“What is with all the hooves in this place?” Flynn muttered conspiratorially.

  Oscar shifted behind his working table.

  “I’m starting to get used to the sight,” the dragon admitted while watching the mythical goat in the front.

  Flynn nodded approvingly, even though he was almost sad to see this particular quirk of Oscar go.

  “When doing pottery,” their instructor bleated, “you have to feel the clay while you shape it. Your extremities and mind have to be in perfect sync to bring your vision to life.”

  Flynn stared at the lump of clay in front of him. He did not have a vision.

  “Whether you are a beginner or an expert, you will always want to embrace that mental connection.”

  The goatman let his gaze wander through the rows. There were about 15 course participants, all of them sitting behind tables matching their respective sizes, with potters’ wheels and jugs of water in front of them. More than one group member looked like their limbs wouldn’t even allow them to hold a toothbrush, so Flynn took comfort in the fact that whatever he produced would most likely not be the worst outcome.

  At the very least, he would surely manage to outdo the green wyrm with his slithering, limbless body.

  To both Flynn’s and Oscar’s surprise, they had spotted Bjorn among the course participants. The cyclops was sitting in the first row, back muscles bulging under his fur vest. When they’d asked him before the class started, he’d said that he liked doing things with his hands. Flynn was surprised to hear that sentiment extended beyond causing pain.

  “Once you’ve decided on the type of pottery you want to craft,” the talking goat continued. “You may start at your convenience. I’ll be making rounds in case you need help or guidance.”

  There was nothing inherently mythical or magical about the goat, who’d introduced himself as Hamish Goddard. He had a long, skinny beard, gray fur, and old, wise eyes. And he could talk, which really was the only remarkable thing about the animal.

  He even walked on all four hooves.

  “What are you going to make?” Oscar asked cheerfully when the class had erupted into productive murmur.

  Flynn looked down at the lump of clay.

  “A plate,” he said dryly.

  “That sounds very achievable,” Oscar mused and nodded.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The dragon innocently raised his wings.

  Flynn sighed. “What are you going to make?”

  “A mug,” Oscar declared proudly.

  “Very original.”

  The dragon looked slightly taken aback.

  “A true classic,” Flynn tried to shape his previous statement, and Oscar latched onto this more positive interpretation.

  “I always wanted to make a mug, you know?”

  Flynn examined the dragon. “I did not know. Is this related to Rain’s hot cocoa?”

  “A great beverage should have a great vessel,” the dragon rumbled, flapping his wings and almost hitting a neighboring table.

  “You'd better get right on that.”

  And so they started working on their respective lumps of clay, spinning their potters’ wheels and occasionally dipping their hands and talons in water. It was an oddly satisfying process, and Flynn even found himself enjoying the mundane craft. The dragon next to him seemed to have a field day, puffing and humming as his talons carved away at the brown substance.

  Neither of their projects was really taking on the shape they were meant to have, but they didn’t mind — until they noticed Hamish Goddard standing right behind them.

  “Ah, to be new to the craft again,” the goat mused, inspecting their work.

  The backhanded insult of their work was not lost on Flynn.

  “Oh, hello, Mr Goddard, Sir,” Oscar puffed nervously.

  Flynn gave him a puzzled side-eye. The dragon seemed unusually tense, even by his standards.

  “Good afternoon, young man,” the talking goat responded. “Are we enjoying ourselves?”

  “Y—yes!” Oscar stammered. “It’s an honor.”

  “What are you on about?” Flynn whispered in bewilderment.

  The goat chuckled. “Well, I’m happy you are paying the clay the respect it deserves.”

  Oscar blushed. “No—I mean, yes.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Flynn hissed under his breath.

  The dragon continued to ignore him.

  “Sir, can I ask you a question?”

  The goat raised his bushy eyebrows.

  “Why, of course,” he bleated, then watched curiously as Oscar produced a book that had apparently been tugged under his wing.

  “Would you mind signing this copy for me?” the dragon squeaked, his eyes glossy.

  Hamish Goddard’s eyes lit up. “Oh, absolutely. I didn’t know you were one of my readers!”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He accepted the book with pride in his eyes, then placed it on the ground to put a hoof print on the title page.

  When the goat carefully closed the book again, Flynn read the embossed title.

  The Mythical Mind.

  He scoffed, snorted, and gasped at the same time.

  “So that’s what this is about?” he asked, gesturing at the ongoing class around them.

  Oscar’s scales darkened in tone.

  “You didn’t even want to do pottery,” Flynn exclaimed when the dragon’s betrayal became apparent. “You only wanted to meet this goat.”

  The goat cleared his throat, reminding Flynn that he was still standing right next to them.

  “So you are the author of that?” Flynn growled, pointing first at Hamish and then at the book.

  The goat nodded stoically. “The author is I, yes.”

  The dragon could barely contain his excitement, and he soon broke the shackles of Flynn’s not-so-quiet judgment.

  “Sir, I’m such a big fan. Your work is nothing short of ground-breaking.”

  The goat bowed politely. “Thank you, young man. It is always good to hear one’s work being appreciated.”

  “It was such an inspiring experience to read your book,” Oscar continued his rambling. “I learned so much about the inner workings of the mythical mind. It really gave me a new perspective on life and my own psyche.”

  Flynn shook his head.

  It was disturbing to see a majestic dragon of Oscar’s proportions turn into a fanboy for a talking goat.

  “It warms my heart to hear that at least some parts of the next generation of mythical creatures are so open-minded when it comes to psychological reflection,” the goat bleated. “I wish more of them were in touch with their emotions.”

  “To increase your sales?” Flynn muttered under his breath.

  Hamish pursed his lip. “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “My roommate is also a fan of your work, Sir,” Oscar fluted.

  It took Flynn a moment to realize the dragon wasn’t talking about him, but about Rain.

  “Oh, is he?” the goat echoed, his voice laced with pride.

  “The mythical mind is a complicated thing,” Oscar recited awkwardly, and Flynn cringed hard.

  “... but it can be solved with practice and patience,” the goat completed his own, cheesy statement.

  The dragon let out a gravelly giggle.

  “Well, it’s been a delight to meet you, young man.”

  “T—thank you, Sir.”

  The goat gave them an encouraging nod and continued his round through the room.

  Oscar was still vibrating with excitement long after their instructor moved on.

  Flynn hadn’t expected to excel at pottery.

  And he didn’t.

  His half-hearted attempt at shaping his lump of clay into a simple plate had failed spectacularly. The smooth surface he’d tried to achieve now looked like a choppy sea, the delicate rim around the edge like a rutted mountain range.

  “I guess it is more of a decorative piece,” he grumbled as he tried to see what others had created.

  At least he found comfort in the fact that Oscar’s wonky mug of ridiculous proportions didn’t look any better. But then, he spotted the wyrm’s intricate amphora, with decorative leaves adorning the exuberant handles.

  “How?” Flynn gasped.

  “Lucille is quite adept at pottery, wouldn’t you agree?” Hamish’s hoarse voice appeared behind him.

  Both of them flinched, trying to hide what they’d created.

  “Oh, don’t worry. You did fine. I’ve seen far worse,” the instructor added while examining Flynn’s work.

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “If you stick with the course, you will surely be able to create something similar,” he bleated, gesturing at the wyrm’s, Lucille’s, work. “Or at least, it will be better than what you managed to create today.”

  “That wyrm doesn’t even have limbs,” Flynn growled.

  “But they focused their mind,” the goat explained.

  Flynn scoffed. “Last I checked, my mind didn’t have hands to shape clay.”

  The goat barely acknowledged his words before stalking off to inspect other participants’ results.

  In his stead, the cyclops made his way over, floorboards creaking under his muscular feet.

  “That looks awful,” he said flatly and pointed at Flynn’s plate.

  “I am aware, thank you.”

  “Looks like something a child made.”

  “Yes, Bjorn, thank you,” Flynn growled between gritted teeth.

  The cyclops shrugged as if he’d just tried to offer an impartial opinion.

  “What did you make, anyway?”

  A part of Flynn was hoping the cyclops had failed just as miserably as he had.

  “A teapot,” the one-eyed giant said casually. “It’s going to get cold soon. Good time for tea.”

  Flynn heard him say the words, but he still struggled to associate them with the brute in front of him.

  “That’s a great idea!” Oscar chimed in. “Where is it?”

  The cyclops nodded dismissively over his shoulder. “Mr Goddard is currently showing it to some of the other group members.”

  Flynn glanced past the massive frame of the cyclops and spotted the mythical goat among a group of pupils with eager faces. On the table next to him stood a beautifully sculpted teapot, rich in design and yet a feat of understatement. The goat was in the middle of pointing out the commendable craftsmanship to the surrounding creatures with eccentric waves of his hooves.

  A bitter taste formed in Flynn’s mouth and lingered even when he forced himself to look away.

  “Mr Goddard, is it?” he sneered.

  “You are great at pottery,” the dragon exclaimed, drowning Flynn’s half-hearted attempt at mockery with his natural baritone.

  The cyclops grunted in acknowledgement. “I am.”

  “And here I thought you were only good at breaking jaws,” Flynn growled.

  “Oh … yeah … about that,” Bjorn said as if he’d completely forgotten. “I’m sorry.”

  Flynn’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry,” the cyclops repeated, oblivious to the sarcasm.

  “That is … surprising.”

  A moment of silence passed. Flynn stared at the cyclops in a mixture of suspicion and disbelief.

  Eventually, it dawned on it.

  “You are not really sorry, are you?”

  The cyclops considered his words for a moment, the few gears of his brain working hard.

  “No,” he finally admitted with another shrug.

  “Did Elli tell you to apologize?” Flynn pressed.

  “She did.”

  “Right,” Flynn muttered and shook his head.

  Bjorn seemed unfazed. “You are a soft man. Soft men get hurt.”

  “I am not soft,” Flynn protested, instinctively rubbing his jaw.

  “You felt soft the other day. But it’s okay. It’s not your fault. ”

  Flynn scoffed. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

  The cyclops bobbed his head in satisfaction. “You are welcome.”

  He shot each of them a stern look before turning on his heel and marching away.

  Flynn’s mouth stood open for a moment longer.

  “Is he serious?” he murmured.

  “I think so, yes,” Oscar said cheerfully. “I’m glad this matter is not going to stand between you any longer.”

  Flynn raised his hands in defeat.

  “Right. Great.”

  “Don’t forget to put name tags on your crafts before putting them into one of the boxes,” Hamish Goddard bleated, gesturing with his hooves. “Next time, we will proceed with the painting step.”

  Oscar nudged Flynn with his wing. “That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”

  Excitement made the dragon’s amber eyes glow like the sun itself.

  “Sounds like a blast,” Flynn said sourly.