The Greatest Archmage To Have Ever Lived [OP MC, LitRPG]

The sun was rising as Sael sat at the edge of the cloud, legs dangling over nothing, pipe smoke curling upward into the brightening sky. Below them, the world was waking: fields and forests painted in shades of gold and amber, the distant glitter of rivers catching the first light. Somewhere ahead, now minutes away, Orlys waited.

He took a long draw from his pipe and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the wind.

Behind him, his companions slept.

Robin had somehow curled into a tight ball near the cloud's center, tail wrapped around his nose, one ear twitching occasionally at sounds only he could hear. Orion lay sprawled on his back, mouth slightly open, one arm flung out at an angle that couldn't possibly be comfortable but apparently was. The boy's staff rested beside him, its faint warmth visible to Sael's magical senses even from here.

And Ilsa—

Sael glanced back and noticed her blanket had slipped. Not dramatically; just enough that one shoulder was exposed to the morning chill. He made a small gesture with his free hand, and the fabric lifted, resettled, tucked itself around her.

She didn't stir.

He turned back to the sunrise and took another draw from his pipe, now thinking about...

The hug.

It kept returning to him, for some reason. He hadn't expected it. In the moment, when she'd crossed those three steps and thrown her arms around him, his body had simply... stopped. Every social script he'd ever learned had fled his mind simultaneously, leaving him standing there like a particularly confused statue.

Had he been too stiff? He replayed the moment. Yes. Almost certainly yes. His arm had come up eventually, but slowly, and too mechanically, like a drawbridge being raised by rusted chains. And he'd patted her back. Patted. As if she were a horse that had performed adequately.

Sael winced.

But she hadn't seemed to mind. Or if she had, she'd hidden it well. She'd pulled back with tears in her eyes and that had been that.

When had this happened, exactly?

He tried to trace the progression. When they'd first met, she'd been formal. Polite, certainly, but measured. She'd called him "sir" and maintained appropriate distance and treated him with the sort of careful respect one afforded to powerful strangers. And now she hugged him.

The transition had occurred somewhere in between, obviously, but Sael couldn't identify the specific moment. Had it been gradual? A slow accumulation of conversations and small kindnesses that had somehow crossed an invisible threshold? Or had there been a turning point he'd missed entirely, some interaction that had meant more to her than he'd realized?

"Hmm."

He didn't know.

This was, he reflected, a recurring problem. Other people seemed to navigate these things instinctively, reading invisible signals and adjusting their behavior accordingly. They knew when a relationship had shifted, when formality could be relaxed, when a hug would be welcomed rather than endured. Sael had sadly never quite possessed that ability. He'd learned to compensate over the centuries—observation, analysis, careful study of patterns—but it remained a conscious effort rather than natural understanding.

Maybe if he could identify what he'd done right with Ilsa, he could replicate it. Build a framework. Develop a systematic approach to making people comfortable with him.

He considered the evidence. Their first meeting had involved her attacking him. He'd responded by depositing her in a pocket dimension until she calmed down. Not exactly the foundation for familial warmth.

And yet... what else had he done?

Listened, perhaps. He'd listened when she talked about her ambition. He'd answered her questions honestly. He'd treated her as someone worth talking to rather than someone to be managed. But that was just... basic decency, wasn't it? Surely that alone couldn't explain it...

Hmm, perhaps an external opinion would be helpful. Sael turned his head to the left.

A chicken sat beside him on the cloud's edge, feathers ruffling slightly in the wind, beady eyes fixed on the horizon. It was watching the sunrise with what appeared to be genuine contemplation, head tilted at a thoughtful angle.

Ozyarathes had wiggled out of Sael's robes a few hours ago, once the others had all fallen asleep. He'd said nothing; just extracted himself, waddled to the edge of the cloud, and settled down beside Sael with his gaze fixed firmly on the darkness that had since softened into dawn.

Sael suspected the former dragon preferred not to be seen in this form. Embarrassment, perhaps, or simply the wounded pride of a being who had once commanded nations reduced to... this.

So they had sat together in silence, watching the stars fade and the sky lighten, and neither of them had acknowledged the strangeness of the arrangement.

"Tell me, Oz, are you good with people?" Sael finally broke the silence.

The chicken turned to look at him. his expression, insofar as a chicken could have an expression, suggested mild bewilderment.