I remember walking these halls, flanked by priests.

  I remember the serenity of years past, and then later, the dread, knowing what was to come, and what I had to do.

  Celestial Sanctuary Temple has been my shelter and my prison—self-selected, but nevertheless—for half a millennium.

  And now, it's time to leave it.

  When I get to the entry chamber of the temple, I hear voices beyond the doors.

  "We outnumber you," an unfamiliar voice says. "You know it's over for you. You might as well come quietly."

  And the dragon replies, simply, "No."

  I feel the priests' magic increase—they're running an attack form. People who aren't sages amplify their magical power by working in concert, performing katas together in perfect sync. It is their combined focus that compounds their power.

  "I gave you a chance," their spokesperson says. "Now it's on your head."

  As if 'coming quietly' to be murdered was a real choice.

  And being outnumbered, believing there was nothing to be done but stay quiet... that is familiar to me, and it burgeons my wrath once again.

  The priesthood has not changed for the better.

  I feel the moment the dragon's magic changes form, and it jolts me into motion.

  After transformation into their draconic forms, dragons have a narrow window before they have to hibernate. The shift uses too much energy.

  Urgency and wrath propel me toward the double doors of the temple.

  Aggravating man, putting himself at risk to defend me when he's the one who needed help—

  With both hands, I burst open the doors.

  The tableau before me freezes.

  Which is good, because for a moment, I'm blinded.

  It's been a long time since my eyes have been exposed to sunlight.

  In their surprise, the priests shift automatically into a holding pattern—I feel the magical energy plateau—waiting to see if they need to adjust tactics and forms.

  Then the dragon—shimmering like ivory, I hadn't known he was white, always imagined blue—shifts toward me, shielding me briefly, and I can see well enough to step toward him.

  Beside him.

  A sage and a dragon, on the same side.

  The priesthood may never change unless forced, but I am a sage, and I can.

  And I can make that count.

  It's two of us facing what looks like twenty priests—more must have joined them once the dampening field came down.

  For a long moment, nobody moves.

  Then the spokespriest demands, "Who are you?"

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  A brief moment of surprise, and then that contributes to my wrath.

  Maybe they don't know.

  Maybe they've forgotten, or been made to forget, what happened here.

  In their absence they haven't had to know me, but I've always had to know who they are.

  Maybe they can't see my magenta eyes.

  But they will.

  I roll my wrist again, a bare movement that gets the aura of my power glowing again.

  Then I move quickly through an abbreviated kata—a shortcut I developed for myself many years ago for battle use, the muscle memory coming back and the power-up faster than ever.

  Magenta magical aura surrounding me, I reply, "Who do you think?"

  The wide-eyed priests stumble into a defensive form.

  I take the moment to pass the dragon's pack back to him, placing it on his back and accidentally brushing his scales.

  At that touch, I feel a rush of—I'm not sure what it is, honestly, too quick for me to identify if that was emotion or magic, mine or his, or some combination of the two.

  But that's for later, if we have a later, and right now, I have business.

  The spokespriest tries, "Identify yourself. Sages belong to the priesthood, and you are threatening representatives of—"

  "I know who you are, and I'm not impressed."

  Another quick form, my power spilling out of me fast enough to leave me lightheaded.

  This is a lot for someone who hasn't moved in several centuries and who just broke her own working.

  But wrath isn't simply anger; it's clarified.

  Right now, there is much I don't know.

  I can kill these priests, but should I? Do I even want to?

  Maybe killing is all I'm good for, like the priesthood wanted me to believe, but I don't want to be the person they wanted.

  And if I can do something, if I have a unique ability to kill, does that mean I have an obligation to?

  After so many years, with people in power still like this, is there any hope that anything can change—that I could be something else?

  But: I am very clear on two things.

  First, the fact that the priesthood is still able to operate like this is an obscene affront.

  And second:

  No matter what else comes, they absolutely don't get to kill a dragon today.

  A ball of crackling magenta magic forms in my hands, growing with every move I make through my kata until it is so big I am looking at the priests through its light, my lens.

  "Now you face both a dragon and me," I tell them. "And I am no stranger to killing."

  My words hang in the air.

  The priests are so shocked by this extreme escalation that they actually lose their cohesion; unimaginably sloppy and dangerous for all of them.

  But we are both lucky, because my manifestation of this level of magic with so little build-up in my kata-work, depending on shortcuts, is a tactical error, like lifting a weight a magnitude beyond what you've trained.

  If I actually let this go, it might hit them.

  Or it might disintegrate into nothing beforehand because I don't have the foundation to maintain it.

  Or I might pass out first. Hard to say.

  I'm banking on them not knowing what I'm capable of and not being willing to risk their own hides to test me.

  Then in my mind I hear the dragon's voice. ?Carefully,? he says. ?Don't commit yourself to a course that will kill you.?

  I spare a glance to glare at him fleetingly. Who is he to decide what I can and cannot do? He doesn't know me any better than I know him.

  And I am being careful.

  If I weren't, we would all already be a bloody mess.

  In a wryer tone, he adds, ?It feels like you have about as much left as me.?

  So little?

  Perhaps he's right; I didn't really have a moment to take stock of my power levels before charging in. Which is his fault.

  I can't reply to him mind-to-mind; that's not among my powers.

  But when the priests share looks, clearly on the edge of deciding if it's worth testing me, I make sure to smile.

  I smile wide, allowing my anger to burgeon up in my chest, the aura of my power increasing as the dragon at my side simultaneously lashes his powerful tail once into the ground hard enough to break the earth—

  And the priests' ranks break.

  First a few, then in a rush, they flee.

  I hold the sphere of power, relief making me lightheaded.

  I didn't kill anyone today.

  I didn't have to kill after all.

  And now there will be a tomorrow for the dragon.

  Maybe that can be my legacy—

  A world where people who don't actually know each other give it their all to give other people a chance.

  ?You were supposed to take the supplies and find freedom,? the dragon's voice growls in my mind.

  Irritation replaces my moment of victory.

  I have always been quick to anger.

  I whirl on him, releasing the magic with my unstructured movement. "You were supposed to use the opening I gave you to find your freedom!"

  We glare into each other's eyes.

  His the same shocking blue as his hair; mine the vivid magenta of my magic.

  Then the abrupt surges of magic catch up with me all at once, and I pass out after all.

  With the baffling thought chasing me into darkness, that maybe now—even unconscious; even with a dragon I don't know—it's finally, finally safe to.