use her magic!”

“Oh, but I wasn’t explaining, lady Serine,” Arkanthos said pleasantly. “Truth be told, I have no idea how she’ll do it. I simply trust her intelligence—and her talent for not dying.”

Serine picked up his skull in exasperation and watched with him as I approached to the rift.

“Hey, lizard breath!” I shouted into the chasm, my voice echoing. “Dinner’s served!”

The abyss answered instantly. A guttural screech tore upward, raw and furious, splitting the air like the sky itself was screaming. My ears rang, but I only grinned wider.

The wyrm burst from the depths like a scarlet comet, its massive wings tearing the darkness apart as it shot toward the heavens. Crimson scales glimmered like molten iron, its fanged maw snapping with hunger. Its eyes—burning pits of hatred—locked onto me as though the very sight of me was an insult to its existence.

“Oh, you’re uglier up close,” I called up, cupping my hands like a stage performer addressing an audience. “Good thing I don’t scare easy. Come on then, snack time.”

The beast circled above, wings blotting out the moonlight, the air trembling under each powerful beat. The moment stretched, heavy and sharp, before it folded its wings tight and dove.

Faster than sound. Faster than thought. A crimson meteor, screaming death straight at me.

I didn’t flinch.

I simply raised my palms.

And the world obeyed.

The sky blackened in an instant, clouds boiling out of nothing, swallowing the stars. Shadows writhed around me, snaking over my white attire, painting me in holy contrast—a goddess draped in light and darkness at once. My hair whipped violently in the gale, eyes burning as power surged like an ocean breaking free of its dam.

Black lightning roared from my hands, not like bolts but like rivers of night made solid, alive, and screaming. It clawed upward with a sound like a thousand banshees shrieking in unison.

The wyrm hit the storm head-on.

The lightning didn’t pierce it—it consumed it. Every scale, every bone, every scream ripped apart in an instant. The beast exploded midair in a blinding eruption of fire and void. Scorched flesh and molten shards of scale rained down like unholy meteors, setting the clearing ablaze.

What fell back to earth wasn’t a corpse. It was a ruin. A smoldering, broken thing unworthy of being called a body.

And I stood untouched, hands still outstretched, haloed by fire and shadow, the storm writhing in my palms like a pet begging for release.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was the kind of silence the world makes when it realizes something greater now owns it.

I let out a soft chuckle, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“Pathetic. That was it? Honestly, I expected more. At least singe my dress next time, lizard breath.”