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Autumn had just surrendered to winter when my apprentice and I trudged "home" from our supply run.
We'd been squatting—or as I preferred to think of it, temporarily appropriating—the abandoned inn on Klah for several months now. While Isstvan had left behind an impressive wine cellar, our food stores were becoming increasingly sparse. Skeeve occasionally managed to trap some wild game, but it wouldn't be enough to see us through the coming winter. The kid was already too thin as it was.
Our expedition to the nearby village had yielded modest treasures: dense bread that could double as a weapon, cheese that announced its presence from three rooms away, dried fruit that could crack teeth, and jerky that made me question everything I knew about the preservation of meat. The kid had filled the outbound journey with his usual endless stream of questions, his breath visible in little puffs of condensation.
But now, on our return, his chatter had died away. Something about the silence felt wrong.
When we finally reached the inn, Skeeve stumbled against the doorframe. I shot him a suspicious look but held my tongue.
Our lesson the next day was excruciating. The kid just sat there, quiet as a church mouse, not interrupting once. Coming from Skeeve, silence was more alarming than any explosion.
"Alright, spill it," I growled, fixing him with my best interrogation stare. "Who are you and what have you done with my apprentice?"
He looked up at me, his eyes struggling to focus. "I'm fine, Aahz," he insisted with all the conviction of a wet paper bag. "Just tired."
I wasn't born yesterday—or even in the last few centuries. The kid was many things, but a convincing liar wasn't one of them. I was working on that, though. Looking closer, I noticed the unnatural flush in his cheeks and the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"Yeah, you're looking a little green around the gills there, kid," I said, my tone softening despite my best efforts to maintain my gruff exterior. "Looks like you picked up more than supplies in that village."
"But the lessons..." Skeeve protested.
"Can wait," I cut him off, steering him toward the stairs. "Magik isn't going anywhere, and neither are you until you're better." The words came out gentler than I intended. Must be losing my edge.
This dimension was about as exciting as watching paint dry in slow motion when the kid was healthy—without his endless chatter and ridiculous questions, it promised to be about as entertaining as a Vogon poetry reading. I busied myself with the inn's main fireplace, making sure to keep the blizzard outside at bay. Couldn't have the kid catching a chill on top of whatever other nonsense he'd managed to pick up.
The hours crawled by. I found myself wearing a path in the inn's ancient floorboards, my claws clicking against the wood in a rhythm that would have driven a lesser demon to madness. Every creak from upstairs had me freezing mid-stride, ears pricked forward for- what?
As dusk painted the snow-covered landscape in shades of purple and gray, Skeeve emerged from his room. He'd wrapped himself in a blanket, shuffling toward the stairs with all the grace of a drunken Gargoyle attempting interpretive dance.
"And just what do you think you're doing?" I demanded, trying to sound more irritated than worried. It wasn't entirely successful.
"Just... getting water," he mumbled through chattering teeth.
I heaved a sigh that carried the weight of several dimensions' worth of exasperation. "You're not fooling anyone, kid. I can see you shaking from here."
Skeeve's shoulders slumped in defeat, the blankets sliding down to reveal his flushed face. "Okay, you're right," he admitted, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "I don't feel so great."
"Back to bed," I ordered, using my best 'don't even think about arguing with me' tone—the one that usually sent lesser beings scrambling for cover. "I'll bring you water and another blanket."
Watching him shuffle back upstairs, I felt something twist in my gut. Something that felt suspiciously like... worry? No, absolutely not. Must have been that questionable jerky. Pervects don't do worry. We especially don't do worry about scrawny apprentices.
I grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, snatching up a heavy quilt that looked like it had survived several wars and at least one dimensional collapse. The kid's room was a reasonable temperature, but he was still shivering. Without conscious thought, my scaled hands moved with surprising gentleness as I spread the extra quilt over him, with a care I hadn't known I possessed.
"Thanks, Aahz," came a whisper so faint it could have been my imagination.
I grunted in response, a sound that could have meant anything from "you're welcome" to "don't mention it or I'll feed you to the nearest dragon." I pulled the door closed behind me, trying to ignore the way my chest felt tight with an emotion I refused to name.
Back downstairs, I resumed my pacing, attempting to drown out my thoughts with the steady click-click-click of my claws against the floor. This is exactly why I don't do partners or apprentices, I reminded myself firmly. Too much hassle. Too many... feelings. Disgusting, really. Pervects aren't supposed to care about anyone but themselves. It's practically in the manual.
But I had to admit—if only to myself, in the privacy of my own thoughts—the kid had grown on me. Like a particularly stubborn fungus, maybe, but still. There was something about his earnest enthusiasm, his wide-eyed wonder at the dimensions that was... well, I hesitate to use the word 'endearing', but there you have it. Not to mention his raw magical talent, which was frankly astonishing for such a country bumpkin.
Outside, the snow had intensified into a proper storm, howling around the old inn like a pack of Deveels who'd just discovered they'd been outbargained. The wind found every crack and crevice in the ancient building, making the timbers groan and shift like a living thing.
An hour or two later, I found myself climbing the creaking stairs to his room.
"Hey, kid," I called softly, approaching the bed with uncharacteristic caution. "How're you holding up?"
Skeeve's eyes fluttered open, but they had the glazed look of someone trying to read contract fine print through fog. "Aahz?" he croaked, his voice sounding like he'd been gargling with gravel. "Is that you?"
I frowned, my concern ratcheting up several notches. "No, it's the tooth fairy" I drawled, but my attempt at sarcasm fell flat when he just stared at me blankly, his breathing shallow and labored. I reached out to touch his forehead and immediately yanked my hand back—the kid was burning hotter than a fire elemental.
This situation was rapidly spiraling from bad to worse, and let me tell you, concern is not an emotion I wear comfortably. It's right up there with 'empathy' and 'selfless generosity' on the list of things that could get my Pervect citizenship revoked.
The problems were stacking up like unpaid bar tabs. First off, I'm about as qualified to be a healer as Gleep is to be a chess master. The last time I'd played nurse was... actually, let's not go there. Different dimension, different story, and most definitely different statute of limitations.
Secondly, my knowledge of Klahddish physiology was not exactly extensive. Sure, I knew the basics—heart, lungs, red blood, shouldn't feel like they're about to spontaneously combust—but beyond that? I was flying blind.
But the kid was my apprentice, and I'd become responsible for him. The thought made me bare my teeth in frustration. Responsibility. Yet another thing that should have been surgically removed from my emotional repertoire long ago.
If I had my powers, I could have solved this faster than a Pervect could spot a sucker in a crowd. Whip up a healing spell, pop over to a more advanced dimension for some medicine, or even just teleport us both to a hospital. But no—thanks to Garkin's last "gift," I was stuck in this backwater dimension with a sick apprentice and a snowstorm that would make a Frost Giant think twice about going outside.
Fine then. I'd just have to figure something out myself. How hard could it be to cure a simple Klahddish fever?
I paced the room, my claws leaving tiny marks in the wooden floor as my mind raced through options. Herbs? No good—my knowledge of Klahddish plants was limited to "probably won't kill you" and "definitely will kill you," with a distressingly large grey area in between. Magik? Fat chance—I was about as magical as a brick, and Skeeve could barely keep his eyes open let alone attempt a spell. Soup? Not a cure per se but it might make him feel better.
Then it hit me like an Asguardian war hammer to the head. Of course! One of the most reliable fever remedies in all the dimensions: powdered unicorn horn. And as luck would have it—or perhaps the universe's twisted sense of humor—I had access to that very thing.
You see, unicorns shed their horns annually, like deer antlers, except with more sparkles and significantly more magical potential. Buttercup had shed his in late spring, and I'd been holding onto it, waiting for the right moment to sell it in a dimension that would properly appreciate its value. Who knew it would end up being useful for something other than lining my pockets?
I tore through the inn, searching for both the horn and something to crush it with. In my haste, I knocked over what felt like half the furniture in the place—though to be fair, most of it was already teetering on the edge of collapse anyway. Finally, after ransacking three rooms and probably adding a few new curse words to the local vocabulary, I had everything I needed.
I brewed the tea with water that was probably a bit too hot—patience has never been my strong suit—and dissolved the powdered horn in it, watching the liquid turn a faint, shimmering blue. I erred on the side of caution with the dosage because, knowing my luck, Skeeve would turn out to be the first Klahd in history to be allergic to unicorn horn. The last thing I needed was for him to start speaking in rhyming couplets or sprouting feathers from his ears.
"Alright, kid," I announced, carrying the steaming concoction up to his room with all the gravity of a master alchemist. "Drink up. Doctor's orders."
Skeeve blinked at me through fever-glazed eyes, managing to look skeptical even in his addled state. "You're not a doctor," he mumbled, his words slurring together like a drunk Imp's.
"I'm the closest thing you've got right now," I retorted, trying not to think about how depressing that fact was. "Now drink before I decide to pour it down your throat myself."
He managed to swallow about half. I chose to count it as a win anyway. "Just go back to sleep," I told him, attempting to sound gruff rather than concerned. "You'll feel better soon." I hoped I wasn't lying—my reputation for creative truth-telling notwithstanding.
"Mmmkayaahz," he responded, the words melting together into one.
I retreated downstairs, feeling simultaneously hopeful and utterly useless—an emotional combination about as comfortable as a bull in a china shop. All I could do now was wait and see if the unicorn horn worked its magic. Hah. Magic. The irony of that particular word choice wasn't lost on me.
Just as I was finally starting to drift off to sleep myself, I was jolted awake by what sounded like someone trying to demolish my door with a battering ram. The noise resolved itself into frantic scratching, accompanied by a high-pitched whine that could have shattered glass.
I tried ignoring it at first, operating on the principle that if you pretend a problem doesn't exist long enough, it might actually go away. It's a philosophy that's gotten me into trouble more times than I can count, but hope springs eternal.
No such luck. The scratching intensified, and the whining took on a note of urgency that set my teeth on edge.
Finally, I yanked the door open, ready to give Gleep a piece of my mind—and possibly introduce him to the concept of becoming a dragon-skin rug. "Are you serious with this right now?" I hissed, mindful of Skeeve sleeping upstairs. "Go chase your tail somewhere else."
But Gleep was already halfway down the hall, looking back at me with an expression I'd never seen on his usually vapid face. It was... worried? He let out another whine, different from his usual vocalizations. The sound raised the scales on the back of my neck.
The dragon scampered up the stairs, pausing every few steps to look back at me with an urgency that was impossible to ignore. I hesitated. Was Gleep actually displaying signs of intelligence?
But something in the dragon's manner sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the winter storm still raging outside. I followed him up the stairs, my heart doing uncomfortable acrobatics in my chest.
Gleep led me straight to Skeeve's room, where the door stood slightly ajar. A sense of foreboding washed over me.
"Kid?" I called out, rapping my knuckles against the wooden frame. The silence that answered twisted something in my gut. "Kid?" I tried again, louder this time, my voice bouncing off the walls like a trapped thing.
A faint whimper from inside the room made my scales stand on end. I pushed the door open, my eyes adjusting to the darkness faster than any Klahd's could. His blankets had been thrown to the floor. The kid himself was curled into a tight ball on the bed, alarmingly still.
"Skeeve!" I moved to his side in three quick strides, reaching out to touch his forehead. Heat positively radiated off him. I jerked back, cursing in every language I knew—and after centuries of dimensional travel, that's quite a few.
Apparently, I had seriously miscalculated either the required dosage of unicorn horn, its effectiveness on Klahds, or both. Probably both. Add "amateur pharmacist" to the growing list of careers I should never pursue.
I paced the room. What now? What else did I know about treating fevers that didn't involve magic or dimensional travel?
I needed to bring down his body temperature. But gradually and safely. Cool compresses—that was a thing, right? It wasn't much of a plan, but it beat standing around watching my apprentice slowly cook from the inside out.
I thundered down to the kitchen, ransacking drawers and cupboards. Finally, I found what I needed: a clean cloth (or clean enough—this wasn't exactly a royal infirmary) and a bowl. I filled it with cool water, trying not to slosh it everywhere as I climbed back up the stairs.
Skeeve hadn't moved, except maybe to curl in on himself even tighter. There was a chair in the room, I pulled it next to the bed and sat down. Dipping the cloth in the cool water, I wrung it out and placed it gently on his forehead.
His eyes fluttered open, but they were as unfocused as a wizard after a week-long spell binge. "Aahz?" he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper.
"I'm here, kid," I replied, trying to sound reassuring. It wasn't a tone I had much practice with. Threatening? Sure. Sarcastic? I could do that in my sleep. But reassuring? That was as foreign to me as honest business practices were to a Deveel. "Just trying to bring your fever down. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got stepped on by a spider-bear," Skeeve croaked, his eyes sliding shut again.
I frowned, continuing to dab at his forehead with the cool cloth. "I know, kid. Just try to rest."
As I sat there, playing nursemaid to my feverish apprentice, the sheer absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on me. Here I was, a Pervect—a species that had built its reputation on being the most feared and ruthless beings in the dimensions—dabbing at a sick Klahd's forehead. If any of my old associates could see me now, they'd laugh themselves sick.
But as I watched Skeeve's labored breathing, listened to each rattling inhale and shaky exhale, I realized something that shook me: I didn't care what anyone else would think. This scrawny, too-clever-for-his-own-good kid had somehow worked his way past every defense I'd built up over centuries of looking out for number one. And damn it all, I was going to make sure he pulled through this.
I just hoped I was up to the task. Because if I wasn't... well, that wasn't an option I was willing to consider.
I decided to try another round of unicorn horn tea, this time throwing caution to the wind. It’s the kind of logic that's gotten me into trouble more times than I can count, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and we were well past desperate and into territory that would make even a seasoned demon nervous.
"You need to drink this, kid. No arguments." I helped Skeeve sit up, supporting his back as he weakly grasped the cup. His hands were shaking, forcing me to steady them as he sipped. After a few swallows, he turned his head away.
"Come on, just a bit more," I coaxed, surprising myself with the gentleness in my voice. If anyone had told me a year ago that I'd be using that tone with anyone, let alone a Klahddish apprentice, I'd have questioned their sobriety and probably their sanity too. He managed a few more sips before slumping back against the pillows, his eyes closing as if they were weighted with lead.
I set the cup aside, noting with growing unease that he'd barely managed to drink half. It would have to do. Gleep whined softly from his position at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on Skeeve with an intelligence that continued to startle me. The dragon's tail twitched anxiously, and he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot like he wanted to help but didn't know how.
"He'll be okay," I told Gleep, though whether I was trying to convince the dragon or myself was anybody's guess.
I kept up a steady rhythm of refreshing the cool compress and coaxing tea into the kid when he was conscious enough to swallow. The hours blended together like colors in a dimensional vortex, marked only by the gradual shifting of shadows across the floor and my growing sense of helplessness. I felt more useless than I had in centuries.
The fever seemed to peak in the early hours of the morning, when the darkness was at its deepest and even the howling storm outside had quieted to a whisper. Skeeve tossed and turned, muttering things in a way that made my blood run cold. I caught fragments about his father, snippets about Garkin—his old master—and then, to my surprise, my own name.
"Aahz... no... don't go..." Skeeve mumbled, his face contorted in distress. "Please... I'm sorry... don't leave..."
Something in my chest constricted painfully. I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground him in reality. "It's alright, kid. You're safe. I'm not going anywhere." The words felt strange on my tongue, but they were true—when had that happened? When had I gone from seeing this apprenticeship as a temporary inconvenience to... whatever this was?
His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused as a broken crystal ball. For a moment, he seemed to look right through me, as if seeing something—or someone—else entirely. Then recognition dawned, slow and uncertain.
"Aahz?" he whispered, his voice hoarse and confused. "What... where am I?"
"You're in your room at the inn," I explained, with a patience I didn't know I possessed. "You've been sick with a fever."
Confusion clouded his features like smoke in a scrying mirror. "The inn? But... I was just..." He trailed off, clearly struggling to separate reality from fever dreams.
"It's okay, kid. Just try to relax," I said, adjusting the compress on his forehead. My claws, usually instruments of intimidation, moved with surprising gentleness as I dabbed at his fevered skin.
Skeeve's eyes darted around the room, eventually settling on Gleep at the foot of the bed. The dragon, who had been maintaining his vigil with unprecedented focus, perked up immediately. His usual vapid expression was replaced with something that looked disturbingly like actual intelligence – a transformation that would have fascinated me if I weren't so preoccupied with his master's condition.
Gleep slithered forward until he could gently nuzzle Skeeve's hand. The dragon's usual enthusiastic "Gleep!" was replaced with a soft, concerned whimper that could have melted the heart of a Deveelish tax collector. Not mine, of course.
A weak smile flickered across Skeeve's face. "Hey, boy," he murmured, his fingers lightly scratching Gleep's scales.
I felt a glimmer of hope spark in my chest – an unfamiliar and thoroughly unwelcome sensation that I tried to squash immediately. But it refused to go away. If the kid was coherent enough to recognize his pet, maybe we were turning a corner.
As dawn crept over the horizon I noticed a change in Skeeve's breathing. The ragged, uneven gasps had smoothed out into something more regular. The feverish muttering had ceased, replaced by the soft sounds of genuine sleep rather than fever-induced delirium.
I placed my scaled hand on his forehead, holding my breath without realizing it – not that I'd ever admit to such an emotional display. His temperature had dropped significantly, no longer rivaling the surface of a sun. The relief that flooded through me was absolutely not affecting my professional demeanor. Obviously.
I must have dozed off at some point – a fact that would have mortified me if anyone had been around to witness such a display of weakness – because I woke up with a start, still awkwardly perched in the chair by Skeeve's bed. Sunlight was streaming through the window and the room was quiet except for the soft snoring of Gleep, who had maintained his own vigil with surprising dedication. I had to admit, if only to myself, that the dragon had shown remarkable loyalty throughout this ordeal. Maybe he wasn't such a useless pet after all.
I looked over at Skeeve and found him awake, his blue eyes clear and alert for the first time in what felt like several lifetimes (and being a demon, I had some perspective on that).
"Hey, kid," I said, trying to keep my voice casual. "How are you feeling?"
Skeeve blinked, seeming to take stock of himself. "Better, I think," he replied, his voice stronger than it had been in days, though still rough around the edges. "What happened?"
I leaned back in my chair, stretching out the kinks in my back. "High fever. You've been pretty out of it."
Skeeve's brow furrowed as he tried to piece together his fragmented memories. "I remember feeling awful... Did you..." he trailed off, looking at me with a mixture of confusion and gratitude.
"Don't get all mushy on me, kid," I grumbled, though I couldn't quite keep the relief out of my voice. "I couldn't very well let my apprentice keel over from a lousy fever, could I? Bad for business."
"Thanks, Aahz," Skeeve said softly, his eyes full of genuine appreciation.
I felt a twinge of... something. Embarrassment? Pride? Whatever it was, I didn't like it. It made me feel exposed, vulnerable. Two more things a demon should never be.
I waved off his gratitude with a dismissive hand. "Don't mention it, kid. Seriously, don't. I have a reputation to maintain."
But Skeeve pressed on, his earnest blue eyes fixed on me. "No, really. I can't imagine you are used to... well, caring for anyone."
I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the kid's heartfelt gratitude. "Yeah, well... don't get used to it. This was a one-time deal, got it?"
Skeeve nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Got it."
"Good," I grunted. "Now, you are probably pretty dehydrated. Think you can keep some broth down? "
"I think so," Skeeve replied, slowly pushing himself up to a sitting position.
"I'll rustle up something," I said, standing up. "You stay put. And no magik until you're fully recovered, understand?"
Skeeve nodded obediently, though I could see the questions already forming in his eyes. I sighed inwardly. The kid's insatiable curiosity was returning - a sure sign he was on the mend.
As I closed the door behind me, I heard Skeeve settling back into his pillows, Gleep making contented noises at the foot of the bed. I paused for a moment, my scaled hand still resting on the wooden doorframe. Through the crack, I could see my apprentice, his face peaceful. Gleep had curled himself into an impossibly tight ball, his tail twitching occasionally as he dreamed whatever dreams plague the minds of dragons.
The scene stirred something in me that I'd thought had died centuries ago, buried under layers of cynicism and self-interest. It was... uncomfortable. Like wearing shoes two sizes too small.
I made my way down to the kitchen, my claws clicking against the wooden stairs in a rhythm that had become familiar over these past months. The morning sun streamed through the frost-covered windows, casting prismatic rainbows across the worn floorboards. Outside, the storm had finally exhausted itself, leaving behind a world transformed into crystalline white.
As I rummaged through our supplies, looking for something that wouldn't tax Skeeve's recovering system (and wouldn't be made worse by my dubious culinary skills), I found myself reflecting on the events of the past few days. The fear that had gripped me when I'd seen him so ill, the relief that had flooded through me when his fever finally broke—these weren't emotions a proper Pervect should experience. We were supposed to be ruthless, cunning, self-serving. The kind of beings that other dimensions told scary stories about.
And yet...
I'd spent centuries building a reputation as one of the most feared demons in the dimensions. I'd out-bargained Deveels, out-fought Trolls, and out-maneuvered beings so powerful they made Greater Demons look like apprentice magicians. But somehow, this scrawny kid from a backwater dimension had managed to do what entire armies of enemies had failed to accomplish: he'd made me care.
The realization hit me- I actually cared what happened to this apprentice of mine. Not just because he was useful, or because teaching him gave me something to do while stuck in this lousy dimension, but because... well, because he was Skeeve.
I growled under my breath, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls. This was precisely the kind of sentimental nonsense that could ruin a demon's reputation. Next thing you know, I'd be helping little old ladies across the street or rescuing cats from trees.
Just a few months ago, I was a demon without powers, stuck in a backwater dimension with a clueless apprentice who could barely light a candle with magik. Now... well, I was still powerless and stuck in a backwater dimension, but the apprentice? He wasn't quite so clueless anymore. And somehow, against all logic and every instinct I'd developed over centuries of looking out for number one, I'd found myself invested in his success.
Maybe, just maybe, I was starting to get the hang of this mentoring thing after all. Not that I'd ever admit it out loud, mind you. I still had some standards to maintain.