Adventures of Sylmira
Symilra felt the wrongness of the village the moment she stepped past its borders. It was one of those jobs—her big brother gave the order, and she didn’t question it. Vaeltar’s instructions were simple: Go there. Find what’s wrong. Fix it. Report back.
Everything was wrong.
The air hung too still, thick with something unseen. The people moved with the sluggishness of puppets, their eyes empty, hollow—drained of something vital. A child sat by the roadside, staring into space before suddenly bursting into laughter, sharp and humorless. A blacksmith hammered at cold steel, oblivious to the fact that his forge wasn’t even lit. A butcher kept showcasing a clearly rotting lamb carcass, his smile vacant.
Something foul had taken root here. That much was clear.
She traced the source to the largest building in the village—a rundown inn with a sign barely clinging to its hinges. The Hollow Heart. Her lips curled into a smirk as she read the name.
"An invitation, then."
Inside, the mood was off. Villagers sat at tables, drinking and murmuring as if nothing was wrong. But their smiles never reached their eyes. They laughed in all the right places, nodded at all the right times—but there was nothing real behind it. A chill crawled up her spine.
And in the center of it all, behind the bar, stood a figure. A man—too polished, too poised. His sharp features were immaculate, as if sculpted rather than born. His grin widened as she entered, the only real smile in the room, like a host welcoming a particularly valued guest.
"My, my," the human-looking thing purred. "A traveler. And such a special one at that."
Symilra ignored the eyes that tracked her as she strode to the bar and rapped her knuckles against the wood. "A drink. Something strong."
The barkeep, moving with an unsettling fluidity, poured a glass of something dark and rich. She took a sip. Warm, smooth—delicious. But beneath it lurked an unnatural sweetness, an aftertaste of something stolen. She set the glass down.
The devil chuckled. "Do you not enjoy my hospitality?"
She tilted her head. "I prefer my drinks dry. Especially when the sweetness is condensed misery. Also, you put in way too much."
He tutted. "Oh, but my gifts only bring satisfaction. You do realize that, don’t you?"
She smirked, rolling her shoulders. "Reward without reason is empty. First thing a child of Zavrial learns."
His expression didn’t waver, but his fingers drummed against the bar. "Oh, but you could have more. You, of all creatures, should understand ambition." His eyes gleamed. "Even dragons crave greater heights."
The air around her shifted—magic, creeping at the edges of her mind. Sloppy, she thought. Amateurish, compared to anything Vaeltar conjures.
She flexed, and Elowen’s masterwork circuits flared to life, silver light racing along her skin. The enchantment shattered before it could take hold.
The devil clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Very well. I suppose words won’t work on you."
The first attack came not from him—but from the villagers.
The illusion of peace shattered in an instant as tables overturned, blades flashed, and lifeless smiles twisted into grimaces. Puppets, all of them, throwing themselves at her with mindless devotion.
Symilra moved. The room became a storm of motion. A puppet lunged—she twisted aside, slamming a very much powered-down fist into his ribs. Another swung a blade—she caught his wrist, redirected the momentum, sent him crashing into two others. She danced through them with effortless grace, striking, dodging, avoiding anything vital.
The devil lounged against the bar, watching with amusement. "You fight well. Imagine what you could do with my gifts."
Symilra snatched a bottle from the shelf and hurled it at him. He caught it, smirking—exactly the distraction she needed. In a blink, she was there, slamming her knee into his chest and sending him skidding back.
His smile faltered. "Ah. So brute force it is. How sad. You could have joined me so much more easily…"
His form wavered, twisting—stretching—becoming something monstrous. Too many limbs. Too many eyes. Shadows lashed out like claws, but Symilra’s circuits pulsed, disrupting the magic before it reached her. She barreled forward, slamming his face into the wooden bar with a sickening crack.
Still, he laughed. "You little dragon… why fight me when you could gain so much more power by my side?"
That was his mistake. His last mistake.
The moment he spoke of power, something deep inside her rebelled. This thing? Offering me power?
She felt it rise—the instinct, the primal certainty of her kind. Her silver eyes flared, and a sound ripped from her throat—a roar, deep and draconic, shaking the very walls of the inn.
"As if a mere imposter like you can grant power to a dragon!"
The last words the devil ever heard.
She struck. A final, devastating blow—circuits blazing, raw draconic fury channeled into a humanoid fist. His form crumpled, twisted, and shattered, breaking apart like glass. The shadows recoiled. The air snapped back to normal.
The villagers’ eyes cleared. They blinked in confusion. The inn, the chaos, the fight—it was as if none of it had ever happened. They looked at her, not with fear, but with the simple gaze of people seeing a stranger for the first time.
Symilra exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "Hells, I need a drink."
—
Later, back at her brother’s side, she relayed the tale with her usual flair.
Vaeltar remained unimpressed. "You took that long for one measly devil?"
She laughed. "I needed to experience the townspeople’s hospitality to truly understand they were cured."
The cultist hideout reeked of damp stone and burnt offerings. Torchlight flickered weakly along the rough cavern walls, casting shadows that danced like specters of forgotten sacrifices. Symilra crouched at the entrance, silver eyes gleaming as she took in the layout. The air carried the scent of unwashed bodies, metal, and something acrid—perhaps the residue of draconic magic.
She flexed her fingers, tracing the silver circuitry embedded in her forearms. With a quiet exhale, she activated them. Magic surged through the lines, pulsing like veins of liquid moonlight, syncing with her own draconic might. Her senses sharpened, her muscles coiled with anticipation.
Time to get to work.
Symilra strode forward, her steps barely making a sound. The first cultist, a robed acolyte muttering prayers to dragonkind, barely had time to turn before her fist caved in his jaw. Another lunged at her with a curved dagger—she caught his wrist, twisted, and sent him sprawling with a brutal knee to the ribs. The sharp crack of bone was lost in the sudden shouts of alarm.
More cultists flooded the chamber, blades drawn, spells on their lips.
Symilra simply grinned. She became a blur of motion. One cultist swung a halberd—she ducked, rolled forward, and crushed his windpipe with an elbow strike. A firebolt seared toward her from the far end of the room—she snapped her fingers, and the spell fizzled into harmless sparks.
“I’ve seen toddlers throw better fire,” she muttered, already breaking another cultist’s arm.
A warrior nearly twice her size lunged with a two-handed sword. She caught his downward strike with both hands, muscles straining, circuits flaring brighter as she channeled raw draconic strength. A twist, a pivot, and the man was airborne—slammed into the stone wall with a force that left him crumpled.
Soon, the chamber was silent, save for the groans of the dying. But these men were not why she was here.
Symilra dusted off her hands and strode toward a reinforced door at the back. The magical lock shimmered with layered enchantments. She pressed her palm to the runes, feeling their intricacies, then scoffed. Amateurs. Compared to Zavrial’s work, this was nothing. With a quiet pulse of magic, the lock unraveled.
Beyond the door lay the mountain cavern, a vast space filled with gold and other trivial treasures. Perched atop the hoard, waiting, was Zarlith. The blue dragon was massive, his cobalt scales crackling with static energy. His horns curved like jagged lightning bolts, and his golden eyes burned with arrogant amusement.
“Ah, they sent you?” he rumbled, stretching his massive wings, his lightning-charged scales crackling as he sneered down at the elf before him. “You shame your bloodline, half-breed. What kind of dragon fights with their fists?”
Symilra cracked her knuckles. “Funny,” she said. “I thought I was more famous in your circles. I am a prolific dragonslayer, after all.”
Zarlith’s nostrils flared, electricity arcing between his fangs. “You dare mock a great—”
She struck first.
A single leap closed the distance, and her fist—charged with the full force of her draconic might—collided with his snout. Scales split under the impact, A deep fracture split across his snout as he staggered back, and hot dragon’s blood—thick, electric—splattered her knuckles. Zarlith snarled, snapping his jaws—she twisted midair, landing a kick against his eye ridge before flipping away.
"Foolish," he growled. Blood trickled from his lip, but he grinned, sharp and cruel. "Do you think you can kill me with those little hands?"
The battle was brutal, electric. Zarlith was fast—faster than most creatures his size had any right to be—but Symilra was faster. She darted under his swiping claws, her fists and feet striking like hammer blows against his hardened scales.
Zarlith’s tail lashed out. Symilra ducked, spinning under the strike before driving her heel into the joint of his wing. The dragon roared, retaliating with a swipe of his claws. She twisted, barely avoiding the raking talons, but his tail found its mark—a bolt of pain cracking through her ribs as she was flung against the cavern wall.
Pain seared through her. Her silver circuits flickered. Rocks crumbled around her, but she was already moving again, already grinning. “That all you got?” she taunted, wiping blood from her lip.
Zarlith grinned back. “Feeling fragile, little one?” His laughter rumbled deep as he sneered. “I expected more from a silver. You’re just a pretender.” He coiled his serpentine body, arcs of lightning snapping between his horns. “Let me show you what real dragon blood can do.”
Symilra exhaled slowly. This was the moment she hoped to experience… Fighting a true dragon of this caliber head-on? That was a joy found rarely—especially in her true form. She usually preferred the precision and grace of her elven form—but right now? Something primal called.
She allowed the shift to take hold. Magic tore through her, a tidal wave crashing against the dam of her elven body. The circuits on her skin seared like constellations igniting, and then—her bones stretched, muscles expanded, silver scales rippled across her form, wings unfurling. Where once stood an elven warrior, now towered a silver dragon, eyes glowing like twin stars. The cavern trembled beneath her weight as she roared, the temperature dropping in an instant. Frost crept across the stone.
Zarlith’s smugness faltered.
Then she attacked. The raw power of muscle and scale. The exhilaration of claw against claw. It was something raw, coded in her instincts and, by the gods, she liked it.
Ice and lightning clashed in a violent tempest. Her claws met his, her fangs sought his throat. He tried to rise, to gain the sky—but she slammed him down with raw, unrelenting force.
Their struggle shattered stone, sent hoarded gold scattering. She fought with brutal efficiency—freezing his limbs, snapping his wings, tearing through his defenses with the sheer inevitability of a winter storm.
After a long fight, Zarlith’s roars turned desperate. He launched one final attack, a last defiant strike—Symilra caught his maw in her claws, let it bite her arms with victorious joy, then exhaled a breath of pure freezing death.
Frost crackled over his scales, creeping into every crevice. Then—with a final wrench—she snapped his frozen neck clean off. His golden eyes widened, then dulled. The cavern fell silent. Symilra stood over the corpse, heart pounding, every nerve alight. Oh, Bahamut, that felt good. That felt great.
She shifted back, body aching, breath coming in ragged gasps. With a final glance at the hoard—she never cared for treasure—she broke off one of the blue dragon’s horns as a trophy before stepping out into the night.
Vaeltar was waiting when she returned. His silver eyes swept over her bruises, the lightning burns and bite marks along her arms. His expression barely shifted, but she knew him well enough to catch the slight downturn of his lips.
“I don’t send you out there to get trashed,” he said.
Symilra, still grinning despite herself, stretched. “Yet you keep sending me in every time.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Also, you should see the other guy.”
He sighed.
She looped an arm around him, steering him toward his laboratory. “Come on, big brother. Make me a drink.”