“No no no!” The nocturne waved her claws over her familiar, reaching deep for the magic she’d used to infect him. “Apophis, I’m trying!”

The serthis doubled over, hacking terribly, blood dripping from his lips. Willing to take on her contagion to pass the third trial, Apophis had offered himself to her. He’d been by her side since the moment she’d undergone the first trial, and he would continue to do so. He looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot, the face beneath his cinder-red beard grim.

“And if you cannot? It was an honor to serve by your side, Mycotu,” the serthis said between ragged breaths.

“Damnit, no I won’t!” Mycotu cried, her pale green eyes flashing. The virulence of the illness she’d given her willing subject had been intense, even after days perched near the cauldron of pestilence in Plague’s domain to prove her fortitude to Plaguebringer. Even now, the colors upon her hide showed Mother’s approval. And yet...for all her efforts to pull her own disease from her familiar, she could not.

Her lungs burned from the vapors rising from the Wyrmwound, whose great concoction underlit the low clouds a lurid green. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, not entirely from her efforts alone. The serthis she held in her arms once tried to kill her. She’d been a fledgling new from the nest, but she’d bested him. As a code of honor for his clan, he yielded, expecting to be slain. When she had not, he took an oath to be her protector. They’d been a team ever since.

“Mycotu…,” Apophis wheezed.

A shadow fell over them, huge and imposing. At first, Mycotu had no attention for it, until the deep rumble of the voice spoke to her.

“You have failed.”

She looked up at the dragon looming over her. “No! I won’t! I will be a Necromancer!” She exclaimed in protest. “Leave us alone.”

“He will die if I leave. Admit defeat youngling. Mother’s own know that survival sometimes means tactical retreat,” the ridgeback’s voice was not sympathetic nor accusatory, just flat and factual. A pair of brilliantly glowing golden orbs in her face fixed upon Mycotu.

She was right. Mycotu squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears staining her cheeks. How could she have come so far and failed so spectacularly at the finish line? Was she so skilled at spreading contagion that she couldn’t even figure out how to stop it?

After several minutes, the larger dragon spoke again. “You have failed.” After a pause, she added, “But you can still serve.” Extending a claw toward the little nocturne and her familiar, the ridgeback, a clear Necromancer from her colors and marks, drew the sickness from Apophis. In mere moments, he recovered as though he’d never had any symptoms at all.

Beige scales darkened to the color of dried blood. Mycotu felt Mother’s presence, but it was not nearly as strong--as though she still offered her power, but turned her face away in slight shame. No.

“I am in need of a servus. You will do well.” The great ridgeback grumbled. “Come along. Bring your familiar, he too will serve me well.” Without waiting for answer or protest, the larger dragon turned to leave. It seemed she would not force them, but had clearly given them the only way--the best way--to continue along the path they’d begun. Who was she?

“Mistress?” Apophis asked, feeling his throat as though the phantom sickness was still within him.

“If I cannot be a Necromancer, She still approves enough of me to be a Necroservus. I don’t know who she is, but she saved you, and failure is not an option for me. Not anymore. Let us follow her.”