So after months of being extremely busy because of dealing with the aftermath of "corporate reorganization" (and, more recently, the setbacks due to the earthquake in the neighboring island of Bohol last October 16), my schedule has finally, finally, FINALLY normalized. Good-bye, 72-80 hours weeks, and fuck you heartily! I will miss the overtime rate, though. That was the one good thing about all that.

Now that I'm far less busy, I'm aiming for a regular update schedule for both my stories in Spacebattles. I'm still updating in snippets, but I plan to do a snippet per weekend, alternating between this fic and my other one. Only when those snippets form a full chapter will I upload here on FFN.

Chapter 2

With a fierce "Kyuuuu!" as a battle cry, Illococoo spread her wings and took to the air with one powerful stroke. She tore through the air in the direction of the kitchen, with her tremendous acceleration allowing her to quickly overtake the trail of the tunneling not-dragon. She made it to the kitchen door just after the maid from earlier entered, dragging her claws on the ground to slow herself down even as her wings flared up to do the same.

She skidded to a halt just before crashing into the door, which the maid had closed behind her. The dragon regarded it for a second, wondering if she should knock or just crash into and through it. Big Sister had always warned her to be mindful of her sheer size and strength, and she had always warned her to avoid breaking things and hurting others. But then again—she shot a quick glance at the approaching not-dragon's ground trail—this was an emergency, and she was sure Big Sister would understand.

"Kyuuu!" she shouted out a warning. Coming through!

She slammed bodily into the door at full strength, and it promptly shattered and splintered into several pieces. She was immediately greeted with screams of alarm even as she began shouting more warnings. Her sudden entrance caused pandemonium as the humans in the kitchen began rapidly moving away from her, dropping food and kitchen utensils in the process. Part of her perked up upon seeing the food, but she ignored the impulse. The humans had to be warned about the hatchling.

The maid from earlier was sprawled before her, having just managed to avoid getting rammed by Illococoo. The dragon gave her a sheepish apologetic noise even as she tried to pull as much of herself inside as possible without breaking anything else or hurting more people. The doorway was just barely large enough for her to squeeze through, and she found herself stuck. Her wings, which she had drawn around her as closely as possible when she had entered, were now being pinched agonizingly. Illococoo ignored the pain and continued her warnings.

Naturally, she had a large pot thrown at her face. It caught her right in the snout, and she reeled back and screamed in protest. The scream turned into a roar of frustrated warning when she saw that a several more servants had started throwing things at her, and some of them were sharp!

"No, stop attacking!" she yelled at them desperately. "Illococoo is just here to warn you!"

Of course, since she was a dragon, no one understood her and kept on pelting her. Well, some of the humans were anyway. Most were just running away, scared. Illococoo found the latter reaction equally anno—she ducked out of the way of a huge knife being thrown at her—almost as annoying as the other. Neither attacking her nor running away was going to stop the not-dragon! It wasn't her fault humans were too stupid to understand the Language of Nature that most other animals could.

She considered using her natural magic to change into her human form, Big Sister's disapproval or not, just so she could get unstuck and be understood. Before she could make a decision, however, the young not-dragon suddenly erupted out of the kitchen floor, knocking away a large, somewhat scary-looking human that had been about to throw a cauldron of boiling water at her.

She remembered meeting him before. For all that he was a little intimidating-looking, at least as far as humans went, she'd found that he was pretty nice. He'd fed her some delicious kitchen scraps a few times before when she caught him while he was dumping them off at the feeding grounds. He'd been friendly then and had even patted her affectionately when he fed her.

Right now, though, he just looked really angry, especially with the big, steaming cauldron he was raising menacingly. Unbalanced by the not-dragon's unexpected entry, the human lost footing and let go of the cauldron, splashing its boiling contents at the newly emerged hatchling, and Illococoo gasped. The not-dragon had been annoying and disobedient, but she hadn't wanted him actually hurt. She'd just wanted to knock some sense into him like any proper big sister.

To her amazement, though, the not-dragon simply stood and began to sniff around, ignoring the boiling water running down its scales, still visibly steaming and hissing. Her jaw dropped. The hatchling walked like a bird, dug like a mole, and could ignore hot temperatures like fire salamanders or fire dragons. Just what in the world was it?

"Another one!" cried the big human the hatchling had knocked over. "The damned spoiled brats' pets are all going crazy today!"

"Marteau! Let's get out of here," another human said as he backed away quickly. "This is getting out of hand. Let the mages sort this out."

"And let these monsters rampage all over my kitchen? Over my dead body!"

The human named Marteau picked up a pair of large pans and lunged at the hatchling, much to Illococoo's horror. Hatchling or not, the not-dragon was really fast and had some nasty-looking claws and teeth. Humans, on the other hand, were soft and weak, and she knew servants didn't even have magic to help them. The hatchling would kill and, given how hungry it was, possibly eat him. She couldn't allow that. Familiars weren't supposed to hurt humans unless ordered to.

"Marteau, no! You really will end up a dead body, you hotheaded idiot!" yelled the other human even as Illococoo began trying to force her way through the tight doorway again. She budged just the tiniest bit, but she was still stuck. She looked up in despair, knowing that she was going to be too late.

She saw the human Marteau take a swipe at the hatchling. Deftly, it ducked out of the way, then lunged forward. It caught the pan in its jaws, snapping them shut so violently that the pan screeched loudly as it deformed. Undeterred, Marteau swung the other pan even as the now-ruined one was wrenched out of his hand. The not-dragon swatted it away almost offhandedly with a forelimb and spat out the pan in its mouth. Before the human could attack again, the not-dragon shot forward and head-butted him, knocking the breath out of him as he fell flat on his back. Victorious, the hatchling leaned forward and opened its mouth . . .

"Noooooooooo! Don't eat him!" Illococoo implored desperately as she clawed violently on the ground, trying to drag herself loose from the doorway. She moved forward. Then she moved again, a bit more than the last. But she was still stuck.

The human screamed—or tried to since he was still wheezing from the blow—and brought his hands up protectively, finally realizing what his temper had gotten himself into. The not-dragon's mouth widened even more, spit glistening off its inner mouth and sharp teeth, as it moved forward to . . . roar loudly right at the human's face. Then it suddenly backed away and leaped over the human in one smooth motion, leaving the man whimpering on the floor.

The blue rhyme dragon blinked in surprise. Then she let out another "Kyuu!" in pleased relief. It hadn't hurt the human! Maybe it had listened to her after all. Or maybe its master had told it not to hurt humans. Whatever the reason was, she was happy that she wouldn't have to explain to Big Sister how she had let another familiar hurt someone when she could've stopped it.

The loud crash of the not-dragon knocking things over as it tore into whatever food it could find put a damper in her celebration. She kept her eyes on the little black-grey nuisance as she resumed trying to pry herself free. Even if it hadn't hurt the human, who was now finally running away with the rest of the humans, enough was enough. She had decided to be its big sister, and it had been very, very naughty.

It needed to be punished.

Illococoo strained and strained until, finally, she ripped herself free from the doorway, pulling loose some of the stonework in the process. Putting all her anger and frustration into her voice, she let out a terrific roar as she charged at hatchling.

Louise leaned into the tub, one of many in the academy's student baths, and closed her eyes, willing herself to relax as a pair of servants quietly bustled as they worked around her. She would have wanted to clean herself alone, but she knew that the amount of filth she'd been subjected to earlier just wouldn't have been possible to clean by herself in her room's washroom. Besides, whatever pride and dignity she could've gathered in the quiet solace of solitude just wasn't worth the chance of having any of the yolk remaining stubbornly on her person, especially not in her long, wavy pink hair.

At least all she had to put up with here were servants, so the humiliation was mitigated. Whatever amusement they were having at her expense, they wouldn't dare show it in her presence—as was only right and proper. That, and they were just commoners anyway. Ultimately, whatever they thought was of no real consequence so long as they showed the proper respect for their betters.

Besides, they were doing an excellent job. Her hair had been divested of the gunk faster than she'd thought it would be, although there were still stubborn spots getting cleaned. At least now she felt a little more human again.

Still, she felt a wave of annoyance toward her familiar. It had been the most disgusting experience she'd ever had the displeasure of feeling in her life. Not to mention that it had also been the most mortifying episode she'd ever had to endure.

Just as quickly as it came, however, she pushed it away. After all, most of the yolk on her she had been doused with had before it had even hatched, when she had tripped into a puddle of yolk because she'd been blinded by her own explosion's dust. It wouldn't really be right to blame all of it on Nídhöggr even if the familiar had made it worse with the digging and the reptile's idea of affection.

Moreover, she was still too pleased about getting such a magnificent and unique familiar that she just couldn't find it in her to get really annoyed at it—no, him. Until Cattleya told her otherwise, she would think of Nídhöggr as male. Mostly because she had given him a male name, and because something about the whatever-he-was struck her as masculine.

Then again, her impressions might well be wrong. After all Guiche had, for some unfathomable reason, named his mole Verthandi despite the fact that Guiche himself had later declared said mole a male . . .

Bah! She shook her head. I'll worry about it later.

She let out a deep breath and a slow sigh, losing herself to the soothing feel of the warm, scented water the servants were carefully pouring on her hair.

Illococoo blindsided and pushed the surprised not-dragon down to the floor with her foreclaws, causing it to drop the piece of meat it had been in the process of wolfing down—a piece of cow thigh. A nice, plump, juicy piece of . . . No! She had to focus. She was the big sister. Big. Sister. Responsible big sister.

The hatchling roared at her as it struggled mightily against her, but she was still bigger and stronger. It was putting up a mighty fight as it squirmed in her grasp, however. In fact, it was a whole lot stronger than she had expected. Thin but strong arms tried to reach at her, but her arm pressing on its shoulders limited its range of movement. It tried to turn its head up to bite at her, and she moved her left claw in response. She placed it at angle that allowed her to pin the not-dragon down by the neck while keeping grip on the shoulder. In response, its tail began whipping against her. She winced at the bony nubs lining the tail lashing at her arm—and it was powerful for such a small tail—but her grip remained firm.

Time to give it a taste of its own medicine. She roared at its face, louder and fiercer than it had at the human Marteau. Defiantly, it howled back at her and tried to thwack her on the face with its tail. The blue dragon had been expecting that and gave it a nip, carefully avoiding the bony ridge and making sure not to actually draw blood. It yelped and drew its tail away, sounding very much like a chastened puppy in the process.

She wanted to let her smug satisfaction show on her face, but she kept her fierce expression set. "Now you will listen to me!Listen!"

The last word was a roar as loud as the previous one. Still not having learned its lesson, it shrieked back at her as loudly as it could, spittle flying. She tried not to sigh. Disciplining the little one was going to take a bit more effort, and she hoped she could at least keep it from trouble long enough for its master or, more importantly, her master to come.

She looked up and around for a bit. Just where was Big Sister anyway?

In that momentary distraction, she didn't see the hatchling's tail coming right at her head.

In the silence of her room, a bespectacled blue-haired girl swabbed at her belly with a wet washcloth, wiping away the last remnants of the yolk and dirt she'd been daubed with when she had grabbed the Vallière girl to prevent her from falling into the hole in the ground her familiar had excavated. Satisfied, she placed the washcloth in the same pile as the rest of her dirtied clothing and moved to her closet.

All in all, it hadn't been so bad. Her uniform and cloak had taken the brunt of the mess, and what she'd had on her hadn't really been that hard to remove. Certainly, it had been far less messier than the full dousing the Vallière girl had been subjected to. It helped that none of the yolk had gotten into her hair, for which she thanked its shortness. She'd long learned from experience in the field that short hair had many, many advantages.

She pulled out a fresh uniform and cloak, quietly contemplating earlier events. Admittedly, Vallière had piqued her curiosity. She hadn't practically paid much attention to her pink-haired classmate before, mostly because she never really paid much personal attention to anybody other than what due prudence was needed to satisfy her customary caution and wariness, Otherwise, she took care to keep them at a distance. Not that that was especially hard. Keeping to herself and limiting interaction to the barest minimum usually got the message across quickly, and her classmates had learned to avoid her.

Coupled with her small stature, that made disappearing into the background quite easy, even with Sylphid sometimes following her around. And from the background she could observe with impunity. In observation one gathered information. From information one gleaned knowledge. From knowledge one gained a measure of control and security.

Hard won lessons that had served her well enough over the years.

Well, there was Kirche, and with her establishing a measure of control had been . . . a challenge. On one hand, the Germanian could be extremely predictable, and her openly flaunted passion and the actions she took in the name of that passion Tabitha could read like a clock. Her "subterfuges" were incredibly obvious, and usually directed into either simple seductions or having fun at the expense of certain favored targets. Easy enough to anticipate.

Tabitha could see that there was something the taller girl was hiding, but after some close observation she'd come to the conclusion that whatever was being hidden didn't concern Tabitha herself. She'd relaxed after she'd established that to her satisfaction.

A bit.

On the other hand, perhaps a little too much. The loud, boisterous girl—someone who should have annoyed her—had, after all, somehow managed to "befriend" her. And, well, she still wasn't entirely sure how that "friendship" had happened, honestly. Sure, that was mostly because the other girl had insisted on seeking her out in the belief that, as fellow foreigners in Tristain, they should look out for each other. Or at least keep each other company.

It had been quite unwelcome the first few times. But, Founder help her, she'd eventually decided that it was harmless and tolerable enough and had let Kirche keep tagging alone. Sometimes—a very few times—she could even admit to herself that the Germanian girl's were sometimes a bit amusing.

It worried her sometimes.

Not that there ever any real danger to be really worried about around anyway. For one, the academy had been built within a fortress, and it was kept well maintained. Since said fortress also housed the scions of most of the noble families of Tristain and a vault of valuable artifacts and treasures, it had been secured with the some of the finest wards and guards in the nation. Many of its mage staff also clearly had had some form of military service or combat experience, which was obvious if you knew what to look for—even if they tried not to appear as such.

It was comfortingly familiar; she'd broken into such places before. Here, however, the security thought nothing much of her, and she didn't have to worry much about how to evade or counter them. It was a nice change of pace from the usual dangerous assignments that girl had given her. With no one trying to kill her for a change, she'd relearned the concept of relaxation. Enough that she could almost forget that her presence here had mostly been so he could get her out of the way.

At the thought of that man and everything he'd done, her mood darkened. She grimaced and clenched her fists, allowing herself to seethe in place. After a while, she let out a calming breath and shook her head.

Later. Someday.

Consciously, she moved her thoughts to the pink-haired Tristanian and her earlier summoning. Louise had been just one face among many, her peculiar explosive failures notwithstanding. That had been interesting the first few days, but now Tabitha had mostly just thought of the exploions in terms of how not to get caught in the blast radius. The other students, Kirche included, had mocked Louise for it, true, but Tabitha didn't see the point in joining. In fact, the mocking reminded her too much of the pettiness of a certain someone for comfort. At the same time, it wasn't her problem, and she'd had more than enough of her own already. As such, the Vallière girl and her ongoing feud with Kirche and her classmates she had also long learned to tune out, usually with the aid of a book.

That familiar, though. That was interesting. It, well, she honestly had no idea what it was, and it actually had surprised her to find that the Vallière girl had managed to succeed in a spell, explosion notwithstanding. She had merely been expecting another explosive failure and had already been reading as far away from the summoning ground as possible. In fact, she hadn't really been much interested in the summoning ritual in general since, having already summoned her own familiar long ago, she'd been exempted. The unexpected success had been such as surprise that it had made her run toward the summoning circle.

Never had anything in the academy up to that point caught her completely off guard.

Which meant she'd allowed the relaxed atmosphere of this place to get her complacent.

Dangerous. Stupid.

Tabitha's lips thinned as she put on her clothing. The best way to get out of the rut of bad habits settling in was to get back into the good ones. Something simple like intelligence gathering, for a start. And who better to gather intelligence on than the girl she had allowed herself to underestimate and said girl's mysterious familiar—

Suddenly, she paused. In the silence, she tuned out the sound of her breathing and focused on the other noises in the background. One by one she tuned out those inconsequential ambient sounds as well until . . . there.

Screaming.

Quickly, she moved to the window, staff readied, and drew back the curtain just enough to allow her a peek outside. Her eyes widened for a moment, and then they narrowed.

She sighed.

An outraged cry shook the walls of the kitchen, causing several utensils to rattle in place. Illococoo jerked, head whipping and thrashing in agony. The not-dragon's tail had hit her in the right eye. It had hit her in the eye! Her very solid skull had caught most of the blow's force, but it had still hurt. And after she had tried very hard not to hurt the annoying little ingrate too!

She whipped her face toward the hatchling, with her right eye still stinging. She saw that the hatchling had gone back to stuffing its face the moment she had let go, although now it was watching her and cautiously moving even as it gorged itself. Illococoo roared again, the loudest she had all day. No more nice big sister!

The rhyme dragon lunged forward with all the force she could muster from her immense, powerful legs. Her blue mass shot forward, almost a blur given her speed. However, the smaller hatchling was faster and more agile, leaping out of the way as she crashed into the upturned table it had been standing in front of. As the table exploded into a shower of kindling and splinters, the not-dragon pounced on her head, ran up her neck, and jumped off her winged back in one smooth motion. It howled mockingly at her when it landed . . .

. . . right in the range of her tail.

She snorted vindictively as she, without even looking, swatted the not-dragon out through the hole that used to be the door, allowing a surge of satisfaction at the feeling of her tail making contact. Hastily picking herself off the floor, she all but leaped toward the opening. The blue dragon exited just in time to see the hatchling's tail disappearing into anther hole it was digging. She pawed at the ground and shrieked in wild abandon.

It was going to get away!

But then she saw that the trail of depressed earth was moving in her direction, and her wild tantrum turned into an anticipatory growling. The hatchling was apparently so greedy for food that it was coming back, ignoring all common sense in the process.

That was fine with her.

Illococoo drew back into the kitchen, working her jaws open and shut as she waited. Sure enough, a part of the stonework floor was starting to crack and crumble—in almost exactly the furthest point from her possible within the kitchen. She wasn't surprised. She knew many burrowing creatures could sense predators and prey on the surface from the noises they made.

She moved, kitchenware, food, and fixtures trampled underfoot. The black-grey hatchling erupted out of the floor right into her waiting jaws. Illococoo snapped them shut, a bit slowly than normal so she wouldn't hurt the little one—well, not too much. However, this gave the slippery not-dragon enough time to roll out of the way.

Letting out a series of throaty growls, it knocked a shelf in her direction with its tail. Illococoo swatted it away with contemptuous ease, only to find even more shelves careening into her.

Undeterred, she moved forward, bodily shrugging away the shelves in an unholy cacophony of shattering wood and clattering metal. She strode forward until she blocked the fresh hole in the ground, cornering the not-dragon with the rest of her mass. It dived, trying to squeeze past the space between her forelegs. She kicked it into a large wall-mounted condiment rack; it connected with a loud whump accentuated by the crunch and crash of wood and glass. The not-dragon crumpled to the floor in a wood-and-condiment-covered heap, moaning in pain.

"Stay down!" she commanded, head-butting it to emphasize her point. "Lie there! Don't move until our—"

With a sudden swipe of a forelimb, the reptilian youngling threw up a cloud of condiments into her open mouth. As she began choking on the powdery substances, the hatchling jumped onto her neck, clamping down and clawing at the tough scales and bony ridges. Her scales were thick enough to protect her from any predator save those approaching her size; however, against claws made for tearing quickly through tons of dirt and rock . . .

She shook her neck frantically as she felt the claws and talons digging into her neck scales. She began trying to swat at the not-dragon with her own forelimbs, but it had already clenched into her flesh too deeply. Not quite drawing blood yet, but getting there. In desperation, she slammed herself into the side. Hard.

It let go just before she struck the stone wall, narrowly avoiding getting sandwiched and causing her to knock herself senseless.

She was distantly aware of the not-dragon giving her another roar of its own as her vision doubled. When her head cleared, she saw it wolfing down poultry that the humans been carving up before. Its big reddish-orange eyes narrowed when it saw her looking its way. It jumped away from the pile of birds, snatched a large pig carcass the humans had been preparing, and ran out of the kitchen.

Illococoo roared after it. She was done. She had tried to be nice like Big Sister had told her. She had tried to teach it to behave by being a big sister herself, and it had attacked her. It had tried to kill her. Just so it could stuff its greedy face.

Fine.

Big Sister had told her not to eat other familiars, and to be careful so she didn't otherwise hurt them—unless she was defending herself.

As far as she was concerned, this counted.

After a quick check to make sure she wasn't bleeding from the neck, she dashed to the gap in the wall. Exiting, she saw the not-dragon scurrying away while it tore off and gulped down chunks of the carcass it was bringing along. It was fast. Faster than she was . . . on the ground.

She took to the sky with an angry, vicious flap of her wings. Within a few powerful wing strokes, she had closed the distance. Seeing her coming, the not-dragon hurled what was left of the pig—about a third of it—at her with a twist of its entire body and began to dig. Without slowing, Illococoo caught the carcass's remnants, pulped it with a slam of her massive jaws, and sucked it down with barely a gulp.

With a mighty, resounding thud, the rhyme dragon landed right on top of the new hole the hatchling was digging, ignoring the dirt being kicked in her face. She reached into it headfirst and managed to clamp down on where the not-dragon's tail met its rump. She pulled it out of the hole, kicking and screaming, like a bird pulling out a worm.

Vindictively, ferociously, she began to thrash it around like a ragdoll, slamming it into the ground every now and then. As furious as she was, she moderated her force just enough so that she couldn't kill it.

Just.

It cried pitifully as she did so, but Illococoo ignored it. If she wanted to, she could've killed and eaten it right now. But she wasn't going to. Given that it had tried to kill her itself, she was being far more generous and merciful than she should rightfully be.

It should count itself lucky.

Guiche de Gramont knew of legends. How could he not? He had been born to one, the latest hero in a family line who had defined Tristainian military history and legend for centuries. He had grown up with the tales of his father's derring-do, of his skill, of his courage—and most importantly, of his charm. After all, a bawdy brute may gain a reputation for acting like a cur and think himself a hero, but a true hero—one that men at once envied and admired and women desired—was like a rose. Always beautiful, blooming for the appreciation of many (especially women), and protected with formidable thorns should any foolishly mistake that beauty for weakness.

His father had lived that philosophy, and lived it well. Bards still sang of how he led men boldly, inspiring them to take heart with his strength of will, confidence of spirit, and resplendence of visage. They sang of his conquests off the battlefield as well, of how he had touched the hearts of many a lucky maiden everywhere he had gone until a truly worthy heart had, at last, conquered his own. And he had achieved much of these when he had been a few years older than Guiche himself.

As the scion of the House de Gramont, it behooved him to live up to—no, surpass!—the legend of his father. He had been doing rather well in that regard, if he said so himself. He was a "mere" dot mage, yet he was already skilled enough to create and command up to seven bronze golems at will, something that many of his earth mage peers would be hard-pressed to match. And unlike many earth mages who were content to shape a generally man-shaped lump of earth, stone, or metal and call it a golem, his Valkyries were each carefully and lovingly detailed. Every one as beautiful as it was deadly.

A rose remained beautiful in all things, after all.

Speaking of which, he had also bloomed in other ways, and like flowers were wont to do, he had brought happiness to so many girls himself. Surely, his father would be proud. In fact, at least in one respect, he had already surpassed his dear father and personal hero.

Whereas his father had not found a woman worthy of his heart until a bit later in life, his own heart had already been seized, and he had given it gladly. Montmorency Margarita la Fère de Montmorency had been as happy in accepting it as he had been in giving, and already she complemented and completed him.

Leaving aside the obvious similarity of both of them being blond haired, his dearest Montmorency was as much a beautiful rose as he was. She kept her hair in fetching curls, reflecting his own patience and dedication when he styled his own coif, something even his peers often failed to appreciate and mocked—understandable as not every noble had the privilege of being born and bred into a line of legend.

She was also as skilled a water mage as he was an earth mage, and they both were among the best—in his opinion, the best—in their respective affinities. And this also made her very good at making perfumes and scented oils, so he could boast that his Dearest Flower had the fragrance to match. And beneath that loveliness were will and passion that he could not help but find captivating.

It was a shame that said will and passion also made it difficult for her to understand that while he had given himself to her, he could not help the appreciation of other girls. After all, if a young woman of her caliber could fall for him, what chance did the easily wavering hearts of lesser girls have? And it would have been rude and unbecoming to spurn their heartfelt admiration. His mother had understood this about his father—indeed, she took fierce pride in it—and he was sure Montmorency would eventually come around similarly.

All in all, the legend of Guiche de Gramont was already proceeding nicely.

On the other hand, he couldn't help but be impatient sometimes. Despite his commendable advancement, he was still in his second year in the academy, with another year to go before he graduated. And while being in school was a pleasant and enjoyable experience in many ways, and he conceded that he had learned many useful things, he just couldn't help but feel stifled. As well as he had set up his legend-in-the-making, there was only so much one could achieve within the walls of a school. Indeed, his father had built his legend out in the world, not in the sheltered confines of this converted fortress. With how far he had come, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that once unleashed Tristain would have yet another Gramont to sing about.

So when opportunities to build his reputation had actually presented themselves in school today, how could he not take them and still call himself a Gramont?

The first had been mundane enough. The longtime class failure, Louise the Zero (a Vallière, no less), had stepped forward to try and summon her familiar, and everyone had just known that she would fail. Except, she hadn't. She had not only summoned something, it was a creature he was sure no one had ever seen before. Even their usually very knowledgeable professor had admitted that he had had no idea what the creature was. In addition, with its penchant for digging, the creature also happened to have an earth affinity, making Louise the Ze—no, she had succeeded spectacularly, so he guessed he couldn't call her that anymore—Louise an earth mage like himself.

He'd heard enough legendary stories to recognize the potential for one. A heretofore spurned scion of a prestigious family suddenly succeeding in a way no one expects? Summoning a unique creature that may as well be mythical for all anyone knew of it? Oh, definite potential.

He had seized the moment by declaring the creature a mole-dragon, and other earth mages in the class had even supported him, to appear as knowledgeable as he was. Being the first to name a creature of myth was a good start, though he had to make sure to keep using that term so it would stick.

True, it had annoyingly overshadowed his own magnificent familiar—the biggest mole on record, he reckoned—but his dear Verthandi was already bound to him, so the mole's eventual recognition was all but secure.

Anyway, on the Vallière girl's curious familiar and possible legend in the making, he needed to etch his place in it further. It wouldn't do for a Gramont to be a mere footnote. The legend of his father had managed to stand beside the considerable legend of Karin the Heavy Wind, Tristain's greatest hero—a title even his own father had happily acceded to. Naturally, Guiche's goal would be to take that title for himself someday. And what better way to ensure that by taking another growing legend under his wing so it will complement his own like his father's had the Heavy Wind's?

Enter opportunity two: as noted, the mole-dragon was clearly an earth familiar. He was an earth mage. Who better to guide the newly realized earth mage as her long-failing earth magic finally came to the fore than one as skilled as himself? And if—no, when—her appreciation for his guidance inevitably turned into an appreciation for other things, as it undoubtedly would, then so much the better. Louise had her fair share of charms, after all.

Surely she was pretty enough, but her other positives had always been lost in the humiliation of repeated failure and the anger and arrogance she had built in response to it. Now that she was finally coming into her own, he thought she had the potential to be a most enchanting woman, especially with the proper guidance. Never going to equal his Montmorency, to be sure, but no slouch herself.

Which led to the third opportunity. Louise had understandably had to clean herself after the mess earlier, and she had left her familiar unattended. Expectedly, it had gotten into trouble. How better to start helping her than taming the mole-dragon on her behalf? True, it was in a fight with a wind dragon familiar, but he'd seen that dragon around, and it was one of the most docile he had ever seen. He'd actually observed it pretty closely before, mostly thanks to the attention he sometimes paid its master (a pleasant-enough-to-look-at foreigner, even if she was far too quiet and morose for his tastes). It had always been pretty gentle and had always responded well to people, even common servants.

Obviously, once he intervened and gave it a proper command, it would step aside and allow him to discipline the wayward mole-dragon. Just like any good and trained familiar. Then there would be a little workout for his Valkyries. Nothing too rough; just enough to cow the creature into obedience. And if it chose to escape underground, why, that was what Verthandi was for. Verthandi could chase it down or draw it out within range of his Valkyries. It was still a hatchling, after all, while Verthandi was a full-grown and experienced mole.

Easy.

And as a bonus, he'd also display his skills to anyone watching, further cultivating the Legend of Guiche the Brass. It was perfect.

At least, that had been the plan.

Standing here, looking up at a wind dragon—which looked much more massive up close—violently shaking the mole-dragon in its mouth while the latter screamed and flailed and kicked futilely, the command he'd been about to give died in his mouth. He just looked up, mouth hanging open, at the sheer primal violence in front of him.

He had never before seen anything like this. The closest he could recall were the times when tamed dragons in the Gramont estate sometimes threw fits, but those had been immediately dealt with by their handlers.

There had been his father's stories, but there was a great difference between hearing about something and actually seeing it firsthand. Seeing the brutality, hearing the grunts and growls, and feeling the raw animal force only a few mails away was . . .amazing. He stood there entranced, watching in growing awe even as his familiar began frantically tugging at his cloak.

Suddenly, it was as if everything slowed down. He could almost see every detail of the wind dragon's movement—every twitch and flex of a muscle, every rippling of its azure scales. He could see the hapless black-grey form being mercilessly flailed around in its mouth, forelimbs clawing at empty air and the much larger rear legs kicking wildly. He could see the spittle flying out of its open mouth as it screamed, with its reddish-orange eyes wide in terror, pain, and desperation. He watched as it all seemed to stretch into forever.

Then he saw one of the mole-dragon's kicks connect. At this point, it probably hadn't even been aware it had managed to get in a hit, and in all likelihood it had probably been completely incidental. Still, Guiche clearly saw one of the toes on a talon-like foot poke dangerously close to the eye of the wind dragon. The sudden jab apparently jarred the dragon enough to let go, and the suddenly released mole-dragon flew in a wide arc. Numbly, Guiche followed its flight with his eyes until it came to an abrupt end when it slammed into the wall with a very audible sickening smack and bounced unceremoniously onto the ground.

Amazingly, despite the force of the impact and its earlier beating, Vallière's familiar was already starting to right itself, albeit wobbling as it did so. He saw it begin to claw on the ground before a powerful gust knocked even Guiche himslf onto his rump. The wind dragon had taken off toward the mole-dragon, and the wind from its sudden flap had been strong enough at this distance to lift man off his feet, let alone a boy.

Guiche had barely registered the feeling.

He continued to watch, transfixed, even as Verthandi beside him continued to tug at him. He saw the mole-dragon stop in mid-dig, knowing it couldn't dig deep enough in time, and roll up and off the ground to intercept the oncoming open-mouthed wind dragon. Coiling its feet, it sprang up at the wind dragon, aiming to jump over its head and onto its neck.

Apparently, the wind dragon had expected this because it twisted its head upward to snap at the jumping mole-dragon. The wind dragon's teeth couldn't quite grab hold at the awkward angle, but the impact threw the smaller reptilian to the side.

The mole-dragon got to its feet, but the wind dragon rounded on it quickly. It was still remarkably quick and agile despite the punishment it had taken, but in open ground the larger flying dragon had the advantage, especially since the distance was too close for the mole-dragon to risk digging. Guiche watched with baited breath as the smaller dragon moved this way and that, trying look for an opening.

It wasn't going to get the chance.

The wind dragon flapped its wings furiously, bombarding the little one with air even as it struggled to find a way out. Despite the astounding amount of wind—Guiche could feel it from where he was sitting—the mole-dragon was still standing and moving, albeit just barely. He wondered if—

"Gah!" he yelped as he was suddenly doused by cold water, snapping him out of his reverie. Looking up, he saw the curl-framed face of his gorgeous Montmorency. She was screaming at him.

"Guiche! Are you insane? This close to a dragon fight, and you're staring like a slack-jawed idiot—are you trying to get yourself killed!"

All he could do was mutter blankly, "M-Montmorency."

Rolling her eyes, she pulled him up and dragged him along with the help of Verthandi. She was still berating him, but he wasn't really listening.

His eyes slid back to the fight and stayed there.

Guiche de Gramont had thought that he knew of legends. For the first time, he was beginning to truly understand.

After a perfunctory greeting to the head librarian, Professor Jean Colbert strode purposefully toward Fenrir's Library, the restricted section of the academy's great library. The head librarian barely spared him a glance; it hadn't been the first time the supposedly undistinguished absentminded professor had simply walked into sections marked for special access. There were perks to being one of those in the headmaster's confidence, he supposed.

As he entered, he found his eyes getting drawn to the object in his hand. From its thickness, rough texture, dirty tan-grey color, and curvature, it could easily have been mistaken for a broken off piece of large pottery. Until one took into account the sticky residual albumin still clinging stubbornly to it. He considered it silently for a moment, face set in a thoughtful frown.

Finally, he set it down on a table and began searching through the shelves, levitating every so often to reach the higher ones.

His fingers lingered over each of the books as he checked the markings on their spine. The professor smiled to himself. He never could help doing that when it came to this section. But who could blame him? Many of the books he was holding now would have crumbled to dust a long, long time ago without the preservation spells keeping them intact. And even then many had already started to decay before said spells had been casted, lending them a distinctive musky odor and yellowed pages.

It always amazed him just how utterly old may of these tomes before him were. In fact, that's why many of them were in the restricted section in the first place. They didn't really all contain forbidden or dangerous knowledge—those books would've had wards in addition to magical preservation—but many were simply far too old, valuable, and fragile to risk mishandling, especially from children. Preservation spells only kept the books from further decay; it would little against incautious manhandling.

And the book he was looking for was said to date back from the pre-Brimiric age. It was a reproduction, true—said to be one of the most accurate ones of the original manuscript in existence—but even said reproduction was several centuries old.

The Book of Dragons was said to be one of the most comprehensive documentations of Halkeginia's draconic creatures in existence, containing detailed descriptions of many varieties thought obscure or extinct. Yes, much of the book was probably more pagan legend and wildly exaggerated hearsay than useful fact. But some of those legends did have a grain of truth in them somewhere.

Certainly, quite a few still extant dragons had descriptions and illustrations in the book that matched them reasonably well. On the hand, quite a few hadn't.
Also, there were creatures it classified as dragons that, by modern reckoning weren't really considered such anymore.

However, there had been times where it had helped in the identification of some thought-unknown species before, and Colbert hoped that would be the case here as well.

He did have some reservations about the potential answers he might find, though. Some of the documented creatures most scholars dismissed as the result of paganistic flights of fancy were described as simply titanic in nature. Indeed, he had been one of those dismissive of said claims himself. But after seeing what he had earlier . . . he shot a look at the eggshell fragment sitting on table.

The professor shivered at the thought.

After adjusting his glasses and running a hand over his bald spot unconsciously, he resumed his search and tried to put the implications out of his mind.

One thing at a time, Jean, he scolded himself.

Two shelves later, he found what he was looking for. After a quick check to verify if he had the right manuscript, he drew out and book gently and set it beside the piece of eggshell.

Colbert was only a few pages into the book, though, when he heard two pairs of footsteps pattering loudly toward his direction, and getting louder by the second. He looked up just in time to see a harried-looking maid with short black hair being led into the restricted area by the now stern and annoyed-looking head librarian.

"F-forgive the interruption, P-professor, but there's a serious problem!"

The Headmaster's Office was located in the topmost room of the Tristain Academy of Magic's central tower. Its very placement an unequivocal proclamation of the authority and prestige of the position. After all, Tristain Academy was the premier academy in all of Tristain, entrusted with the education and protection of the children of its most powerful and influential noble houses and built upon a famed, old, and still quite formidable fortress. A fortress that had been designed to—and still did—house many of Tristain's nationally treasured artifacts; mostly magical, but a few were otherwise. As such, the headmaster was expected to not only be the wisest, most knowledgeable educator the Royal Palace itself could appoint to the position, but he or she was also expected to be a capable guardian and commander who had grown experienced in the service of the Crown.

At least, that's what they told everyone because that kind of grandiose talk was only expected for something of such national significance. After all, if you couldn't brag about what you considered you best, what did that say about you? What did that say about everything else? Like most of such posturing, however, it usually failed to live up to its own grand reputation, at least for people intimately familiar with what actually went on.

Granted, the academy did have the best teachers, and it did manage to teach students quite well, for the most part. Academically, at least. Actual sense and competence was something you learned throughout the rest of your life. Or didn't. No, Sir Osmond had nothing bad to say about what the academy actually taught or most of those who did the teaching. "Best of the best" or not, there were always those who did more harm than good, usually by being full of themselves. Still, there were relatively few of those, and the rest could be counted on enough to be left to their own devices, which meant less dull administrative work for him.

That thought, though, was how he was absolutely sure that the academy's grand proclamations about itself were nothing but so many words when it came to his "exalted" position. Wisest old mage? Capable commander? Well, with no false modesty, Osmond supposed that was true enough. When it counted. After all, one didn't rise to such an advanced age doing what he'd done for the Crown on pure luck alone.

But in the minutiae that running a command—any sort of command—actually entailed? It bored him. All the paperwork, that Founder-damned paperwork, just blurred into so much pulp and mind-numbingly monotonous ink squiggles after the first few pages. That was true enough out in the field, and was even worse in the academy since there were far less chances for the reprieve of a skirmish or two.

At least he could delegate the bulk of it to a secretary, and—he smiled—one of the better perks of working here was that he had the freedom to chose a female secretary who was as pretty as he liked. That took care of the resultant boredom of having nothing to do (which was still better than the boredom of monotonous paperwork) by giving him a nice, refreshing view to appreciate.

As they often did, his eyes wandered over to the smaller secretary's desk across his. Under his beard, his lips curled into a satisfied smile.

Ms. Longueville was the prettiest secretary he'd hired to date. He watched contentedly as she quietly scrawled on a sizable piece of parchment with a quill, completely focused on her work. The focused look on her face complemented the scholarly quality her spectacles lent her—and fetchingly so.

He nodded in self-satisfaction. Yes, quite the perk indeed.

His eyes moved over to a corner on hid desk, where a small white mouse was busy happily preening itself. Noticing his gaze, Mótsognir stopped what he was doing and looked at him eagerly. Osmond stroked his beard in consideration, glancing back briefly at Ms. Longueville. He was admittedly curious about the color of her underwear today, and it had been a while since she'd last caught him looking through his familiar's eyes . . .

"Sir Osmond!" A teacher suddenly burst through the door, snapping the headmaster out of his musings. The abrupt entrance also startled his secretary, bringing a look to her face that he would have enjoyed had he not been equally startled himself.

He turned a half-lidded glance at the man, regarding him with studied boredom. It was one of the newer, younger teachers. Competent enough, if still trying to find his pace, at his job to be completely unremarkable and forgettable to Osmond. The fact that he was a plain-faced male teacher probably contributed to his disinterest as well. He watched impassively as the man panted and passed hid hand through his brown mop of hair, sweeping off some rivulets of sweat in the process.

Osmond ran a hand through his beard impatiently. While he usually counted having people pant as they entered his office—always funny and, when it came to pretty women like his secretary, pleasant—as one of the perks of being in the topmost room, it did come with the downside of messengers having to catch their breaths instead of getting to the point.

Trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, he greeted the man with a pleasant "Oh, good morning, Professor—ah, sorry, what was your name again? I'm afraid I can't quite remember."

The man colored, both from catching his breath and from embarrassment. Most of his staff quickly learned that there were two instances when he pretended to forget their names: (1) as a gesture of playful affection, and (2) as a sign of minor displeasure. He considered the fact that the young professor had caught the variation a point in his favor.

"My apologies for bursting in like this, Headmaster, but there's an urgent matter with some of the familiars."

"Hm?" he let out questioningly, his voice still playful. However, his eyes sharpened subtly, noting the almost panicked urgency in the man's voice.

"A pair of dragons are on a rampage, sir. They ransacked the kitchen and are now fighting with each other in Vestri Court!"

Immediately the headmaster straightened, all vestige of playfulness and laziness giving way to stern determination. With a gesture of his staff, he turned to the Mirror of Farsight, and its reflective surface flashed briefly to display a bird's-eye view of the court. His face hardened further as he caught sight of a blue dragon cornering a smaller darkly colored bipedal reptile, preventing it from escaping by knocking it down with air from powerful wing beats. All around the pair, keeping their distance, were students and servants staring on in a mix of horror and fascination—quite a number of whom were standing entirely too close.

Osmond's lips tightened further as he cursed the careless curiosity. More than thirty years on and it was still easy to put himself in the place of the smaller dragon, frozen before a large dragon, staring into the eager jaws of death. An angry dragon was not a spectacle, damn them! Let alone two angry dragons in a fight!

His displeasure must have shown on his face because the teacher and Ms. Longueville flinched, unused to seeing such an expression on his face. He clicked his tongue, mostly in disapproval of himself. As serious as this was, there was no need to give the impression that he was shooting the messenger here, after all.

"Have they hurt anyone?" he asked evenly.

"Ah, n-no, sir," the teacher reported, still a bit furtively. "The head chef reported that the smaller, um . . . dragon?"—he shrugged uncertainly—"Well, he said it knocked the wind out of him after he'd tried to chase it out, but left him with only minor bruises. The kitchen was already being evacuated by then. The wind dragon seems entirely focused on the smaller one and has so far avoided attacking people."

Well, thank the Founder for small favors. At least the two hadn't gone completely berserk. If they were still capable of holding back against people, then it'd be easier to bring them back under control.

"Er," Ms. Longueville began after a glance at Osmond and the young professor, "perhaps this calls for the use of the Bell of Slumber?"

He shook his head. "No," he said indulgently, knowing that, as a commoner, she probably had the tendency to overestimate what magic could do. "The Bell of Slumber is designed mostly to enchant humans. Against frenzied animals, especially magical ones, it is not always successful."

He was about to add a demand about where the faculty were and what in Hel they were doing when he saw several teachers finally coming into the mirror's view. To their credit, they didn't waste any time gaping at the sight before them and set to work herding away the gawkers. However, they too kept their distance, not doing anything to impede the clashing reptiles. Some were raising their wands and staves and pointing them at the dragons but were otherwise content to hold off on casting any spells as long as the dragons kept their aggression focused on each other.

The headmaster let out a sigh of exasperation, understanding the reason for most of the teachers' caution but not liking it nonetheless. Dragons were immensely powerful creatures, and even triangle-class mages were careful to never take them lightly. And while Osmond knew that the several line and the one or two triangle mages that he could see were more than enough to overwhelm the dragons, he also knew that many times the only way to really safely stop an angry dragon was to kill or seriously injure it since any intervention that didn't immediately make the dragon incapable of fighting back might only enrage it to the point of losing whatever restraint it had left.

However, these dragons were familiars, and familiars were considered the extension of their masters. Most of the teachers were probably leery about the potential ramifications of killing or seriously injuring the familiars of two noble families. He knew quite a few who'd use that as an excuse to make an unholy nuisance of themselves, even if it was the fault of their haughty children's undisciplined familiars in the first place.

Speaking of which, "Where are these dragons' masters?" Osmond demanded.

"Servants have been sent for them, sir."

"And the wranglers?" They, at least, would have the training to handle this without necessarily having to brutalize the familiars as the first recourse.

"We're looking for them now, sir, but, well . . ." Another shrug.

"And their teacher? Wait, no, don't answer. I can guess. Someone's trying to fetch Colbert as we speak?"

"Ah, er, yes, Headmaster."

Osmond rubbed the bridge of his nose with the thumb and pointer finger of his free hand, letting out an even longer sigh.

While the school's animal wranglers were supposed to be on alert during every summoning ceremony in case a particular familiar proved to be less docile than expected—in fact, they were supposed to wait in the peripheries of every class going through the summoning ritual—cases of newly summoned familiars running amok badly enough to need their intervention were actually exceedingly rare. A testament to the care and quality of spellcraft with which the Holy Founder had designed the ritual, perhaps, but it let wranglers become complacent. It left them feeling like such a superfluous formality that they usually ended up being assigned to other jobs around the academy, really only coming into play as animal husbandry instructors or glorified vets. Few bothered to be at summonings, and there'd never been a real reason to discourage it, especially given how hands off his management off the academy was. He couldn't even remember the last time a familiar had actually gone on a rampage in school grounds.

In fact, looking at that particular blue dragon, he couldn't remember it being particularly foul tempered every time he'd observed it before. The servants had never complained about it previously either. It had always been amiable and docile, as far as he could recall, and well-dispositioned familiars didn't lash out unless provoked or badly mistreated. The latter didn't fit what he knew of the dragon's master, a quiet Gallian girl in Jean Colbert's class who went only by Tabitha.

True, it was quite obvious that the girl was hiding something. Officially, she claimed to be in the academy as an exile of sorts and used only a single assumed name to avoid bringing further shame to her family—a vague yet plausible (and even somewhat common) enough story to suggest anything, allowing the listener to come up with his own likely mistaken conclusions. Given how her hair was in the shade of blue that the Royal Family of Gallia and many of that country's more influential noble houses actively sought to breed as a physical feature, it was quite obvious to anyone with a half a brain that there was a lot more to her story than met the eye. Enough to keep said eye on her from time to time.

At any rate, from what he had seen of her, she treated her familiar pretty well. So the only other plausible reason was that the other dragon had provoked it somehow, or perhaps just rubbed it the wrong way. He frowned. It certainly rubbed him the wrong way. He'd never seen a dragon—was it even a dragon, really?—quite like it before, and from what he'd seen through the Mirror of Farsight when he'd been observing the ritual earlier, it was, despite being larger than a man, a hatchling. And if it was naturally aggressive at this age, or made other dragons uneasy in its presence . . .

Yet another problem to complicate the consequences of all this, ultimately. His grip on his staff tightened.

Perhaps the Founder was finally punishing him for all the times he'd complained about being bored on the job.

Illococoo suddenly became aware that she was surrounded. Her head shot up, and her neck whipped around as she assessed the figures surrounding her. Humans, several of them. Wands and staves were pointed at her. She felt a spike of extreme irritation through her anger. This was a fight between her and the not-dragon! Her fight! How dare they interrupt! What business did these humans have interrupting her?

She opened her mouth to let out a roar of warning . . . when her mind suddenly came to a screaming halt. Realization crawled its way out from under the overwhelming press of her draconic fury and shot to the fore, hitting her like an avalanche. The roar died stillborn and turned into a choking sound as she forced herself to stifle it.

Oh no. Oh no! OH NO! OHNONONONONONONONONO! Big Sister was going to kill her!

She suddenly drew back into herself, deflating with such abruptness that a wave of confusion rippled through the ring of adult humans around her. The ring of adult human mages. Big Sister's teachers.

The dragon was tempted to turn into human form. Partly to try to explain, but mostly because she wanted to cry. But that ability was supposed to be secret, and she didn't want Big Sister to be even more angry than Illococoo knew she was going to be.

Her head darted this way and that, drawn immediately to the unmistakable trail of destruction her fight with the not-dragon had left in its wake: the hole that used to be the kitchen door, the ruined kitchen within, the multiple tunnel holes, the injured not-dragon . . .

. . . who had taken advantage of her sudden distraction to start digging a new tunnel! With a yelp, she dove after it, hoping to snag it before it escaped. Or she would have had not her sudden movement provoked an immediate response from the human teachers, the positions of their wands and staves changing from raised and ready to going to cast.

Illococoo stiffened suddenly, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. She already knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that there would be no way to explain all the damage she and the not-dragon had caused, and if she flew away now, she'd only look guiltier. She was in enough trouble as it was, which meant that Big Sister would be in big trouble with her teachers.

Which means I'm in really big trouble with Big Sister!

She could only watch in hapless frustration at the collapsing dirt trail of the not-dragon's new escape tunnel moving, predictably, toward the kitchen. Three teachers moved away from the ring surrounding her to chase after the not-dragon's trail, the rest kept her surrounded warily.

Illococoo seethed, wishing that she'd managed to beat it into unconsciousness earlier. At least she'd have had something to show for all the things they'd wrecked, and it would make trying to explain that she'd only been trying to help stop it from running amok easier. Well, at least she could take some satisfaction in the fact that not-dragon was now the teachers' problem, not hers. Also, it'd probably end up in bigger trouble since it was apparently too concerned with stuffing itself to stop even with human mages angry at it.

She hoped so, anyway. Maybe if it showed just how uncontrolled and undisciplined it was while she sat here in docility, maybe the humans would figure out that she'd only been trying to help, like a good Big Sister.

The possibility cheered her. A bit.

"I thought we told you students to step back," a male human voice barked out from somewhere behind her.

"It's my dragon," another voice—an all too recognizable female one—declared in reply, causing her to cringe even worse than she had before. It wasn't particularly loud, or even that angry sounding. But Illococoo knew better.

The blue dragon turned slowly, head drooping so low that it was almost dragging across the ground.

Meeting her gaze were a pair of blue human eyes glaring coldly from behind a pair of spectacles.

"Sylphid."

She was dead.

With the wind dragon apparently calming down once it realized it was surrounded by humans, Colbert sighed with relief. From the way the servant had made it sound, the dragon and young Louise's unidentified familiar had gone feral. He did not relish the prospect of fighting an angry dragon and a complete unknown, hatchling or not, in school grounds.

The arrival of the dragon's master had an even more profound effect. The familiar seemed to all but wither before the quite gaze of his student. It was almost comical seeing the relatively large dragon apparently cowering guiltily in front of the petite Tabitha.

As it was, he was going to need to have a words with the Gallian girl and Louise about letting their familiars run amok. And being their class teacher, Sir Osmond was going to have some words for him as well as the girls. He didn't relish that either.

He considered having a word with Tabitha now, but remembered that the other familiar was still loose and its master still wasn't here. Besides, it was best to leave the blue-haired girl to discipline her familiar for now and deal with the more pressing matter.

Shooting a nod at the other mages present, he ran toward the kitchen. On reaching it, he saw that one of the three other professors who'd chased after the hatchling, Professor Chevreuse, was simply standing in front of the entrance to the adjoining pantry, mouth agape. She turned when she heard him approaching, gave him a quick nod, and resumed watching. He turned to look into the pantry himself and almost his own jaw dropping at the sight.

The unknown familiar was in the middle of the pantry was rapidly, almost desperately, gorging itself on the stockpiled food. He saw its large eyes give him a wary glance, but it didn't even pause while it wolfed down what looked like a large slab of smoked beef. The other two professor were in the pantry as well, keeping their distance and watching it carefully. As long as that was all they did, it seemed content to just keep eating.

"Founder, look at it go!" one of the other professors breathed.

Looking at the damage the familiar had already inflicted in the short while that it had returned to the kitchen and raided the pantry—toppled shelves, torn sacks, and broken storage vessels were scattered everywhere—Colbert could only nod in agreement. Then again, it made sense. Many hatchlings of other species, especially dragons, were often hungry shortly after hatching with the need to grow as quickly. But to be this ravenous and active after just hatching earlier that day and getting beaten by a larger dragon?

The implications just turned several orders of magnitude more foreboding.

At the sound of more people approaching, the balding professor turned. He brightened a bit upon spotting the handlers moving toward him and moved out of the way to let them get to work unimpeded. The other three professors exited after him.

The sound of scuffle began immediately afterward, and Colbert fingered his staff, ready to aid the handlers. He was reasonably they could handle this, but there were facing an unknown creature after all.

He just hoped it wasn't a complete unknown and that the Book of Dragons or some other reference had at least something on it, because from what he's just seen of its diet . . . well, it was going to be a long day, if not a long month.

Or a long year.

It was amazing what a good, long bath could do. The soothing cleansing had actually made her feel more human and more dignified again. Louise almost started humming happily as the servants toweled her dry. She didn't, of course. That would be, well, undignified—especially in front of the two maids with her. She couldn't quite stop the edges of her mouth from curling up, however. Only subtly, though. Otherwise her expression was still quite prim and proper; grinning like a loon would have been just as undignified, after all.

Still, the last time she had taken a bath that relaxing had been at home. True, the reasons she had needed to take it in the first place had been and still was quite disgusting, and she knew many of her classmates, Zerbst especially, would likely never let her live it down. But despite that inevitable likelihood, the warm of glow of her successful summoning had only grown all the sweeter as she got progressively cleaner, making the bath all the more satisfying.

Really, the only reason that she hadn't allowed herself to lounge in the tub even longer, aside from not wanting to end up impersonating a prune, was because of her eagerness to go back to her wonderful new familiar. In fact, she almost felt like tapping her foot impatiently as the servants dressed her. But again, that would have been beneath her dignity.

It wasn't long, however, before they were finally done drying her off and dressing her. Louise strode cheerily after one of the servants while the other one dutifully collected the towels. She was barely paying attention as the servant walked over to open the bathroom's door for her. Her mind was too preoccupied with thinking about what her precious Nídhöggr was doing at this moment.

She couldn't help but imagine him gobbling down food the same way she'd seen birds do. The image of the massive Nídhöggr doing something at once jerky and dainty was too much, and Louise couldn't stop herself from letting out a slight giggle, newly regained dignity be damned.

The door opened, and she found herself being stared down by a stony-faced Mr. Colbert and two other even sterner-looking teachers.

She stopped giggling.

Note: And, yes, the Book of Dragons is a How to Train Your Dragon shoutout.