“One usually is afraid of such a frightful creature,” a voice said.

  It did not come from the coiled being before him, but from the shadows to his right.

  Remy did not startle. He turned his head slightly, eyes shifting without haste. “Most people are,” he said evenly. “Fear is the default when ignorance is encouraged.”

  “I am familiar with such prehistoric creatures,” he continued, his gaze returning briefly to the great shape in the cavern. “I assume this is one of the surviving ones.”

  “Creatures that develop the ability to speak are rare,” the voice replied, amused, “but they exist. But she’s not one.”

  A woman stepped into the pale shaft of light.

  Her hair was red-flaming, unapologetic, falling loose down her back in a way that would have drawn stares anywhere else in this era. She wore a silk robe dyed deep crimson, belted with a red sash that rested easily against her hips. At her side hung a slender sword, narrow-bladed, practical rather than ceremonial. Her body was toned, balanced between strength and grace, and her face was precisely the sort that invited trouble, symmetrical, expressive, and very aware of its effect.

  She studied Remy with open curiosity.

  “I know,” Remy said calmly. “I have encountered African greys that are quite talkative. But a voice of that size would have echoed more.”

  She smiled, slow and sharp. “My father, before he passed, taught me ventriloquism. A useful skill. Superstition responds well to misdirection.” She gestured lazily toward the great creature. “I have seen many knights come here who could barely remain standing at the sight of her. She is old as a turtle, and has likely watched nations rise and fall. She sleeps here in Lango. But do not mistake her stillness for indolence.”

  The creature shifted slightly, scales whispering against stone.

  “She is fierce.”

  Remy took a step closer, thoughtful rather than cautious, and rested a gloved hand at his chin. “Does she breathe fire?”

  The woman laughed once, bright and unrestrained. “Efflo.”

  At the sound, the great creature turned its head. A moment later, flame erupted from its mouth in a controlled torrent, scorching the cavern wall. Stone blackened. Heat washed outward in a dry wave.

  Remy did not flinch.

  Instead, he inhaled slowly. “Gas,” he said. “Her breath must be highly flammable.”

  “Indeed.” The woman bent, picked something up, and tossed it lightly toward him. He caught it on instinct. A fragment of stone, pale and chalky.

  “She eats phosphate-bearing rocks,” she explained. “The compounds are reduced to phosphine in a pseudo-stomach. The gas ignites upon expulsion.”

  Remy turned the stone once in his fingers. “Efficient,” he said. “Though it would have been rather poetic if you had truly been transformed into a dragon.”

  She tilted her head, amused. “Reality rarely accommodates poetry so cleanly.”

  She seated herself on a nearby rock, folding one leg over the other, and regarded him with unguarded interest. “I am called Panacea. And you, brave sir?”

  “Remy,” he replied. “Just Remy.”

  “And what brings you to my home?” she asked. “The Castellan of Kos, the knight appointed from Rhodes, would not speak of my presence lightly.”

  “Does he know?” Remy asked.

  “Ser de Rivières acknowledges my existence,” she said. “We have… spoken. He understands that some beings live beneath the sun’s notice.” Her gaze sharpened. “But I ask again. What brings you to this part of the world?”

  Remy felt the weight of the creature’s attention settle fully upon him now. Not hostile… but evaluative.

  “I am here to speak,” he said at last. “The collective I am part of calls themselves the Perennials. Are you familiar with them?”

  Panacea hummed softly, examining her fingernails. “They visited me once. Their fear of Anthea reduced them to wailing children. I heard their boat sank on the return journey, taken by Moors.” She glanced up. “And you? Do you carry the blood of the Fallens? Of those who did not perish when the world drowned?”

  “Perhaps,” Remy said. “I do not understand it myself.”

  “I see.” She nodded once. “But your tone suggests you are not fond of them.”

  “I am neutral,” Remy replied. “We align only when purpose demands it.”

  “A sensible stance.” She rose fluidly. “But I have been rude. Let us not speak here.”

  She turned toward the great creature. “Anthea. You may retreat. Guard the entrance.”

  The dragon did not walk away. Instead, its scales rippled, skin shifting color and texture until it blended seamlessly into stone and shadow. It crawled upward, silent, until it disappeared into the ceiling itself, eyes watching from a place that no longer looked like eyes at all.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Come,” Panacea said. “My abode lies deeper.”

  Remy followed.

  The passages narrowed, then widened again, winding through chambers carved by time rather than intention. The stone bore the marks of water and pressure rather than tools, its curves irregular, its surfaces smoothed where centuries of slow movement had passed. Faint bioluminescent growths clung to the walls like pale lichen, emitting a muted glow that softened shadows without dispelling them entirely. The air grew warmer the deeper they went, richer, heavy with the scent of minerals, damp stone, and old water that had not seen open sky in longer than memory allowed.

  They entered a cavern that had been shaped into a dwelling.

  Stone shelves lined the walls, fitted into natural recesses rather than carved anew. They held objects both ancient and strange. Scrolls wrapped carefully in oilcloth, their bindings stiff with age. Glass vessels sealed with wax, some cloudy with residue, others startlingly clear. A bronze astrolabe rested on a flat stone ledge, its markings worn smooth by repeated handling, not neglect. Near the center of the cavern, a low table had been placed beside a natural pool. The water was clear and perfectly still, reflecting the ceiling above like a second, darker sky.

  The space felt lived in, not claimed.

  Panacea gestured toward the table. “Sit,” she said simply.

  Remy lowered himself carefully, armor shifting with a soft, familiar sound. He took in the arrangement without comment, noting the absence of excess. Everything present served a purpose. Nothing shouted for attention.

  “You are not what I expected,” Panacea said, watching him.

  “I hear that often,” Remy replied. "Though I often disagree with it."

  “You did not draw your sword. You did not question my existence. You did not ask to be proven right.” Her lips curved slightly. “You are either very confident, or very tired.”

  “Both,” Remy said.

  She studied him again, more closely now, as though recalibrating her assumptions. “Then tell me,” she said, “why do the Perennials concern themselves with my island again?”

  “They are uneasy,” Remy replied. “Anomalies attract attention. Attention attracts interference.”

  “And you?” she asked. “Why are you here instead of them?”

  “Because I am less frightened,” he said. “And less interested in control. I believe that they’d rather throw me here than risk it. That’s how we… work”

  Panacea was silent for a moment. Then she laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly against the stone. “You speak like someone who has lived too long.”

  “Long enough,” Remy agreed. “I could say the same, Madam. You have become a tale that scares children.”

  She dipped a shallow bowl into the pool and offered it to him. He accepted, sipping once, tasting the faint mineral tang beneath the coolness. Remy wondered if there was a natural spring under these caverns?

  “You know,” she said, seating herself across from him, “stories grow because they are useful. The dragon keeps knights away. The curse they tell keeps the faithful hopeful. The tragedy ensures the tale is never tested.”

  “And yet you remain here,” Remy said. “Why?”

  She looked away, gaze drifting toward the darker recesses of the cavern. “Because leaving would create a vacuum,” she said quietly. “And vacuums invite worse things.”

  Remy nodded. “That aligns with my experience.”

  They spoke for a long while after that.

  Of nations and their decay, and how power did not disappear so much as change hands, reshaping itself into new justifications. Of knowledge preserved in odd places, not because it was valued, but because it was overlooked. Of creatures mistaken for monsters, and men mistaken for gods, and how both suffered under the weight of those assumptions.

  Panacea spoke freely, without defensiveness or pretense. She did not justify herself. She did not ask for validation. Remy listened, not interrupting, not correcting, not attempting to solve what was not broken.

  At last, she regarded him steadily. “You will not expose this.”

  “No,” Remy said.

  “You will not attempt to free her.”

  “No.”

  “You will not intervene.”

  He paused, measuring his words. “Not unless intervention becomes necessary. We have to remain in the shadows, Ma’am. Our existence brings the greedy and the desperate. Our blood is prized as gold.”

  She accepted that answer with a slight nod.

  When he finally rose to leave, the cavern felt unchanged, and yet something subtle had settled, like dust after a long disturbance.

  “History prefers silence,” Panacea said as he turned away.

  “So do I,” Remy replied.

  “Please visit me again, Sir,” she said.

  “Then I shall do that.”

  He retraced his steps alone.

  The passages seemed quieter now, the bioluminescent growths dimmer, or perhaps his eyes had adjusted. At the cavern’s mouth, Anthea’s presence pressed against his senses, unseen but there. The weight of her attention was not hostile. It was watchful and enduring.

  Remy inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect rather than submission, and stepped back into the light.

  Outside, the sun struck stone with unforgiving clarity.

  The path back toward the coast wound downward through scrub and broken rock. Olive trees clung stubbornly to the hillsides, their leaves silver-green in the heat. The sea lay beyond, a sheet of pale blue broken by the slow movement of distant sails.

  As Remy descended, he felt the familiar sensation take hold. The quiet internal accounting. What had been learned. What had been left untouched. What would need to be remembered, and what would need to be forgotten.

  He did not doubt Panacea’s competence, nor Anthea’s restraint. The balance they maintained was precarious, but deliberate. Intervention, in this case, would do more harm than absence.

  By the time he reached the outskirts of the town, the afternoon had deepened. The harbor was busy again. Nets were being hauled in. Children ran barefoot along the quay, laughing, their voices sharp against the gulls’ cries. A bell rang once, then twice, signaling nothing urgent, only time.

  Remy moved through the streets without drawing notice. The Hospitaller presence loomed as it always had.

  At his lodging, the innkeeper greeted him with a nod and no questions. A bowl of stew was set before him. Bread followed. He ate slowly, methodically, letting the fatigue settle into his bones.

  That night, he did not dream.