Every muscle in George’s body tensed up in a flash. Merely laying his eyes upon the Garchomp sparked a fire within, one that seized him from head to toe. Her backup mattered little. To George, they might as well not exist. Tricks played on him by his own psychic senses, to fully sell the danger.

  Not that he needed it. She was menacing enough on her own. The way her razor sharp teeth shone in the sunlight, the vast amounts of scars running across her arms, the weariness of her scales. How many had she torn through since the last time? And what did she plan now? George’s mind raced. Hein and Terez weren’t there anymore.

  ‘I thought you’d be dead…’

  A scowl crept onto the Dewott’s face. Images of their past battles raced past, each strike etched into his memory. From the decrepit Kronn to the frozen plains, George felt like he was standing in all of them. She’d never let go of him, ever. His fingers shook as he reached for his scalchops, grip tightening as his telekinesis awakened.

  “George, easy now. Hey!”

  A set of green fingers snapped in front of his face. Before George could react, said fingers grabbed him by the tip of his ear, giving him a good tug. First to go was his concentration, then the scowl, then whatever dignity he had as he yowled. “Ow! Oooooow!”

  “Put the scalchops away, come on,” a voice beside George said, which he didn’t recognise as Terez until a second later. “She’s not who you think she is.”

  A muffled, growly laugh came from the other side of the path. “Quite the jumpy one, isn’t he?” the Garchomp said, her voice aged. She still held out her scythe-like arms much as Hyran and Gareda did, full of vigor and energy.

  Hein took a bow before the dragons. “My apologies for this. He is… indeed a little sensitive to a select few things. The sight of a Garchomp being one of them.”

  “Oh, my…” the dragon continued, grinning like the last person you wanted to see at the end of a dark alley. “We’re going to have some fun getting acquainted with each other, I can already tell. But let’s put first impressions aside, shall we? Friendly faces are hard to come by these days.” She raised one of her arms in greeting. “Morticia Steelhide, pleased to meet you. And who might the rest of you be?”

  Right after finishing, she elbowed one of the dragons beside her. The Druddigon introduced himself as ‘Cedran’, and the other, virtually identical Druddigon called themselves ‘Pallon’. As it became Hein’s turn to introduce himself, George kept his eyes trained on the Garchomp, rubbing his stinging ear all the while.

  ‘Morticia Steelhide? So that was her house just now, wasn’t it?’ He shook his head. ‘Not the kind of house I’d expect a landshark to live in. Blegh, not landshark, Garchomp. Should’ve asked Hyran when I had the chance.’

  “And you. Small fry. What’s your name?” Morticia now asked him, head tilted sideways. George half frowned at her, surprised yet annoyed.

  ‘Small fry? Go to hell.’ “George. Just George.”

  Morticia scoffed his way. “Just George? Well, ‘just George’, last I checked, folks have surnames. What’s yours?”

  George groaned back, then rolled his eyes. “Wilkinson. George Wilkinson.”

  Hearing his full name made the Garchomp smirk at him. “Ah, that is more like it. Hein Redfeather, Terez Pearlsedge, and George Wilkinson. Also known as the Othersider.” She stretched her arms way above her head, several joints cracking as a result. No one in the camp opposing her was surprised to hear George’s reputation mentioned. Word was bound to spread sooner or later.

  “So not all the world has gone to the dogs. How precious!” Morticia continued, her pupils dilating a little. They still resembled slits, but not knife thin ones. “You aren’t dead, at the very least. Not that the Renegade and his lackeys aren’t out for your head as is. We have a lot to go over, I imagine. Both you… and myself, of course.” She paused to run a talon across the other arm. “But this is no place to loiter. Not anymore.”

  All the smugness and joy vanished from the Garchomp’s face when she repeated those last few words. She was first to turn around and walk away, her two bodyguards following in hot pursuit. “Come with me. The Caves of Triumph aren’t too far from here. The others are there.”

  “The other who?” George asked before anyone else.

  “My fellow dragons, of course.” Morticia turned her head. “Unless you thought the Dragonspines had no dragons in them. That would be quite strange, no?”

  The Dewott’s eyes narrowed, as he bit down on his lip. “Yeah. It would be.” ‘I guess.’

  “My apologies again,” Hein then echoed out, floating to Morticia’s side. The bodyguards jumped back, growling in panic as the Dusknoir wedged his way in. “On the way to the caves, would you mind if I discussed a few things with you personally?”

  Morticia casually shrugged. “Certainly. Knowing you, you’ll have plenty of questions about the caves. You should know, you were there when they were named, after all.”

  Now it was the Dusknoir’s turn to scoff. “Oh, leave it be. Past glories are just the past. We have a new crisis on our hands to worry about.”

  “Indeed we do,” Morticia remarked, clicking her tongue, then spitting out a loogie on the path beside. One step closer, and Pallon would’ve been scraping the spit off their foot. “Can’t say I’m too pleased by it, myself. But that goes without saying. No one is happy at being forced to leave their home behind.” She flicked her head back towards Fafnir’s Tooth. “It is… frustrating.”

  Hein crossed his arms. “Hmpf. Can relate.”

  It wasn’t long before they left the village in the dust, their path running north towards the mountains. The dragons and Hein led the way, conversing at length about the Renegade and his legions of Corrupted. Hein brought up the Alliance, the Azure Flute, the whole rebellion against the Crest and what it entailed, and how it all tied back to an old enemy. Morticia went along with the story, adding her own comments. Mentions of a daughter made George’s ears perk up; especially when she added said daughter’s standing with the Vined Crest.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  ‘So I was half right. This is Gareda’s mother, isn’t she? Should’ve known her name was Steelhide. Somehow that slipped my mind, but I could’ve sworn I’ve heard it before.’

  Given the distance between George and the conversation,no opportunity to jump in presented itself. He had Terez to talk to, and Hein’s back to stare at. That unsettling grin-like pattern was the easier thing to look at, by far. George was mildly amused. Most in Eravate wouldn’t say the same. Even the most mindless of Corrupted wouldn’t.

  No interruptions meant that Hein and Morticia’s conversation didn’t stop. The Druddigon bodyguards had nothing to add; it truly was between them, despite everyone else having functioning ears. Hein continued about the threat the Alliance posed, but brought up unsavory things about the dethroned Queen as well. In his eye, neither the Crest nor the Alliance were fit to lead an Oran stand. Morticia agreed, for the most part, mentioning she was a bystander for most of it, in spite of her daughter’s commitments.

  However, the Vined Crest was but a footnote in their conversation, much like Eravate as a whole three days. A gaggle of fools resisting a force they didn’t understand. To Hein, the Alliance was more than just the Renegade’s private army. An ancient evil had returned, he believed. One he’d helped snuff out at the Caves of Triumph, many decades ago.

  “So you got your revenge, then?” Morticia asked.

  Hein shook his antenna. “In a way, perhaps. But revenge is as empty as my demise was. It did not bring back Westholm. Nor did it bring back my people, or my body. And it did not grant me peace, either. I am still looking for it, today.”

  Morticia nodded along, a low grumble stirring in her throat. “There might be something to that theory of yours, then. But at the same time? Maybe death won’t bring you ‘peace’.”

  “And what do you mean with this?” the Dusknoir asked in a dire tone.

  “Simple,” the Garchomp said. “You’ve lived a hard life. A stressful one. A hardworking one. Then a violent one, on top of all that. But just because the violence stops doesn’t mean you’d stop. Maybe you’re meant to retire somewhere. A cottage, a beach. Just an idea, of course.”

  “Hmpf.” The Dusknoir shut his eye. “We’ll see about that.”

  With Hein and Morticia content to share their life stories with each other, in addition to their thoughts on the enemy, George broke himself off from paying attention. There had been plenty of time to speculate, to the point where it affected morale. Taking shots in the dark wasn’t the most encouraging activity; at some point, you wanted to see what you had achieved. Given their talks on the road, on the island, and before then, the answer was quite simple: not much, besides paranoia. George folded his ears.

  ‘Don’t listen. It’s not worth it, and you don’t want to think you’re as good as dead. So what if they’re the same cult? You’re still breathing, right? Right?’

  A chill ran down the Dewott’s spine; he winced, and his distraction went right into the gutter. It was just him, the dragons and the ghost in front, the Gardevoir walking beside him, the mountains ahead, and the plains they were leaving. The Gardevoir had a sneaking suspicion that all was not well, however.

  “Say, George?”

  The Dewott flicked his head. “Yes?”

  “What’s on your mind?” Terez asked, tilting her head; a steady wind swept over the plains, causing her hair to waver before her face, and make the hairs on George’s head and arms stand up. What a good question that was. Aside from fears and tension, his hands were empty. No good answers. Usually, that was rewarded with a smack on the fingers.

  George clenched his teeth. “Just, argh. Trying to figure out if we’re not making a mistake, following them to wherever they’re taking us. The Caves of Triumph. Whatever they are.“

  Terez shook her head. “You’re letting emotions get the better of you again. Take it from me; Morticia and her ilk aren’t anyone you cannot trust. For one, they’re not Corrupted. I certainly do not see any vapours coming off them, do you? And secondly, no Corrupted in their right mind would want to go anywhere near the Caves of Triumph. Not without an army.”

  “An Army?” George blinked at her. “You make it sound like they’d die the second they’d walk in. Like they’d magically explode,” he said, biting his lip. To his imagination, Terez hadn’t been entirely honest about the dragons. They were dangerous. Just not to regular folk.

  The Gardevoir smirked a little, flicking her fingers and pulling pebbles off the ground. “The Caves of Triumph have a storied history, George. It has been many decades since they received their name. Long before both you and myself were born, in fact.”

  The Dewott folded his arms. “I’m listening. What history?”

  She nodded. “You’ve heard from Hein about Yveltal already. His long, bloody rampage and the cult that worshipped him. Well, the Caves of Triumph is where he met his end. The greatest Pokemon from all across Eravate banded together to slay him, and to defeat his followers. He was lured into the Dragonspines, and met his end here,” she explained, juggling the pebbles around.

  ‘Yveltal, huh. Everyone really liked it when he died, didn’t they?’ George thought to himself. “So he died there, in other words. With his cult?”

  Terez shrugged. “He did, yes. In the aftermath, they decapitated him, then dissected the rest of his corpse. Just to be one hundred percent sure. His cult, however? They persisted for a while after, but they ultimately faded away with him. It just took a few more years of struggle.”

  One last wind swept over the plains as George and Terez followed the dragons and Hein into the mountains; the climb upwards was steep, far greater than the effort it took to reach the plateau. “Hang on a minute,” the Dewott groaned, a question waiting at the tip of his tongue.

  Terez floated on ahead, her feet lifted off the ground. “Remember. Use your telekinesis,” she chuckled.

  George growled to himself, before bathing his body in a blue glow. “Hello? My energy’s not that high. Can’t just psychic my way through everything,” he said, rolling his eyes. ‘You know, unless you want me to get caught with my pants down.’

  “Practice makes perfect,” Terez quipped. She kept her distance from Hein, Morticia and the two Druddigon still, for they hadn’t finished speaking yet. “Were that all your questions?”

  “Far from it,” George said. “I’ve overheard them talking about the Alliance.”

  “Ah…” Terez grimaced, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth as she dropped the pebbles. “It’s only a theory. There’s some disturbing similarities between them. That is Hein’s idea, in any case. You will have to ask him for more information. He was there to see it happen, after all.”

  Fever-like heat struck George square in the face. “Egh, I see.” He breathed in deep, ears flicked back, whiskers hanging low. He made one last push to catch up with Terez as the terrain levelled out, then landed beside her. “Anything else I need to know?”

  The Gardevoir shrugged. “Nothing our hosts won’t be able to explain better, I take it. They’ve been taking care of the caves ever since Yveltal’s fall. It’s in the Dragonspines, after all.”

  “Right, got you.”

  For the next two to three hours, Morticia and her bodyguards led the trio through the mountains. The paths through the passes and gorges were broad enough to fit a carriage through, provided the driver kept their eyes sharp; one bad move could send one tumbling down far below, into a stream beginning its journey to the sea, or a gorge from which escape would be a challenge. Anyone without wings or the power to hover was in danger. And even with, it wasn’t a comfortable journey.

  Halfway through, a rock the size of a fist got in George’s path. It must’ve fallen from higher up, the result of erosion. As luck would have it, he spotted it too late. One of his feet brushed against it as he walked, and he fell forwardface first to the edge of the path. He gasped as his telekinesis activated. His body half suspended over the edge, he hovered in place for a few seconds as he gazed at fate.

  ‘...Crap!’

  A green hand grabbed his forearm, then yanked him back to safety. “Creator almighty, George! Are you alright?” Terez asked.

  “Excuse me?” Hein shouted as he rushed backwards to the Dewott; it was his first words directed at George in a while. “What happened?”

  “Ugh… I almost fell off,” George groaned out loud. “Tripped over a rock. Didn’t- hey!”

  The Dusknoir let out a hoarse echo as he shoved George aside, away from the path’s edge. “Keep your distance from holes, George. The last thing I want to see is you falling to your death out here. Is that clear?”

  George clenched his teeth. “Of course it is.”

  “Oi.” The Garchomp shouted up ahead. “Should watch your step. Rocks come tumblin’ down all the time. You’ve got no wings, damn you! It’s damn near suicide steppin’ on one!”

  “Ngrh…” He growled. “I know.”

  George’s near fall held them up for another minute, as Terez and Hein studied the Dewott’s body for any scrapes and other unpleasantries. It wasn’t nice on his end, having to lift up his feet so they could look for pebbles. All to make sure it hadn’t been a different rock that made George trip, aside from the one that he’d kicked on his way off the edge. Said rock had to be split in two at the bottom of the gorge now.

  After the close call, the journey through the mountains was uneventful. Ferals knew to keep their distance; no one messes with a Garchomp, let alone one in good company. As such, George had plenty of time to settle down, the adrenaline fading back into boredom and basic tension. It wasn’t until the light had faded, and the sky had turned as black as ink, that they reached their destination.

  “Wow…” ‘So that’s why they call it a triumph.’