It was already night. Kharvathar had agreed to follow Neftraya to another residence; she had told him that, since the temple was so close to the site of his fall, it would soon fill with curious onlookers that evening.
She had no need to go check on Setarek—her followers had informed her that the young elf had already gone to tend to him.
The place they were in was a spacious chamber in her palace. It was deep but not subterranean; above them, a circular opening allowed moonlight to enter, while the room was also graced with lamps shaped like beaks that emitted flames, providing illumination.
Kharvathar remembered his reflection in the water when he had awakened in flight, and he recalled his beak in his former form, and the fire it produced.
"Are these your gods?" he asked, looking at the small statues lining both sides—five on each. "Which of them cursed me?" He stared intently at one with a reddish circle above its head, for it unsettled him.
Like the lamps, the statue had a beak added to a human body.
Everything here seemed to insult him, reminding him of his fall. Yet the incessant voice that always urged him to kill had quieted for the moment.
"Was it this one?" He pointed. Neftraya smiled, laughing softly as she unrolled scrolls on a table.
Kharvathar had already understood laughter; the Meanings had told him it was an artifice used for mockery or amusement at another's ignorance. He assumed it was the latter—for the sake of the woman's continued life.
"No, my lord Kharvathar. It was not. Uras believes so, but it was not."
The dragon walked toward her and demanded:
"Then show me him. You said he showed you to me—do it again."
"I will. He is very eager to speak with you. Like a father longing to find his lost son." The woman smiled.
//
Kharvathar had remained silent while Neftraya spoke words different from her usual tongue, but his mind quickly understood them.
In the center stood a low altar of polished black alabaster that reflected the flickering light of seven scented oil lamps—myrrh and lotus.
On it rested a shallow golden bowl containing water from the Nihil'o River, gathered at the precise moment the sun had died in the sky. Around it lay seven ibis feathers dyed cobalt blue, arranged in a spiral.
The dark-brown skin of the priestess gleamed with sacred benjoin oil; the translucent white linen of her garment clung to her sweat-dampened body.
Around her neck hung a broad pectoral of lapis lazuli and gold depicting two falcon wings intertwined with winged serpents. Bracelets of bronze with tiny bells jingled at her wrists and ankles, echoing each movement like a divine whisper.
"Amphof-Khit, gentle nocturnal light that bends beneath the veil of the sky. Ascend this night," she intoned.
Suddenly the air in the temple grew heavy, as if the sky itself had descended to fill the space. The stars above flickered one by one, extinguishing for fractions of a second. A supernatural chill crawled across the stone floor, rising up Neftraya's bare legs and prickling her skin.
Then, in the center of the altar, the water in the bowl began to swirl on its own, forming a slow vortex. From it rose a thin, dark mist like smoke, spiraling upward toward the open sky—and then it stopped, suspended, as though the air had frozen.
Kharvathar felt a pain in his head. His long hair stirred. Memories—now he could see them clearly, not only from his distant past but also the most recent. Yet his yellow eyes remained open, fixed on the bowl. Neftraya's hand entered the vessel, wetting her fingers, and she asked:
"May I touch your face?"
Kharvathar met her eyes and stepped closer to the altar. The woman stretched her arms fully upward and pressed her wet fingers against him.
"Now ask," she said.
"Why am I what I am now?" Kharvathar asked, closing his eyes. "Why do I not have this answer?" It was what he had questioned most since the change. His mind seemed to teach him many things, but it gave him no answer to the most important: the why, the meaning.
But then nothing happened. The air stilled, and everything grew calm. The woman felt dizzy; Neftraya's legs buckled, and her body collapsed. Her arms struck the table, knocking over the lamps and vials to the floor.
Kharvathar did not move. He had not received what he wanted. His gaze turned to the woman now braced on her arms against the ground. Neftraya looked exhausted as she met the dragon's eyes.
"Why did it not work? Did you lie to me? I received no answer." The muscles in his face expressed fury. 'Kill her' the voice returned.
Kharvathar placed his hand on the altar and yanked it free, hurling it against the nearby wall. Shards broke apart; scrolls scattered; oil spilled across the floor. Part of the structure supporting one of the god statues cracked, and the statue toppled. By sheer chance, the water from the bowl fell onto a lamp, threatening to ignite one of the scrolls.
"I told you… before…" the priestess replied weakly, surprised by the creature's outburst, "…that the path lies in your mind. I cannot help you… if you do not wish it." She accused him, speaking loudly, hoping to confront his rational side and prevent the irrational from harming her.
"What are you talking about?" Kharvathar roared. "Did you not hear that I commanded exactly that?" He halted before her, tall and imposing.
"Yes—your lips asked, but your soul refused. You struggle between wanting to return to what you were and discovering who you are now." The woman rose, panting, and faced him—small beside him, yet unyielding.
"Until you decide exactly what you want, you will have neither."
Neftraya looked at him. For her, things were proceeding exactly as she wished, but she hid the smile.
"You will need my help, my lord—or you will achieve nothing. So tell me: what do you truly want?"
Kharvathar ground his teeth. He wanted to kill her right there, but his head throbbed, and only this woman seemed to hold a way to help him.
"I want both things," Kharvathar answered. It was the conflict between reason and unreason in his mind.
"Then you will need to trust me." Neftraya took advantage of their closeness and placed her hand on his chest. Kharvathar did not retreat. From there she could now perceive more clearly what she had suspected: faint eyebrows, short fur sprouting across his chest beneath the red robe, tensed muscles. Kharvathar was becoming more human with every moment.
The dragon stared directly into her eyes for several seconds and finally replied: "Very well. Tell me what I must do." Kharvathar was fighting against his impatience.
"Rest!" She smiled, stepping back and glancing at the destruction his fury had caused. She walked to the fallen bowl and picked it up. "It is already night, and the day has brought us many unexpected connections." She turned to him, her slender feminine form outlined by her garments. "What do you say to dinner?"
Kharvathar furrowed his brows.
"What…"