The Demon Lord And His Hero

Syryn's troubles kept him busy thinking about his future but he wasn't so distracted that he would fail to notice Altaire's routine. The senior alchemist made and drank a cup of his draught every day without fail. Come rain or sunshine, Syryn would find him brewing a cup.

"Why do you drink that?" He asked the man when they had taken a break to brew the liquid. Altaire never offered him a cup though he was offered everything else that the man consumed.

"Do you want some?"

"Sure."

The senior alchemist held out a cup of the deep red liquid. The smell was odd, like burnt rice and rust. The mage was about to taste it when he saw Altaire watching him like he was waiting for something to happen. Syryn's courage fled and he placed the cup back into Altaire's hand.

"Wise decision," the man informed Syryn.

"Why?"

"Drink and you'll find out."

___

The duo reached the outskirts of Elysium one week later.

"What's this for?" Syryn asked the senior alchemist who handed him a mask just like the one he was wearing.

"You are no longer Syryn," Altaire answered. "You're Ben, my apprentice. Introduce yourself as such to anybody who asks you. And cut your hair or style it differently."

The mage accepted the mask and Altaire's suggestion for his hair. His long hair was shorn to the length of his chin.

"Stay under your cowl and do not let anyone see your eyes," the senior alchemist further instructed. "This may be causing you discomfort but I assure you, Syryn, it won't last for long."

The mage rode his horse into Elysium with the senior alchemist. They traversed through various shortcuts and small residential areas till Syryn was able to see the outlines of a grand palace in the distance.

Altaire couldn't possibly be taking him to the royal palace, Syryn told himself. But they got closer and closer, and they were still heading straight for the palace.

"Hey, are you serious?" Syryn asked the silent man.

"Quite."

"But why? Lillith and her family live here."

"They won't recognise you, Syryn. And Rowan won't dare to storm the royal palace even if he suspects you're inside it. It is in his best interest to remain civil and wait patiently while you attempt to retrieve your lost memories."

"I guess that makes sense. I'll be hiding in plain sight."

"Hiding? No. I've sent a message to Rowan that you'll be at the palace with me, and that he is to quietly wait it out till you've remembered everything."

A jumble of words all fought for dominance in Syryn's mouth and he couldn't fit them all together.

"Are you afraid of Rowan?" A sudden question came out of nowhere.

"I'm not."

"Do you trust him less than the person who asked you to find me?"

Syryn had been grappling with this question after running away and having a few days to cool his head. Why did the entity wait so long to tell him about it? What did it gain from warning Syryn?

"I don't know whose words to trust anymore. I'm even having second thoughts about letting that person help me find my memories. They're very powerful, maybe powerful enough to feed me fake memories."

"But you said that Rowan confirmed he killed you."

"He did." Syryn wilted like a dying stalk of grass. "And I have to find out why because he refuses to say anything more."

"Damned if you, damned if you don't."

What was Syryn to do now? "If you were I, what would you do?" He asked Altaire.

"I would find the cat that apparently saved your life. Maybe the feline can shed some clue that might solve your conundrum."

____

"Master Altaire! Welcome! We-"

"Yes, very good," the senior alchemist responded. "Please show us to our chamber, castellan."

"This way, master Altaire." The castellan was used to the senior alchemist's distaste for small talk and chit chat. Every time he visited, he would send a message ahead so his room would be proper and ready upon his arrival. The royal family had learnt early on that Altaire did not entertain anyone, without exception, unless they had something important to say. Inspite of it, he was granted a permanent room to himself at the palace.

At the west wing of the palace, Altaire's room had been swept, dusted, scrubbed, and cleaned till the shiny floors were reflecting light that illuminated the large room through seven tall windows.

"Two beds as requested," the castellan gestured into the room.

___

Dinner was left on a table outside the door. The soft tinkle of a bell in the room informed its occupants of the food waiting for them.

Altaire had already taken a bath and was sitting at a table next to an open window. Wearing a blue night robe, he had his hair loosely tied back so that the droplets of water dripping from it would not fall on the scroll he was reading under lamp light.

"There's a tray of dinner outside our door," he told Syryn when the mage came out of the bathroom feeling like his soul had been cleansed of travel dust. "Cover your face before venturing out."

Syryn did as he was told. He placed the large tray on the table where Altaire was seated.

"Meow." They heard from under their window. A few seconds later, a white cat jumped onto the window sill then leapt inside the room.

"Milky?"

"Meow."

Right before their eyes, the feline shapeshifted into a very beautiful, stunning, naked man.

Altaire blinked in surprise and looked away from the gently curving naked backside of their intruder. Suspecting the heroic cat to be a shapeshifter, he had sent it an invitation via a paper crane but the arrival of his guest was too abrupt even for him.

"Syryn Nigh'hart," Milky spoke and the power in his voice stunned both alchemists. "Do not ever call me Milky."

Just like his fur, the man had feathery white hair on his head and lashes. But did the carpet match the drapes? Syryn tried very hard to keep his eyes fixed on the unearthly face of the naked man.

"What should I call you then?"

Milky was frustrated. His name had been forgotten by humans and he wasn't allowed to speak it.

"Seth."