"Gris? What the hell happened to you?" Gram frowned, studying him.
Houshao'nao smiled bitterly. "I'm not the Gris you remember, Master. I'm just a lowly mercenary now."
"No. Impossible. Your grasp of magic should surpass mine. Who did this to you? I refuse to believe it." Gram's voice trembled with grief.
*"Me, you old drunk. I did this,"* the donkey preened inwardly.
Houshao'nao glanced at the smug donkey, heart aching. "Forget me, Master." He turned to leave. The donkey, caught off guard, trotted after him.
"Gris…" Gram whispered, defeated.
In the mercenary tavern, Houshao'nao slumped in a corner, staring at a dozen empty mugs. The bartender—today's server—approached softly.
"Rough day?"
He shook his head. "Lost everything. Hope, purpose…"
She smiled. "A true mercenary never quits till the last breath. That mission I mentioned—still open."
His eyes lit, recalling Jon's advice. "Is it too late to take it?"
"Never too late for courage."
He stood, resolved. "Thank you. What's your dream? Entering the academy?"
She nodded. "Almost there. Just five gold short for a probationary spot."
"Probationary student? How?"
"Missed the deadline. Now I work here, saving up."
Moved, he emptied his pockets into her hand. "You gave me back my spine. Let me return the favor."
"No, I can't—"
"Listen. I've hit rock bottom. Your words pulled me back. Take it. Chase your dream."
She stared, speechless, as he walked out, his shadow shrinking into the night.
"Boss, you're (crazy)! Galloping at midnight?" the donkey complained as they neared the academy.
"Shut up. Your antics cost us our chance."
A stumble, a fall—and Houshao'nao woke in Gram's quarters, sunlight piercing his headache.
"Finally awake? You rambled all night—something about a dragon's *butt*?" Gram grumbled.
Houshao'nao ignored the jibe. "Master, that donkey—he's Durade. The fifth-order dragon."
Gram choked. "Durade? The Southern Warden? But he's—"
"A驴 (donkey) now. Long story." Houshao'nao omitted the curse's origin, focusing on the fall.
Gram tried channeling magic into him, but an invisible barrier repelled it. "Damned curse."
"Save your energy, Master. I have a plan."
"Plan? You're hopeless."
"Precisely. I'm negotiating with the headmaster. As a probationary student, cleaning Beryl's pen in exchange for lodging."
Gram snorted. "You'll die in a week."
"Better than dying a nobody."
At the headmaster's tower, Houshao'nao bargained calmly: "I offer my services as a cleaner. In return: probationary enrollment, lodging here, and Beryl's restraint."
The headmaster laughed, intrigued. "Bold terms. Why should I agree?"
"Because I'm desperate—and competent. You get a free caretaker; I get a chance to study. Fair trade."
"Hmm. Your first task starts tonight. Fail, and Beryl gets a new toy. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
As he left, the headmaster watched, tapping the now-ash (acceptance letter). *"Gris, Durade… the prophecy stirs. Let's see if you survive Beryl's temper."*
In the dragon pen, Beryl snarled at his approach, but a word from the headmaster stilled her. Houshao'nao knelt, shovel in hand, ignoring the donkey's snickers.
"Boss, you're cleaning dragon dung. *Brilliant.*"
"Shut up, Durade. At least we're in."
The donkey froze. *"You knew?!"*
"Please. I recognized your smugness the first day. Now focus—we have a princess to find, a curse to break, and a dragon to outwit."
Somewhere in the academy, Dier stared at her stolen acceptance letter, the ruby necklace burning against her chest. *"I'm sorry, Gris. But some secrets are worth the fire."*
And so the charade began—cleaner by day, student by night, hunter of lies always. In the shadows, Gram polished his staff, watching; the headmaster muttered to his flames; and Beryl napped, unaware her "cleaner" carried the key to her ancient rival's downfall.
The stage was set. The pawn had his move. And in the clash of fire and fate, even a dragon's pen could birth a storm.