He returned to the abode of the Lady of Lango with deliberate care. The path was familiar now, but he treated it no differently than before. He paused where the land narrowed, listened where the wind curled strangely against stone, and ensured, by habit rather than fear, that no one followed him. The island had eyes. Some belonged to men. Others did not. When he was satisfied, he passed beneath Anthea’s silent vigilance and entered the dwelling.

  Panacea was seated where he had last seen her, though dressed differently. A heavy woolen garment, pinned at the shoulder, draped over her frame, its dark folds absorbing the cave’s muted light. Beneath it, a lighter linen tunic was drawn close by a sash. The attire was practical, almost austere, and marked a deliberate departure from the silk and crimson she had worn before.

  She raised her eyes when she sensed him, studied him without surprise, then returned her attention to the tome resting open in her hands. Its pages were thick, uneven, and darkened with age.

  “Remy,” she said, not looking up. “Do you believe in God?”

  He considered the question longer than politeness required.

  “As of late,” he said, “I do.”

  That earned her attention. She leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with interest rather than skepticism.

  “That implies you did not before,” she said.

  It was true.

  Before all of this, before the roads, the centuries, the accumulation of things that refused to remain hypothetical, he had given little thought to God. Faith, to him, had always appeared as something others clung to when knowledge failed them. A scaffold built from hope rather than evidence.

  But that certainty had eroded.

  “I was indifferent,” he said at last. “But my walks have made me believe that there are gods. And that they like to joke.”

  She closed the tome gently, as though marking a place without the need for a ribbon.

  “Joke,” she repeated.

  “Yes. Of course, there could simply be anomalies,” he continued. “Outliers mistaken for divinity. But without evidence to disprove them, what is there left to claim?”

  Panacea studied him now with renewed attention.

  “My father,” she said, leaning back, her tone assuming a faintly didactic cadence, “was a man of science. And yet he believed in gods. He listened to superstition, even as he dissected it.”

  She gestured idly with one hand, as if arranging concepts rather than objects.

  “My father established the initial theory that the body was composed of four humors: blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm and that illness resulted from an imbalance of these fluids. Many have been killed by these thoughts. History bears witness to that. How ignorant it was to assume so.”

  She paused, then inclined her head slightly.

  “And yet, Sir Remy, I am the product of my father. His ‘Panacea’ made complete. A living proof that even aging can be cured. Though in my case, accidentally, just as many of the Perennials are.”

  Her gaze sharpened.

  “You are much the same. Your blood will remain perpetual until death.”

  “And yet,” Remy said evenly, “a single heart attack will still ruin those who live long.”

  Panacea smiled faintly.

  “I am morbidly healthy,” she said. “But it depends greatly on the kind of blood one carries.”

  She rose then and moved closer, her steps soundless against stone.

  “Do you know why I let you in, Remy?”

  He lowered himself onto a stone bench. He patted the fold of his cloak once, an unconscious gesture.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “For there is no greater loneliness,” she said, “than watching others wither.”

  The words were not dramatic. They were delivered plainly, without ornament.

  “Anthea has been my companion for a long time. But she will wither one day. She will leave for the plains above, as her kind eventually must.” Panacea’s gaze drifted briefly toward the ceiling, toward where Anthea waited unseen. “But I believe that you will be there.”

  Remy shrugged.

  “I could be killed by an arrow,” he said. “Or put to the sword. Or drowned.”

  “You are a careful man,” she replied. “And our kind has tendencies toward longevity.”

  “You must have lived a long life,” he said.

  “Long enough to understand some things,” she answered. “But also long enough to know that I still understand nothing.”

  She turned slightly, pacing now, slow and deliberate.

  “The world shifts. Knowledge decays. What is considered truth in one lifetime can be replaced entirely in the next. I can tell that you are still young, despite your act. You have not lived as much as you believe. But you possess the spark and the compulsion to wander. I have long since retreated here, waiting.”

  “I am surprised you lived here for so long,” he said.

  “There are many wonders in the world,” she replied. “Many knowledges. Many learnings.”

  She stopped and looked at him directly.

  “My father and his peers did not like writing. They allowed others to write what they said instead. Writing, they claimed, made one narrow. Speaking allowed thought to remain fluid.”

  She paused.

  “I disagree,” she added. “But I respect the idea.”

  Remy frowned slightly.

  He did not understand where she was going with this.

  “And your point is?” he asked.

  “That we truly know nothing,” she said, as though it were an observation rather than a conclusion.

  She smiled faintly, as if at a private jest.

  Remy did not return the smile.

  He did not understand it.

  And that, he suspected, was precisely her point.

  Panacea then offered her arm without ceremony.

  It was a small gesture, almost domestic, and for that reason it caught Remy off guard more than any blade or riddle might have. She stood beside him, one brow lifted faintly, her mantle drawn close against the cave’s persistent chill, her forearm angled just enough to make the invitation unmistakable.

  “Escort me,” she said. “I have been beneath stone long enough. You may protect me if you must.”

  Remy hesitated only a fraction of a breath before inclining his head. He did not take her arm immediately. Instead, he adjusted the strap of his cuirass, shifted the weight of his sword so it would not strike her leg as they walked, and only then offered his own arm in return.

  She noted all of it.

  They moved first toward Anthea’s station, where the cavern widened and the stone ceiling rose into shadow. The great creature was already aware of them. A subtle pressure filled the space, like the air before a storm that never quite arrived. Anthea’s eyes opened, two facets of molten amber set into what appeared now to be nothing more than stone.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Panacea inclined her head.

  “We walk,” she said simply.

  Anthea’s gaze shifted to Remy. The dragon’s awareness brushed him, not hostile, not curious, but measuring in a way that felt ancient and exacting. Remy met it without stiffness or bravado. He bowed his head slightly, not in submission, but in acknowledgment of said creature once more.

  A slow exhalation followed, warm and dry. Then Anthea withdrew, her presence receding into the stone as though it had never been separate from it at all.

  “She trusts you,” Panacea observed as they passed beyond the cavern’s mouth.

  “I do not give her reason not to,” Remy replied.

  They emerged into daylight gradually, the cave yielding to scrub and stone, the air sharpening with salt and sun. The land around Kos was harsh but not barren. Low shrubs clung to the earth, their roots finding purchase where none should have existed. Wind moved through the grass in uneven currents, carrying with it the distant cry of gulls.

  Panacea drew a breath that was almost indulgent.

  “I forget sometimes,” she said, “how loud the world is.”

  They walked without urgency, following a narrow path that curved along the hillside. Remy matched his pace to hers instinctively, shortening his stride without seeming to do so. She noticed that as well.

  After a time, she spoke again.

  “You wear armor as though it is clothing,” she said. “Not as protection and clearly not as a display.”

  “It serves its purpose,” he answered.

  “Yes,” she said. “But so do your hands.”

  That gave him pause.

  She glanced sideways at him now, her expression thoughtful. “You hold them differently. Even in gauntlets. You are careful not to clench unnecessarily. You favor precision over force.”

  He did not respond.

  “I noticed it when you sat,” she continued. “How you lowered yourself. How you touched the stone first, testing its temperature. Surgeons do that. Physicians too.”

  Remy’s expression remained unchanged. “You’d know.”

  “I was not certain,” she admitted. “Until just now.”

  She leaned closer, imperceptibly, and inhaled once.

  “Yarrow,” she said. “Dried, but recently handled. You have it stored near your person. Most men cannot identify it by scent alone.”

  “Many men surprise you,” Remy said mildly.

  “Few surprise me twice,” she replied.

  They walked on.

  The path narrowed, then dipped sharply, revealing a hidden cove below. The sea here was calmer, sheltered by stone arms that curved inward protectively. The water lapped gently against pale rock, clear enough that the seabed was visible even from above.

  Panacea released his arm and descended carefully, boots finding familiar holds. Remy followed, attentive but unobtrusive. When they reached the cove’s edge, she sat upon a flat stone warmed by the sun.

  “This place,” she said, “is not marked.”

  “It rarely is,” Remy replied.

  She watched him for a moment longer, then smiled faintly. “You answer without answering.”

  “A habit,” he said.

  “And your God?” she asked. “Is He also evasive?”

  Remy considered the sea as he spoke. “God does not answer in words. Only in consequences.”

  She nodded slowly. “And that satisfies you?”

  “No,” he said. “But it convinces me.”

  She tilted her head. “You came to Kos for Him?”

  “I came for reasons adjacent to Him,” Remy replied. “Not here. I am here to listen. To observe. To ensure that certain balances remain undisturbed.”

  “And after Kos?”

  “I go east,” he said. “Then south if God’s willing. Where the roads still argue with one another.”

  Panacea laughed softly. “You speak like a man avoiding names.”

  “Names give power,” he said. “And expectations.”

  She leaned back on her hands, looking up at the sky. “My father once told me a story of Socrates,” she said. “Perhaps you know it.”

  “Perhaps,” Remy allowed.

  “Socrates,” she continued, “was once observed standing motionless in the marketplace for an entire day. He neither spoke nor moved. Men gathered. They speculated. Some claimed he was communing with the divine. Others thought him mad.”

  She glanced at Remy again.

  “Toward evening, a child approached him and asked why he stood so still. Socrates replied that he was lost.”

  Panacea smiled.

  “The child pointed to the road behind him and said, ‘Then go home. You passed it hours ago.’”

  She let the silence settle.

  “My father said wisdom often looks profound only until someone small reminds you of the obvious.”

  Remy nodded once. “Children are good at that.”

  “So are wanderers,” she said.

  They sat there until the sun began its descent, when the sun dipped low enough that the water shifted from blue to copper, Remy rose first. Panacea followed a moment later, brushing sand from her hands as though she had never lived beneath stone at all.

  “There is something I was tasked to convey,” Remy said as they began the slow ascent back toward the path. His tone had changed, not heavier, but more deliberate.

  Panacea did not look at him. “I assumed as much.”

  “The Perennials,” he continued, “extend an offer. Membership. Sanctuary of a sort. Mutual aid, shared knowledge, silence enforced by consequence.”

  She stopped walking.

  When she turned to face him, there was no surprise in her expression. Only weariness sharpened by long familiarity.

  “I refused them once,” she said. “I will refuse them again.”

  Remy inclined his head slightly. “I expected that.”

  “They mistake it for alignment,” Panacea went on. “And endurance for obligation. I will not be catalogued, Remy. Nor summoned. Nor weighed against their internal scales.” She exhaled once. “I would rather be… friends than partners with such people.”

  He considered her words carefully before answering. “That distinction matters more than they think.”

  “It matters because friendship allows refusal,” she said. “Partnership rarely does.”

  They resumed walking.

  After a few steps, Panacea added, almost casually, “You do not side with them.”

  “No,” Remy said. “I convey. I observe. I intervene when necessary. I remain neutral.”

  She glanced at him then, really looked. “That is a difficult position.”

  “It is survivable,” he replied.

  “And lonely.”

  “Occasionally,” he admitted.

  She nodded once. “Then I respect it.”

  They reached the higher ground near the cave’s mouth, where the wind cut sharper and carried the smell of salt and distant pitch. Anthea’s presence stirred faintly beneath the stone, not visible, but aware.

  Remy slowed.

  “There is a problem,” he said.

  Panacea did not ask him to clarify.

  “Anthea,” he continued. “Her continued appearances, however restrained, will accumulate attention. Knights. Scholars. Zealots. Men who want proof, and men who want trophies. Stories do not remain small when they are confirmed. Especially when it concerns a prehistoric creature.”

  Panacea folded her arms, gaze drifting toward the sea. “You suggest concealment.”

  “I suggest distance,” Remy said. “Or relocation.”

  Her lips pressed together thoughtfully. “You would have her leave the land.”

  “I would have her reduce her footprint,” he corrected. “Legend is manageable. Confirmation is not.”

  She was silent for a long moment.

  “At sea,” she said slowly, “she would be mistaken for something else. A storm shadow. Whale. Omen. Sailors accept such things more easily than priests.”

  Remy nodded. “Water does diffuse certainty.”

  Panacea’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You have considered this before.”

  “Others,” he said. “Not her.”

  She turned back toward the cave, toward the stone that was no longer just stone. “Anthea is… amphibian,” she said after a pause. “Her lungs adapt. Her blood tolerates pressure. She can remain submerged longer than most creatures can remain alive.”

  “Then the sea would not harm her.”

  “No,” Panacea agreed. “It might even suit her.”

  They stood there together, the decision hovering between them like a held breath.

  “At minimum,” Panacea said at last, “this requires correspondence.”

  “With the Perennials,” Remy said.

  She looked at him then, measuring not his strength, but his patience.

  “I will write to them,” she said. “But I would ask you to wait.”

  Remy did not hesitate. “I will.”

  “And to agree,” she added. “If the solution displeases you.”

  “If it preserves balance,” he said, “I will agree.”

  Her expression softened, not into gratitude, but into something adjacent to trust.

  “Then stay,” she said. “At least until the letters are sent.”

  He inclined his head. “Of course.”

  Remy had reasons to stay.

  For it was rare to speak with those who have the same affliction as him.