Cameraman Never Dies

Seraphis lounged on the creaky chair, sipping her tea like it was the last drop of sanity she had left in this world. The sunset bathed her face in warm hues, but her mood? Oh, it was anything but warm. Judge had taken himself off to buy groceries hours ago— or so she thought— and her patience was thinner than a sheet of paper in a shredder.

She tapped her foot, muttering under her breath. "Two hours. Two whole hours. What's he doing? Raising the chickens himself? Starting a vegetable farm? Negotiating peace treaties with the cows?"

Spoiler alert: it had not, in fact, been two hours. It had been about 50 minutes, give or take. But Seraphis, the proud owner of zero common sense when it came to checking clocks, had never cared for those silly circles with numbers. Her relationship with time was as complicated as Judge's with groceries.

As if summoned by her rising irritation, Judge burst through the door, his red cloak fluttering dramatically. "I'm home!" he announced like he'd just returned from slaying dragons and rescuing princesses. "Master, I got chicken instead of ham."

Her teacup met the table with a slam that could've cracked the wood. "Where the hell have you been?" she growled, low and ominous like a storm about to let loose.

Judge froze. "W-well, Master, if you don't like chicken, I can, uh, go back and— "

"That's not the problem, you brainless bean sprout!" she snapped. "I said, where have you been for TWO HOURS?!"

Judge blinked. Then he blinked again. The boy had mastered the fine art of looking like a clueless puppy caught chewing the furniture. "Um, Master…" He placed the groceries gingerly on the table, as if they might explode. "It's only been, like, 55 minutes. Tops. Look at the clock. 3:25 to 4:15. Even I know that's not two hours, and math isn't exactly my strong suit." He flashed a sheepish grin, not knowing he messed up the numbers. "Master, you should really learn how to, y'know, read time."

Seraphis glared, her cheeks reddening ever so slightly. For a moment, she looked ready to punt him into next week. Then, with all the grace of someone realizing they'd been caught out, she lowered her head and muttered, "Shut up."

Judge, being the gracious winner that he was, didn't push it. Instead, he waltzed over to the enchanted ice box— a steampunk refrigerator that was the pride of any mage's kitchen— and carefully stored the chicken. The poor guy was practically humming with relief that he wasn't a splatter on the wall yet.

Then, because Judge had a knack for stirring up trouble when the dust was just about to settle, he said, "The plan is proceeding smoothly, Master."

Seraphis raised an eyebrow, her cup halfway to her lips. "The plan? Oh, you mean the vague nonsense you tried to explain earlier. Care to remind me? Something about 'a few talks'? Because from where I'm sitting, your knack for words usually just gets us into fistfights."

Judge grinned, the kind of grin that screamed trust me, I've got this— which, of course, meant everything was about to go spectacularly wrong. "Master, words are power," he said, stroking an imaginary beard like he was Confucius reborn. "They're like tiny sparks. On their own, harmless. But depending on where they land? BOOM. Wildfire. Explosion. Chaos."

"Or they fizzle out and do nothing," Seraphis deadpanned, rolling her eyes so hard they almost got stuck.

"Details, Master, details." Judge waved her skepticism away like a particularly annoying fly. "Now, let me tell you about the time I convinced a guard that chickens were the reincarnation of ancient warriors— "

"Shut up with your supposed-to-be-funny stories." Seraphis got up with her empty glass.

"And you always laugh when I tell them, master."

"Shut up, I will make sure to give you extra bits of training."

"What?! Why?"

———

The massive indoor training ground of the Wistmere Drakonis house was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of ether-infused torches lining the walls. This space was usually reserved for serious, epic-level training that shaped warriors, leaders, and legends. Today, however, it was occupied by one fiery, frustrated teenager who had the grace of a stomping toddler.

Amber paced back and forth like a caged wyvern, her black full-body suit squeaking slightly with every exaggerated movement. It clung to her like a second skin, making her feel more like an overstuffed sausage than a noble dragon-in-training. "I hate this suit! I feel like I'm about to enter a diving competition or something!"

Her master, the epitome of calm and composure, sat on a marble bench nearby, one leg crossed over the other. Black-haired and blue-eyed, she looked like she had just stepped out of a painting— and was completely unfazed by Amber's tantrum. "Amber, focus. You're here to learn how to transform into a wyvern, not complain about your wardrobe."

Amber stopped mid-pace, pointing a dramatic finger at her. "Easy for you to say, Master. You're not the one waddling around like a... a… slippery eel! And WHY do I even need to wear this thing?!"

Her master smirked, clearly enjoying the opportunity to remind Amber of her not-so-glorious moment. "Do you remember what happened during your first transformation attempt?"

Amber's face turned a lovely shade of crimson. "Don't. You. Dare."

"Oh, but I must." Her master stood, arms crossed, delivering the tale with the precision of a bard recounting a comedy epic. "You stood there, full of confidence, channeling ether like you owned the world. And then POOF! There you were, a magnificent dragon... and there your dress went, shredded into a million pieces."

Amber groaned loudly, covering her face with both hands. "It wasn't that bad."

"It was so bad," her master continued, undeterred. "I had to shoo the servants away because you were essentially a giant, naked dragon. The suit is enchanted to stretch and reform with your transformations. Consider it a gift to save your dignity."

"Dignity?!" Amber squeaked. "You mean my lack of it!"

Her master simply raised an eyebrow. "Shall we get back to training, or would you prefer to relive that memory a little longer?"

Amber, now thoroughly mortified, stomped back to the center of the training ground. "Fine. But just so you know, I'm doing this under protest."@@novelbin@@

"Noted."

Amber stood still, trying to channel her focus. The goal was simple, at least in theory: transform into a wyvern. Not a dragon. A wyvern. Dragons were the Drakonis family's true form, but sometimes a little disguise came in handy, and wyverns were less conspicuous.

Her master's voice echoed across the hall, calm yet commanding. "Now, remember: the key to transformation is visualization. Picture yourself as a wyvern— smaller, less grand, but still elegant. Channel your ether carefully. You've done this as a dragon; this should be no different."

Amber rolled her eyes, muttering, "No different, she says. Easy for her to say when she's not the one doing it."

"What was that?" her master called.

"Nothing, Master!" Amber squeaked, forcing a smile.

Closing her eyes, Amber began to focus. She felt the ether coursing through her veins, a warm, buzzing sensation that she guided toward her limbs. Her body began to shift, bones cracking and muscles reforming.

And then... BOOM.

Amber hit the ground, groaning. She hadn't transformed into anything. Instead, she'd managed to create a small explosion of ether that left her hair sticking up like she'd been struck by lightning.

Her master sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Amber, what did I just say about careful channeling?"

"I was careful!" Amber shot back, shaking her hands as if trying to dispel the leftover static. "It's just— ugh— this is so much harder than turning into a dragon! And this cloth is making this worse, why do I have to wear this?"

"That's because you're not yet proficient in the full principle that merges your clothes with your skin. But it is much more complex." her master explained patiently. "Transforming into a wyvern requires a different kind of focus. It's not your true form, so it doesn't come as naturally. You're essentially tricking your own essence into becoming something it's not."

Amber groaned again, flopping onto the ground. "Why can't you just teach me the whole principle now? Wouldn't that make this so much easier?"

"You make too much haste Amber, it is not a good habit." Her master knelt beside her, her expression softening slightly. "A sword rushed in its forging may look sharp, but it will shatter in the first clash. True strength comes from fire and the steady rhythm of the hammer, each strike refining and hardening it. Remember this: only through patience and persistence can something endure the trials it was meant to face.

"Both will make way for more trials, but a refined blade helps you while a broken blade betrays you."

Amber stared blankly. "Cool metaphor, Master. Very deep. But what does that have to do with me not turning into a wyvern?"

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Her master sighed, standing up again. "It means you need patience. True strength comes from persistence and refinement. Rushing only leads to mistakes— and, in your case, explosions."

Amber grumbled something under her breath but got back on her feet. "Fine. I'll try again. But if I blow up again, I'm blaming you."

Her master chuckled, returning to her bench. "By all means."

Amber took a deep breath, this time muttering a mantra to herself. "Slowly. Carefully. Don't blow up. Slowly. Carefully. Don't blow up…"

She channeled her ether again, guiding it through her body. This time, she felt something shift. Her limbs began to change, her vision sharpened, and she felt… lighter?

But when she opened her eyes, she wasn't a wyvern. She was a… half-dragon, half-wyvern mess. One wing was draconic, the other wyvern-like, and her tail? It looked like it belonged to a lizard.

Her master burst out laughing, a rare break in her usual composure. "Amber, you look like a chimera that lost a bet."

Amber glared at her. "Not helping, Master!"

"You're getting closer," her master said, still chuckling. "Try again."

Amber took another deep breath, more determined than ever. "Okay, Amber. You've got this. Third time's the charm. Just picture the wyvern. Be the wyvern."

She channeled her ether once more, this time slower than before. She visualized every detail of a wyvern: the slender frame, the two legs, the smaller wings. She felt her body shift again, and this time, it felt… right.

When she opened her eyes, she saw the ground from a lower perspective. Her limbs were thinner, her wings smaller— but proportional— and her tail swayed gracefully behind her.

"I did it?" she whispered, almost afraid to believe it. "I DID IT!"

Her master clapped, her smile returning to its usual calm demeanor. "Congratulations, Amber. You've successfully transformed into a wyvern. And in just two days— impressive."

Amber beamed, preening in her new form. But her master wasn't done.

"However," she added, "until you learn the full principle, you'll still risk tearing your clothes every time you transform. That suit will only save you so many times."

Amber groaned, shifting back into her human form. "Great. So I've got more homework?"

Her master smirked. "Consider it an opportunity for growth."

Amber flopped onto the ground, staring up at the ceiling. "I swear, being a dragon is so much easier."

Her master chuckled, patting her on the head. "You'll thank me later."

Amber muttered something about dubious blessings but secretly felt a small flicker of pride. She'd done it— awkwardly, explosively, but she'd done it. Now, all she had to do was figure out how to stop tearing her clothes and blowing herself up. No big deal… right?