Outside, the grounds erupted. The colossal head of Gharok, armored in scales resembling a bruised galaxy, recoiled slightly from the mud hut’s perimeter, churning the dark clouds above. A shrill scream pierced the air from the academy's towers, followed by dozens more as panic surged across the manicured grounds. Gharok bellowed again, cracking the firmament, and vomited a torrent of emerald flame. The acidic blast struck the nearest turret full on. Faceted facades groaned, then fractured into a hail of glassy grit over the fleeing students. The turret melted inward like hot tallow. Kazran watched, mildly interested, from his window. He noticed a few frantic noble heirs trying to hurl sparks at the behemoth, their magic sliding harmlessly off its hide like rain. A sigh escaped his lips. So much commotion for a perfectly good napping day. “Honestly,” he mumbled, stretching luxuriously on the divan. “Can’t a fellow get some peace and quiet around here?” The emerald fire surged, dissolving another span of the floating campus wall. The Headmaster, a scrawny man named Archon Phydrius, was visible on a precarious balcony, waving his staff and screaming commands that were swallowed by the din. His monocle, or what was left of it after the hut’s creation, dangled uselessly by a chain. Kazran, after a moment of consideration, reached under his divan. His hand rummaged around, coming back with a tightly rolled-up scroll, which he had been using to swat particularly persistent mosquitos earlier. He also snagged a half-eaten stick of dried, cured beast-meat from a pouch he kept tucked beside him. He pushed open the mud hut’s sturdy, surprisingly heavy door. The air outside tasted of scorched quartz and ozone. Gharok’s single abyssal eye swung toward him. The winged titan halted its bombardment, tilting its wedge-shaped snout down toward the barefoot dropout. “Hey! You!” Kazran called, his voice barely above a conversational tone. “Do you mind? Some of us are trying to relax.” Gharok let out a low rumble, a sound that made the ground beneath Kazran’s feet tremble. A gust of hot, sulfurous air blasted past him, rustling his robes. The surviving faculty and students across the flagstones stood paralyzed as the titan fixed its gaze upon the dropout. Kazran frowned. “Don’t make me get serious.” He unwrapped the rolled-up scroll, revealing it to be a discarded Paldorai Scholarium daily bulletin, heavy with official decrees and regulations. He took a step forward, ignoring the way the very air seemed to crackle around the dragon. With a flick of his wrist, he *swatted* the monster's snout with the rolled parchment. *Thwack!* The smack echoed across the ruined quad. Gharok went rigid. Its mountainous head tilted, blinking in plain stupefaction. A low, whining sound, entirely unbefitting a creature of its destructive reputation, emanated from its throat. “Now, be a good boy,” Kazran admonished, holding out the stick of dried beast-meat. “Want some jerky?” The apocalyptic horror stared at the meat. It looked at Kazran. Its slit pupil widened. The whine rose to an eager yip, and then the colossal silhouette began to collapse inward. First, its hide blurred at the edges as mass folded inward. The surrounding storm collapsed into a fine haze that blew away on the breeze. The apocalyptic aura vanished, replaced by an oddly domestic warmth. Within seconds, the world-destroying leviathan had vanished. In its place sat a beast no larger than an alley cat, armored in polished obsidian. It had tiny, leathery wings that fluttered idly, and a pair of disproportionately large, emerald eyes that regarded Kazran with an almost comical adoration. The miniature Gharok nudged Kazran’s knuckles, sniffing the rations. Kazran tossed the strip over. The runt snapped it down in three gulps, belched a puff of soot, and scrambled onto Kazran’s collarbone, buzzing like a dry boiler. A thin gold gleam flashed along Gharok's spine and seeped into Kazran's sleeve, entirely unnoticed. A deep, primordial connection, forged in an instant of bizarre circumstance, settled between them, binding their very essence. Kazran, meanwhile, simply adjusted the purring creature on his shoulder. “Much better,” he said, patting its small head. “Now, where was I? Oh, right. Nap time.” He turned to re-enter his hut, only to be met by a hearty laugh. “Kazran! You magnificent bastard!” Vorash strode across the rubble, teeth bared in an easy grin. He carried two sloshing bladders of vintage under each arm, stepping around falling chunks of masonry with practiced ease. “Did you see their faces?” Vorash roared with laughter, gesturing towards the still-petrified nobles. “Phydrius nearly swallowed his tongue! Oh, your illusion magic, my friend, it grows more masterful with each passing day!” He clapped Kazran on the back, nearly dislodging the now-dozing Gharok. “A World-Eater, no less! You truly outdid yourself.” Kazran merely shrugged. “It was getting in the way of my nap. Want a drink?” “Always, my friend, always!” Vorash uncorked one vessel with a thumb flick and handed it over. He pulled a deep swallow from his own, wiping foam with a sleeve. “To expulsion, and to making the Paldorai pigs squeal!” They kicked back on the clay stoop, passing the liquor back and forth as the sun sank below the perimeter rim. Vorash rattled on, mimicking the squeals of aristocrats diving under benches. Kazran merely grunted assent, peeling meat strips for the scaled runt dozing in his lap. As Vorash spoke, his hand casually dipped into a concealed pouch at his belt. His fingers, calloused from years of manual labor, deftly pulled out a small, obsidian-black shard. It pulsed with a faint, malevolent light, absorbing the last rays of the sun. The air around it seemed to thicken, growing cold. With a casual heel twist masked by laughter, Vorash ground the shard into the sod at the threshold, kicking powdered masonry over the malevolent glow. It was a dark, pulsating Abyssal rune, meticulously crafted to unravel more than just stone. “They’ll sing ballads about this, Kazran,” Vorash declared, raising the leather flask again with a sharp grin. “You’ve truly left your mark.” Hours later, under the soft glow of Ophar’s twin moons, Lady Ilvani approached the mud hut. The academy was eerily quiet, save for the distant sounds of frantic repairs. She moved with her usual quiet grace, a silken cloak drawn tight around her, though it couldn’t quite hide the anxiety in her posture. In her hands, she carried a small, woven basket, its contents emitting a soft, ethereal luminescence. She hesitated near the hut’s threshold, her gaze lingering on the crude but somehow inviting structure. Her throat tightened as she took in the crude clay walls, remembering his easy laugh before the trial. He had been cast out, yet he seemed to flourish in his exile, surrounded by an inexplicable aura of peace. As she took one tentative step closer, her foot landed squarely upon the spot where Vorash had buried the Abyssal rune. The ground beneath her pulsed once, a barely perceptible thrum. A gasp escaped her lips, choked off by a sudden, searing cold that blossomed within her. Her body stiffened, an invisible force seizing her. A pale silhouette peeled from her spine, straining against her shoulders with a hollow wail. It writhed, pulled taut like an elastic band, a silent scream frozen on its ethereal face. Her soul-shadow, violently ripped from her body, stretched towards the pulsing darkness beneath her feet.

A Good Boy and a Bad Plot