After a minute’s rest from exercising, he had an idea. “I’ll sketch the twelve nobles.” He sat in comfort at his old study desk, preparing to create a sketch of the dozen blood magic cult members. The familiar scent of aged parchment, fresh scrolls, and ink filled his senses like a welcome embrace.

  “This brings back memories,” he murmured, running his hand over the time-worn surface. His fingertips traced the wood grain and the faint grooves left by years of scribbling and note-taking. Faded ink stains still marked the desk, little accidents of creativity from a younger self.

  “This used to be Dad’s.” A frown crept onto his face as he remembered the fire that had consumed this and so much more. “I have to kill him to protect my family, to protect this new life.” Jack closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Thank you for this second chance,” he prayed to the Gods. “I will not waste it.”

  When he opened his eyes, a smile bloomed as he spotted a tiny figure perched at the corner of the desk. “PenDragon.” The name fell from his lips like a reunion with an old friend.

  The miniature clockwork dragon, no more than six inches tall, sat atop a little wooden pedestal, wings folded along its glittering blue back, its tiny jaw agape in silent vigilance. It was a mechanical toy powered by magic, a marvel of delicate rune enchantments and clever gears, and one of the finest presents his mom had ever given him.

  At the sound of its name, PenDragon, the little dragon’s eyes glowed bright blue, ready for voice-activated commands from its master.

  “I’d forgotten all about you,” Jack said, reaching out and lifting the tiny dragon into his palm. Before the fire that destroyed everything, he hadn’t activated the toy in years, having grown beyond his childhood.

  “PenDragon,” he whispered again, stroking the tiny dragon’s polished head. “Still on duty, huh?” He placed the toy back on the desk, where it blinked once as if to acknowledge its master’s return. “What the hell, let’s have some fun,” he said, with a big smile. “PenDragon, fly around the room three times and return.”

  PenDragon’s eyes flashed blue, acknowledging the commands. With a puff of aether-steam, the tiny mechanical dragon flew in the air and lapped Jack’s room three times before returning.

  Jack laughed while recalling the hours of fun he’d had as a child ordering the dragon to fetch his crayons or to send his mom a message via the voice recording option. ‘Mommy, me and PenDragon are hungry, can we have a snack, please?’ was a popular one.

  He had an idea. “PenDragon. Record the following message. ‘Hi, Mom. I love you.’” Jack smiled. Mom will like that, he thought. “PenDragon. Deliver the last message to Mom in the kitchen downstairs and return.”

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  As the little dragon’s eyes flashed blue, acknowledging the command, Jack rushed to open the door; the toy couldn’t open doors. PenDragon took flight, a puff of aether-steam in its wake as it navigated its way to the kitchen.

  Jack listened at the door. From the kitchen, he heard his own voice, ‘Hi, Mom. I love you.’ Followed by his mother shrieking in fright and the clatter of pots and pans.

  His mom yelled, “Fucking hell, Jack! Are you trying to kill me?”

  Jack’s eyes widened at the realisation; he ran to the kitchen, almost getting hit in the head by PenDragon as it returned up the stairs to his room. “Sorry, Mom. I was, erm, being nice?”

  His mom looked at him while she picked an old pan off the floor. “That’s my cast-iron skillet; the good one!” She shook her head while checking the pan for damage. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing with toys?”

  “Sorry, Mom,” he said, feeling guilty. “Do you want me to clean it?” Pointing at the old pan that was ‘the good one’, which looked no different to any other pan.

  She looked at him like he’d threatened to use it as a chamberpot. “Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to maintain a good skillet like this one?” She shook her head again and added, “Barbarians, the lot of you. No respect for good kitchenware.” She pointed at the door. “Get out of my kitchen.”

  Jack shrugged. As far as he was concerned, it was just another pan. As he returned to his room, he heard his mom say, “The idiot wants to clean my good cast-iron skillet. I failed to raise him right.”

  He sat back down at the desk. “PenDragon, be vigilant, there’s evil afoot,” he said in a serious tone, before laughing again.

  The little blue dragon’s eyes flashed in acknowledgement.

  Jack took a deep breath and reached for a clean sheet of parchment and a well-sharpened pencil. He closed his eyes, letting his fingers move instinctively, guided by muscle memory and the [Draughtsmanship] skill. Lines flowed across the page with practised ease, each stroke capturing precise detail; the nobleman’s refined features, the sweep of his long silver hair, and the tall, ostentatious top hat.

  Without the burn scars hindering his right hand, everything felt amazing. His right hand itched a little from the rose thorn, but that was nothing compared to how it used to feel. “I forgot how good this feels without the damage.”

  The sketch began to take life. Shadows gave depth to cheekbones; the curl of a sneer shaped his lips. His waistcoat was richly embroidered, marked by traces of red, a subtle, but deliberate indication of wealth and power.

  “Based on the way he carried himself,” Jack examined the haughty tilt of the head he’d drawn, “he might’ve been the leader.” He paused, studying the finished sketch. “I wonder if he was Viscount Tides?”

  PenDragon puffed a tiny cloud of aether-steam as if sharing his suspicion.

  “That is really high-quality.” He was admiring the finished sketch. “It’s so life-like.” Jack laughed when he realised why. “It’s my higher Compatibility score.” It was now 70% vs 43% before he died. The higher affinities would have helped as well.

  “Whichever Gods have given me this chance, thank you. Thank you so much.”

  As he completed the last noble’s likeness, Baron Greaves, his [Draughtsmanship] skill levelled up. He dropped the pencil in shock. “I got a level from a simple sketch, and it’s a scribe skill!”