"Hot? Can’t you use magic to cool down?"

  "Magic… like spells?"

  "Ah, I forgot you’ve lost your memory… Let’s get you into the carriage." Fiora looped her arm through Aldmer’s, guiding him to a white, medieval-style wagon.

  Alan crouched beside it, his voice tight. "Saintess… You’re bringing him?"

  Fiora turned to Aldmer, her tone gentle. "Wait inside, Aldmer."

  "Yes… Saintess."

  A faint smile tugged her lips. "Just ‘Fiora’ is fine."

  Aldmer nodded, cheeks warming. "Thank you… Fiora."

  As he climbed into the carriage, Alan hissed, "My blade can slice crystal, yet his flesh resisted it!"

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  "Had he wished harm, he’d have acted by now," Fiora countered.

  The carriage interior gleamed white, with plush benches. Aldmer sank into one, joints creaking. A mirror on the wall revealed his new face: sharp features, snow-white hair, and jade-green eyes. Handsome, even by Earth’s standards.

  Fiora slid in beside him. "You’ve nowhere to go. Stay with us."

  "But Alan said—"

  "Alan worries too much." Her crescent-moon smile disarmed him.

  A white feather drifted through the window, landing on his lap. Outside, the "horse" pulling their carriage now sported massive wings. Of course—this is a fantasy world.

  As Aldmer marveled, Fiora explained, "Magic lingers from the Gods’ War."

  The word "gods" sparked fragmented visions—six shadowy figures. "How many gods remain?"

  "Five," Fiora said.

  But I saw six… Before he could question, the carriage lurched.

  A shadow loomed outside—a black dragon with golden eyes and wings trailing light.

  "Faster, Alan!" Fiora cried.

  The dragon’s roar shook the carriage. A golden blast tore through the sky, shattering the wagon.

  As they plummeted, Aldmer glimpsed Alan shielding Fiora with magic. Will I die? The wind roared in his ears. Probably not…

  He closed his eyes, plunging into the emerald forest below.