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Undeniably uncomfortable, Alessio started. “You’re…a weredraekon?”

Well, that’s a new one, although that could describe it.

“Or…dragons are intelligent in your world?”

He blinked slowly, opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, and then opened his mouth to speak anyway. This should be good.

“If you’re half dragon and half human…how do…how do the two reproduce together?” Alessio asked in a faint voice and started blushing.

Arsene smiled. “Who said anything about being half human? As I said before, my father was a woodland elf, who left his country, and my mother was a lone dragon. I have no human heritage.”

Reactions were great, but Alessio was classic. His jaw dropped like a thousand-pound weight.

“And yes, dragons are sentient in my world. Are you saying dragons aren’t sentient in your world?”

 

Mother stared at him, wearing the same unreadable expression. Relaxed poker face as Father called it.

“How long has it been?” Mother started, “I’ve lost count of the years.”

Sherlock could hardly believe it. His Mother, alive and well, right in front of him. He was at a complete loss of words.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Mother continued, “I’m not living. I died long ago. I’ve only been brought back temporarily for whatever mess this is.”

As quickly as it rose, Sherlock found his hopes falling once again. Like everything else, this had failed.

“What’s that in the mirror?” Mother asked.

Glancing into the reflection, Sherlock recognized the events it portrayed. “That’s me making a plan to get revenge on Mithril.”

…

“Why?” Mother questioned.

… “Because they left us to die,” Sherlock answered, “They deserve to suffer. The world’s better without them.”

“Hmm. What was your plan?”

“Simple.” Sherlock said, “I planned to raise the Grand Dragons again, show them the evils in Mithril, and let them inflict their justice on the peoples.”

The Grand Dragons were great beasts that destroyed cities of great corruption. Most believed them to be a myth, but Sherlock discovered they were real. They hadn’t been seen for three centuries, but Sherlock knew how to awake them. All could have gone well, if it wasn’t for Arsene Lupin.

“Where’s your brother?” Mother asked.

“I got a lead soon after about where he was.” Sherlock responded, “He had changed his name to Arsene Lupin and had been working with a former terrorist.”

…

“Go on,” Mother said, “What happened?”

She wouldn’t like it. Not at all. “He was living with the same terrorist that killed you.”

 

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