~Picco, Emperor’s Viper

  Picco had arrived in Doran City tired and cranky—in his usual spirits. That had been several weeks ago. He was still tired and cranky, though now he could add frustrated to his state of being.

  He had met up with headquarters as instructed, but there was nobody else there.

  Picco knew they’d all gone to that blasted mountain on some secret mission of their own, but he had to admit he was surprised that not a single other agent from his homeland had stopped by in the weeks he’d been in town. Obviously, he wasn’t supposed to be privy to the details of every other mission, especially those of his fellow Vipers, but to hear nothing simply felt wrong. Had something gone wrong, or was he being paranoid?

  The Vipers’ headquarters in the heart of Doran City was a shanty in the slums, just one of the many thousands the emperor was too lazy, or perhaps simply too apathetic, to do anything about. It felt a bit odd to come and go about in broad daylight in such a busy city, but sometimes the best disguise was normalcy.

  He hadn’t been wasting his time while worrying about his comrades—underneath the bed was a set of stairs that led down to the true headquarters, the place that held a wall of his notes about Florence LaVelle. The space below the shanty was almost four times as big as the small building above it, with wooden pillars placed around to support the weight of the land above. It was dark and damp, but Picco felt safe.

  Mostly safe.

  At least the ghost of that little boy had finally stopped following him around.

  He reviewed: Florence LaVelle lived in the ducal mansion with her father, mother, older brother, and older sister. She was nineteen years old and had just debuted last year, years later than her peers. This was due to her having been under a sleeping curse of some kind. That fact was flagged as important.

  Public opinion of Florence was mixed. The poor folk seemed fond of her, even singing her praises in some kind of song. But the nobles—terrible! Florence was seen as some kind of social pariah. It seemed to be related to the sleeping curse, but Picco wasn't yet sure how. Regardless, it worked in his favor that she was unpopular.

  "Find the dragon-speaker," he mumbled to himself. "But why would the King sponsor Florence LaVelle?"

  His brain was working hard when the communication stone rumbled. He hurried to answer it, nearly dropping the damned thing.

  “He who strikes first…” Commander Nenier began.

  “...gets to eat hot soup,” Picco finished, rubbing his face with one hand. He set the stone down on the makeshift desk and took out a small journal he always kept on his person. "Hello, Commander."

  "Picco," she replied. "I have new orders for you."

  "Am I to disregard the previous ones?" His eyebrows scrunched—was all his hard work about to go to waste?

  "No, keep looking into the girl. But the Emperor wants you to look into Mount Dorandia, as well. Something happened to the team, and now King Roark plans to wage war against us. You must remain cautious. Report back as quickly as you can."

  "Wait—war?" he couldn't stay in Dorandia if a damn war broke out!

  "Remain vigilant and keep to your post. The Emperor will call you back when it's time."

  "Commander, how am I supposed—"

  "PICCO! Follow your orders. That is all."

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  The light on the stone went out. Picco sighed and rubbed his forehead. Damn it all!

  He looked at his mess of notes about Florence LaVelle on the wall and the mess of notes on the desk in front of him.

  "Follow orders," he echoed.

  He wanted to go home. He was tired of Dorandian food and the stench of the city. How long has he been away now?

  Too long. Far too long.

  ?????

  ~Florence

  It was a success! The opening night of Midnight Garden Cafe could not have gone better in my opinion. Regardless of the…interruptions by Raius and the horrible news about the impending war, my spirits have been high.

  I sneak out daily for an hour or so to check on the cafe after classes. By now, it's a well-oiled machine, hardly needing my management to operate smoothly. Speaking of machines, my little "living machine" is coming along nicely. I have decided to give it a more human appearance and redesigned the head to have a face of sorts. To some, it might look disturbing, but to me it looks…cute. Unfortunately, I do not think I will finish it before the winter holiday is over, which is too bad. Soon, I will have even less time to work on it.

  Before I head back home, I take about twenty minutes to go through the latest moves Sir Thorne taught me. He said even if I cannot make it to the practice yard, I need to do this to help build muscle memory. If I ever need to defend myself, I don't want to freeze up and have to think about what I need to do—I need to be able to do it immediately, without thinking.

  Without my practice outfit, I move more slowly, my limbs restrained by tighter sleeves, my legs trapped by my bulky skirts. But it's important to practice in a dress, too, since it's what I'd likely be wearing if something happens.

  Still, I have come to hate dresses even more. I wish I could wear my practice outfit every hour of every day, but people already look at me strangely enough as it is.

  Eventually, exhaustion wins, and I head back home. I eat my meals in the annex, so the cook prepares food around my odd hours. If they've ever reported anything to my father, I haven't heard anything about it; perhaps he simply doesn't care. It wouldn't surprise me.

  As sleep is about to claim me, Raius enters my mind.

  Floh-rrrence. My heart. See the night sky through my eyes.

  I let him into my mind, and am instantly amazed by the clear expanse, twinkling with hundreds—no, thousands—of stars. Faint whorls of misty colors are barely visible, scattered far and wide in the distance.

  It reminds me of the ?thermind, I say to him.

  I feel a surge of emotion that isn't mine. It feels like…homesickness. Longing. Loneliness.

  I want you here, with me. I want us to have a nest. These desires constantly pain my heart and mind. But I am not strong enough yet.

  How strong must you be? I learned you killed a dozen men. Was it…difficult for you?

  I was freshly hatched, yet I emerged victorious. Had there been more humans, though…I am not sure. As for how strong I must become—

  My mind fills with an image of a dragon—Aurora—as tall as a tree. My heart shudders. How? How can Raius grow large enough to protect himself from the impending war?

  You worry about me.

  I feel his pleased rumble in the back of my mind.

  But you need not. I hunt, then eat, eat, eat. The ?thermind told me they are helping, for they do not want the last of our kind to be small and weak.

  But you are not the last! There is a female in Liutan?ia. Perhaps if she were your mate—

  NO. His growl sends shivers down my spine. Never.

  The night sky tilts as Raius leaps off his perch. I feel his anger, his hurt.

  You. Only you. Dream well, my Floh-rrrence.

  The night sky fades, leaving only Raius's intense emotions behind. Is this what it means to 'be connected'? Will I always be able to tell what he feels, what he thinks?

  I stay awake far too late into the night, imagining a life with him. A dragon.

  It's simply not possible…

  Is it?

  ?????

  ??

  Lots of love,

  -xo??kb