Blikrot knocked on the door of Bakrasur's chamber in the castle. He had not seen Bakrasur in a while. Reports were that he was still recuperating from his dragon inflicted wounds.

The door opened slowly, and Bakrasur's shrunken, tired-looking face emerged. His eyes widened when he saw Blikrot. "The King! What an honour, sir," he said and tried to bow. But his spine wouldn't bend. He clenched his jaws in pain. A tear slipped from the left eye of the once mighty Bakrasur, now all battle-torn and dragon-burned.

"It's okay," Blikrot said, gesturing him to relax, and stepped inside Bakrasur's chambers. He had never been inside an Inferno-Commander's chambers before, so he took a look around. A drab room greeted him. It had grey walls, and small windows which had dull green curtains. A candle burned on an unattractive bedside table. The floor seemed to be dusty. The bed itself looked to be rather uncomfortable, much different from Blikrot's one in his bed-chambers.

"Nice room," Blikrot said. He made a mental note of alloting more funds for the chambers of his Commanders.

"What brings you here, my King?" Bakrasur asked.

"Sit down on the bed," Blikrot said. Bakrasur did so without question.

"How are you?" Blikrot asked.

"I'm fine," Bakrasur lied. He had never been in more pain his entire life. He felt like a burnt old man with an arthritis problem.

"Good," Blikrot said happily, although he knew the truth was different. "We're going to the Glaciers," he said.

"Glaciers?" Bakrasur couldn't help but sound astonished. No one went to the Glaciers. There was nothing there but endless snow and bottomless cliffs. "Why?" He inquired.

"Oh, I'll tell you once we get there," Blikrot said.

Bakrasur remained silent. Was this the latest proof that Blikrot's mind was slowly going nuts? He suddenly found himself envying Arthur, surely hiding somewhere in a forest, free of all worries, rid of all battles, not dreaming of dragons drooling over your head. Maybe feasting on chicken roasts for all he knew. Bakrasur sighed. He was tired of all this.

"My king, I'm afraid I'm not fit enough, right now, for such a long journey. If you want, I can find the most able..."

"Bakrasur, Bakrasur...I don't want anyone else. I am choosing you, okay? And don't worry. While the journey might be an exhausting one, it won't be a long one," Blikrot said.

"But sir, the Glaciers is thousands of miles away..."

"Yeah. But we're not exactly riding on horses, are we? We are going to walk through mirrors. We'll walk in through a mirror here, and walk out of a mirror that's in the nearest human establishment around the Glaciers."

Bakrasur didn't reply, but internally confirmed himself that Blikrot had finally lost it.

"Ah, I'll teach you how," Blikrot said, almost reading Bakrasur's mind. "But learning it will take some practicing. And willpower. Call your spear of fire for me, Bakrasur."

Bakrasur clapped his palms reluctantly. A spear appeared within his hands, but it wasn't the blinding white spear of light he had used while fighting Tiyasha or Abraham. It was darkened, flickering, and it disappeared after a while.

"Oh dear," Blikrot said.

"Yeah. My powers have been rattled after my confrontation with that fire dragon," Bakrasur said.

"You have to remember the rules, Bakrasur. You can't blame your powers. Blame yourself instead. You'll be able to fashion air into a weapon only if there is no impurity in your Battle Lust. Focus harder, Bakrasur. Meet me when your spear is a spear again. You have seven days," Blikrot said and left Bakrasur's chambers.

Bakrasur stared blankly at the closed door. He was expected to solve his problem in seven days? What if he needed more time? His dragonburns itched. He struggled not to scratch them, for the MediMen had strictly forbidden that. But through his brain ran images of himself rubbing his arms and face on the rough walls of his chambers and then running away shouting "Jhingalala hoohoo, Jhingalala hoohoo!"

Sometimes Bakrasur suspected his problems were much more mental than physical in nature. His old arrogance, composure, rationality might have bled out of his burns.