Sabel the Innocent
Outside a tavern in the quiet village of Midland sat a beggar, wizened and hollow-eyed with age. He accepted coins when pity prompted a passerby, but otherwise kept to himself. The townsfolk had long since given up wondering what to do with the silent man, and most ignored his stink entirely.
It was on a rain-slick day that the village witch came to the tavern. Draped in her usual muted garb, she looked nothing like the old crone she ought to have been. Some primordial force preserved her youth—of that, the old man was certain—for he had not seen her age a day since his boyhood. She rarely ventured from her cottage and almost never came to town unless summoned for healing or tinctures.
Only minutes passed before she emerged again. Her feet were soaked in blood. In her hand, she held the same black dagger the Master’s son had been flaunting days before. She paused beside the beggar, and he looked up. The air tingled with magic. Her eyes, once white, had gone pitch black. She was too powerful in that moment, almost unrecognizable.
Then she blinked.
Color returned to her skin. The magic receded. She shook herself, as though shrugging off a memory that clung to her bones. The beggar froze, uncertain if she meant to silence him next. But she only reached into her cloak, dropped a single gold coin into his palm, and walked on without a word.
❧ ❧ ❧
When Roric the Drunk inherited the ancient dagger, Sabel had warned him, just as she had warned his father and his grandfather before that. The dagger, forged with divine powers older than history, was never meant to be wielded. Without sacred rites, even touching it was folly. Yet Sabel had no way to return it to the Temple in Illsver. So she watched it instead, century by century, as it gathered dust in the Lord’s attic, appearing dull and harmless.
And then Roric used it on a tavern wench.
The girl hadn’t stood a chance. By the time Sabel arrived, the wounds were too deep, the magic too dark. No potion in her satchel could save the girl. The Ebony Blade had already taken its toll—twisting Roric’s mind, corrupting his soul, making him something less than mortal and more than dangerous.
Sabel didn’t remember the rage. Just the haze. She blinked and found herself before the beggar—Alden—coated in blood. Alden had been a sweet, sharp little boy once. Life had worn him to the bone. She pressed a coin into his hand, as if that could undo what he’d seen, and left with the dagger once more in her grip.
She hated its pull. The way it throbbed with old hunger.
The dagger had first surfaced a century ago in the hands of a farmer who’d mistaken it for a simple blade. Only Sabel knew what it truly was. Her coven’s archives held centuries of knowledge—relics left behind by the gods, each catalogued and studied. The Ebony Blade was forged by a dark god, whose name was lost to time. It granted power and will beyond mortal comprehension, but at a soul-shattering price.
Sabel belonged to Mynara, the goddess who had granted her immortality in exchange for loyalty. It was Sabel’s sacred duty to protect the realm her goddess had forged. And that meant keeping the dagger away from hands it could twist.
Back at her cottage, Sabel exhaled as she toed off her blood-slicked boots. The hearth still glowed with firelight, but her bones remained cold—dark magic always did that. She moved methodically, pulling down ingredients from her shelves, preparing a memory spell to ease the village’s mind. The last thing she needed was a pitchfork parade at her door.
So focused was she on finding the last of the thistle that she didn’t notice the shadow leaning against her chair.
Not until it moved.
She gasped, her eyes snapping upward.
A clawed hand seized her, muffling her scream. Golden eyes met hers—familiar and ageless.
Azrael. The last of the Onyx Dragon Clan.
“Hello, little flame.”
It had been twenty-five years since she’d heard that voice. She struggled, but he didn’t yield. The charm he wore like a cloak—that devil-may-care ease—was a lie. Beneath it was a predator. She felt him shift, his hand sliding lower, pausing the moment he found the dagger at her hip.
“Well now,” he murmured, unsheathing it with a flick. The Ebony Blade gleamed in the firelight. “I come down from my mountain to visit my favorite little witch, only to find her drenched in blood and hoarding forbidden relics. What a curious reunion.”
The claws pressed just beneath her chin.
“Not your witch, dragon,” Sabel growled. “Now let go.”
Azrael stepped back with a theatrical pout.
“Don’t be so glum, my darling. I’ve been incredibly patient these past decades. Count yourself lucky I didn’t raze this quaint little village when you refused to come home.”
Sabel raised a brow. “Thank you ever so kindly for letting me live my own life. What do you want, Azrael? You said yourself—you don’t meddle in the affairs of gods or their covens.”
Blade still in hand, he sauntered to the chair by the hearth. It looked too small for him, swallowed by his frame and presence. He crossed his ankles with forced nonchalance, like he hadn’t just shattered the stillness of her home.
Sabel didn’t move.
She knew better than to trust his charm. Once, long ago, she had. Back when she was younger and believed the connection between them might ease the lonely ache of eternal life. Instead, he’d locked her away in his mountain keep, surrounded by jewels and silence.
Mynara help her—she still didn’t understand why fate bound her to such an infuriating creature.
“I came all this way,” Azrael said, with mock hurt, “and you won’t even pretend to be happy to see your mate?”
“If memory serves, you threatened my life before locking me in your castle.” Her voice turned sharp. That old anger stirred again, rising like a wave she never quite outran. He chuckled at her ire, sitting forward.
“Besides,” she added, “you’re here for the Blade. Take it and go. I have more pressing matters.”
Azrael clicked his tongue. “Our memories differ. I recall offering you a choice—you picked your goddess. But fine. I’ll extend a small kindness. I can hear the townsfolk crying out from here. Let me handle them for you.”
Tempting—but Sabel knew better than to take a dragon at his word.
“No. I’ve learned your favors always come with strings attached. I’ll manage.”
“As defiant as ever.” He leaned back with a smirk. “Very well, have it your way.”
Sabel turned to her conjuring tablet, laying out ingredients with practiced care. The tablet pulsed faintly—an arcane rectangle used to scale her magic. A necessity for a witch, whose power never flowed as freely as a dragon’s. Azrael could level a town with a breath and walk away unscathed. She, however, risked disaster by something as simple as enchanting a clothesline.
Behind her, he snorted—clearly unimpressed.
He’d lectured her for years about control versus instinct. But Sabel refused to wield magic without caution. Consequences always came due.
She released her spell, watching magic ripple outward. If it worked, the villagers would forget the blood, the screaming. They’d forget why they’d gathered in the first place.
Seconds passed.
Then, quiet.
She exhaled slowly.
“I seem to recall,” Azrael mused, “you used that same spell on my steward. Poor man went bald for a decade.”
“He was in his fifties,” she muttered, cheeks warming. “Hair loss is common at that age.”
She had only meant for him to forget her escape plans—unfortunately, the spell had worked a little too well.
Putting her supplies back on the shelf, Sabel felt the day’s weight settle into her limbs. There was still Roric’s body at the tavern. Still the Blade, thrumming with malice at her hip. And the spell she’d cast wouldn’t hold for long. Her time in Midland had ended. The vow had been fulfilled. She was never meant to interfere—only to watch.
“Bald men aside,” Azrael said, examining the dagger under firelight, “we’ve much to catch up on. Why do you even have this bloody thing? I thought I destroyed it ages ago. And what did you do to stir this whole village into a froth?”
In human form, he barely looked like a shifter. But his forearms shimmered faintly with scale when the fire hit just right. Dressed in a loose wool tunic and braises, barefoot and slightly rumpled, he looked as though he’d only just woken from a nap on his hoard.
“None of your concern, dragon,” she said tiredly. “Just hand it over. I still have a body to deal with. The rest can wait until morning.”
She extended her hand.
To her surprise, he didn’t argue.
The mask slipped.
His eyes darkened—not with malice, but concern. He rose, and the room seemed to constrict around him. Still, he said nothing. Just offered the dagger to her, steady and silent.
She took it, steeling herself against the pulse of dark magic along her skin.
It would need to be cleansed. Then destroyed. The world could not afford another soul devoured by its hunger. But that battle would come later.
For now, she needed sleep.
Azrael gave her a once-over, then flicked his wrist. The blood vanished from her skin. Her worn wool dress transformed into a sleeping shift. Modesty was a human luxury; dragons had little patience for such things.
“We’ll talk more soon,” he murmured. “The drunkard is taken care of—don’t ask how, it’s all very boring and droll. Sleep well, little flame. Your dragon is near.”
He strode to the door, eyeing the rusted bolt she used as a lock. He made no comment.
And Sabel made no reply. She was too tired.
Come morning, she would return to the Temple. And Azrael—Azrael would vanish again, same as he had for the last three hundred years.
“Goodbye, dragon.”
