excerpt from the Tales from Athendrolyn Anthology by Annika Sage Ellis

Full prompt list for the Anthology Blast

Tips are appreciated!

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The sunny window cast long shadows along the inside of the workshop, a long afternoon stretching ever so slowly into evening. An amateur stonemason or sculptor would have taken nature’s queue to pack up their tools and save their efforts for the following day. All angles go fuzzy in the shadows, after all, how could one hope to be precise? But Ostaeline Darkbraid was no amateur.

Hunched over her workbench, the jeweler’s lamp mounted to the frame ensured that not a speck of dust from her project went unaccounted for. Another cloud of the stuff rained from the cut of stone as she struck her flat chisel across the pale surface with a small hammer, smoothing out a soft curve. She turned the stone and brushed it clean with her thumb, all ten of her stout, brown fingers dusty from her work.

The project itself wasn’t much—for now, just a lump of stone with expertly sketched guidelines along the gray-white block. But it was how all gargoyles began.

A clacking sound, like two pebbles tumbling down a hillside, came from her window. Ostaeline glanced up from her project.

“Don’t clatter at strangers, Beryl,” she chided.

Beryl, a crow-sized gargoyle wearing a dazzling collection of inset gemstones for a collar, shuffled on the windowsill. It turned to Ostaeline and clattered again.

“Yes, I’m talking to you,” she said. “You’ve had your supper already.”

It hopped onto her desk, landing with a thunk. With a sigh, she brushed the dust off her hands with the towel in her lap, and let Beryl climb onto her arm. It scrambled up to sit heavily on her shoulder, clattering into her ear.

“You always want attention at the worst times, don’t you?” she said, with tired affection, and Beryl picked up on her feelings, if not her words. It nipped at the thick braid she wore while working, her thick dwarvish beard tied back into her hair to keep it from catching her tools or getting in the way of her hands. It wasn’t her favorite hairstyle, but it did make her family name, and the name of her shop, all the more apt.

In the next room over, a bell chimed. Ostaeline pushed away from her desk and off her stool. “Let’s go greet our guest,” she told Beryl.

It clacked excitedly and spread its stony wings. Dropping off her shoulder entirely, it glided across the room to land in front of the slightly open door. It tried to nudge the crack open itself, only for Ostaeline to save it the trouble and open the door herself.

“Welcome in,” she called, stepping behind the shop counter. Beryl raced up the ladder of its perch right above the cash register.

The single patron—an elf, tall and thin with their olive-skinned hands folded politely behind their back, and boasting the wide sleeves and long sashes of elvish finery — looked up from where they perused the inventory of dozens of handmade gargoyles. A wide variety of shapes, sizes, and engravements adorned the shelves and statue plinths. Most were perfectly still, asleep, but the ones nearest the elf shuffled around, trying to get their attention. They looked coolly disinterested in all of them.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” they asked.

“Sure am,” she replied, deciding to ignore the chilly reception, “Ostaeline Darkbraid of   Darkbraid Gargoyle Adoptions & Workshop. It’s been in the family six generations, so I can tell you anything you’ve ever wanted to know about gargoyles and then some.”

“Then I think you’re exactly the person I’m looking for.”

Ostaeline didn’t have time to ask what that meant before the elf approached the counter. They snapped their fingers, and a sketchbook appeared in a puff of smoke. She didn’t have time to ask about that either.

“Do you take projects upon request?” the elf asked.

“I do,” she answered slowly. “You’ll have to provide a reference, and depending on how detailed you want it, they don’t come cheap.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about the price.” The sketchbook flipped itself to a random page and slapped itself on the counter. “Would you be able to replicate this design?”

Shaking off a little whiplash, Ostaeline pulled a stool out from behind the counter and plopped down to review the sketch. Each detail she took in had her eyebrows creeping closer to her hairline.

The elf had given her a lovingly rendered drawing of a gargoyle from all four sides, size estimates, close-ups on details, and even requests about the design of the plinth. The gargoyle itself took inspiration from lions, dragons, bats, and eagles. The engravings requested specific plants, gemstones were noted “optional” but there were multiple placements for insets and requests were detailed down to the cut and carat. It was one of the most complex designs she’d ever seen, much less been asked to sculpt.

“This is very impressive,” she praised. “How long did it take you to come up with this?”

The elf visibly brightened. “I’ve been designing it on and off for a little while.”

Ostaeline found that hard to believe—maybe a “little while” by an elf’s standards. Which is why such a beautiful design made her a bit nervous.

“I can replicate this design, but”—she added quickly, when the elf started to look a bit too excited—"I can’t carve a gargoyle’s personality.”

Their face fell. “What do you mean?”

“A sculptor’s job is to bring the stone to life—whatever life is born from that gift isn’t nearly as malleable. Take Beryl here.” She gestured up at the perch, where Beryl sat happily. “I sculpted this one myself nearly thirty years ago, and fully intended to adopt it out with my others. It wouldn’t take to anyone but me, though, so I kept it for myself.” Beryl clattered happily, and Ostaeline let that happy story sink in for a moment. “A gargoyle is as unpredictable as any animal, and even I don’t know how they’ll act once they’re sculpted.” She tapped the elf’s design. “This is a beautiful thing you’ve done, and I’ll do my best to recreate it as closely as I can. But I can’t promise the life inside the stone will bond with you.”

The elf replaced their cool, unflappable expression. “I see. And if that happens?”

“I usually include the price of adoption in a commission by default, and if the gargoyle doesn’t bond with you, I’ll waive that fee. I can’t offer a full refund, since the work will have already been done, and I’ll have to keep it here with me.”

Until it gets adopted by someone else, was the unspoken end to that sentence. Ostaeline never liked handing out warnings and risks and doubt—but she liked false promises even less. She’d rather this elf, who clearly poured their heart and soul into a design of their wildest dreams, understand what they were agreeing to.

A long hesitant pause later, the elf nodded. “I understand. And I’ll take that risk.”

“Alright, I’ll get you the forms.” Ostaeline produced her standard adoption application form, a form for specially commissioned projects, and a pen. She pushed them on top of the sketchbook and pushed it back across the counter. “Fill these out, and then we’ll talk about price.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

The elf took the pile and stepped aside to the end of the counter near the windows. Several plush stools sat empty for adopters to fill out their paperwork. Even seated, the elf had to hunch over from the height difference.

While she waited, Ostaeline took the opportunity to check on her gargoyles on display. They awoke, one by one, as she stepped over and around them to dust the shelves, adjust plinths, and make note of any fractures. They clicked and clattered, either in delight at her presence, or annoyance at being woken up.

A traditionally sculpted gargoyle on a high shelf—all bat wings, sharp claws, and menace—had a particular ire for her scrutiny. About as large as a parrot, it snapped at her hand on her way up the stepladder, and just barely missed.

“Quit it, Feldspar,” she scolded. Feldspar had no remorse, going for her again as she reached the top. “Don’t get an attitude with me, you literal blockhead.”

Before it could try a third time, Ostaeline snatched Feldspar by the face to keep its mouth closed, plucking it off its plinth for an inspection. It struggled so recklessly that she was able to hold it for all of eight seconds, but she saw all she needed to see. The crack at the base of its left wing hadn’t improved.

“All done, see?” She put it back on the plinth and twisted it to face out the window behind the shelf. “Go back to bed.”

Feldspar gave another angry rattle, hunched over, and went motionless. Ostaeline sighed, trudging back down the ladder. With perfect timing, the elf stood up with their forms in hand as she made her way back to the counter.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, collecting up the forms and a magically duplicated copy of their design. Skimming over the top of the first page, she read, Name: Myril Genwarin, Age: 170, Pronouns: all, mostly they/them/theirs.

“What was wrong with that one?” Myril asked, gesturing at Feldspar.

“Poor thing has a fracture,” she replied. “It’s been fussy ever since, but Feldspar’s always been a bit of a jerk.”

“Always?”

“Oh sure—came right off the chisel looking for a fight.” She ran through the commission forms, tallying up the cost in her head. “See, if I could carve their personalities to be whatever I wanted, I’d make them all enthusiastic about my check-ups.”

A little smile touched Myril’s face. “I suppose most people would.”

One transaction later, the new project was officially instated onto the list. With a promise to call them as soon as the gargoyle was finished, Myril left the shop, leaving Ostaeline alone with her work again.

Not for long, though. It was only minutes later that she flipped the shop’s “open” sign to “closed,” and went back to the workshop, Myril’s paperwork in hand and Beryl close behind, to clean up before leaving for the night.

The jeweler’s lamp still shone a spotlight down on her interrupted project, and washed the rest of the room with its bright white glare now that the sun had slipped even farther away. Her collection of tools sat patiently in an upright case behind her workbench, organized into perfectly sized compartments. Each of the dozens of shelves underneath it held different gems for decoration, separated by color and cut. In the corner, a massive collection of pale stone blocks, sized anywhere from a minotaur’s coat stand to a goblin’s shoebox, awaited her craftsmanship.

Beryl climbed back up onto its regular perch on the windowsill. Ostaeline put the commission form and requested design on her workbench, intending to leave it for the next morning… but picking out a properly sized block wouldn’t hurt.

She whisked her unfinished project away. On the other wall, it fit snugly between two other projects on her large shelf of unfinished gargoyles, and she muttered a promise to get back to it eventually. Next, she swept her workbench clear of dust and debris, put her tools away, and turned her light toward the back of the room. Now, finally, she could pick her next block.

Myril’s form, and the design sketch itself, requested a height of about thirty standard inches, converted from elvish measurements. Ostaeline plucked a standard unit tape measure out of her tool case, and set the enchanted dial to show elvish units on the other side—just in case. The tool shimmered, humming in her hand. When she pulled the spool, the second set of numbers appeared.

She got to work pulling block after block out of the pile, measuring width, height, length, and the instinctual unit that she couldn’t explain, that none but a gargoyle sculptor could ever truly understand. Ostaeline sat with the block, and tried to feel if it wanted to be carved.

After a dozen dead ends, she found one. It was the exact size she was looking for—thirty standard inches, and almost as wide as she was. It was absolutely too large to fit on her workbench, so this gargoyle would have to be sculpted on the floor. Hopefully it wouldn’t mind.

Ostaeline sat down and leaned against the block, pressing her forehead to the cold stone. She wasn’t there long—it practically sang with the urge to become something else. It was perfect.

Satisfied, she pushed the block to the center of her workshop and placed Myril’s design on top. Tomorrow, she would get to work.

“Come on, Beryl,” she called, holding out her arm. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Beryl scampered to the end of the workbench and launched itself over. Ostaeline stumbled as it clung to her arm like a weight, before managing to scrabble up, and climb onto her shoulder to perch. It clattered in her ear.

“I should just start picking you up myself,” she said, and turned off the light.

 

 

After all her years of gargoyle sculpting and caretaking, Ostaeline found one piece of advice to hold true above all others: the mind should never wander from the task at hand. When crafting something so intricate as a magical creature that would leap to life as soon as it had a body to move in, there was no room for distraction, daydreaming, or idle musing. If she wasn’t entirely focused on the stone under her tools, the tools in her hand, her hand attached to her arm—then she wasn’t really working at all.

But somehow, this commission tested her iron-clad will.

Point chisel in one hand and hammer in the other, Ostaeline carved away a wide chunk of stone, and it collapsed on the floor with a heavy thud. A cloud of dust followed, and she coughed. Her hands and beard were cloudy white, at this point, and she’d barely started carving away at her sketches. Or, rather, Myril’s sketches.

Not for the first or last time that day, Ostaeline turned to reference the commissioned design on her workbench, displayed on a small lectern. It had taken her days to get a sketch on the stone she was happy with, and she thanked every god she could name that her enchanted pencils could be erased from any surface. Even excluding all the detail work she’d have to do to engrave the finished body, the gargoyle had a lion’s head and tail, an eagle’s beak, a dragon’s body, and an extra set of bat’s wings. It was a puzzling combination of animals, pieced together in a puzzling way.

Beryl hopped across the workbench, nudging the lectern curiously. Ostaeline put her hands on her hips.

“I know I shouldn’t judge,” she started, “but who designs a gargoyle like this?”

Beryl clattered, oblivious to her question. Its gemstone collar twinkled in the light of the jeweler’s lamp.

“It’s not a bad drawing,” she continued, turning back to the hunk of stone, “it’s a beautiful drawing, but for a sculptor, it’s complete madness.” She chiseled across one of her sketched lines, forming the shape of the creature’s head. “I wouldn’t have taken the job if I didn’t think I could do it, obviously, and I do believe I can. But why all this—excess?”

It was what had been distracting her the whole time. After working on this gargoyle for barely a week, the extravagance of it all had started to eat away at her. And to know Myril had been working on it “on and off” implied there used to be even more detail that must have been redesigned. Ostaeline would never know how many revisions this gargoyle had seen, which just made her more curious as to how it came to exist in the first place.

“You know what it feels like?” she said, hammering away. “It feels like a child’s drawing. Like a kid who mashed together all their most favorite things in the world and—”

She almost hammered her thumb into the stone. Blessings and curses, she thought, it is a child’s drawing.

With a strange mix of affection and dread, Ostaeline set down her hammer and chisel and went to her desk. Slowly, she wiped her hands free of dust and picked up Myril’s sketch, beholding it with new eyes. The haphazard combination, the odd specificity, the amount of love and care and detail. She remembered how excited they were to see it complimented, how fast that excitement drained away when she couldn’t guarantee the gargoyle would like them. This had to be a drawing from Myril’s childhood, maybe even a dream pet, that they finally had the opportunity to bring to life. And Ostaeline could bring it to life—but she couldn’t promise it would be theirs at last.

“That’s a little more than I bargained for,” she muttered. She dropped the design back down on the lectern, folding her fingers under her nose.

Beryl looked up at her, innocent as any animal. Ostaeline glanced to the workshop door, and the gargoyle shop beyond.

Feldspar was a commissioned piece, intended to leave her shop the moment it was finished. When it woke for the first time, it was a bit snappy, which wasn’t abnormal for a creature brand new to life. The client came to pick it up, confident that they had exactly the pet they’d requested.

Two days later they came back. Ostaeline remembered Feldspar getting dumped on her desk and furiously insulted by her client—they were convinced she’d carved a “broken” gargoyle and demanded a refund. She refused, with similarly colorful words, and kept Feldspar in the shop, confident that someone would adopt it.

That was years ago. Nobody had.

An anxious clatter snapped her back to the present. Beryl swiped the air with its paw, reaching for her. Ostaeline smiled, smoothing her fingers over its head.

She remembered the days she spent sculpting Beryl, as routine a project as any of her other gargoyles. When it finally woke up, as she added the finishing touches, Ostaeline couldn’t help but feel especially proud of the work she’d done. She was especially surprised when Beryl refused to leave her side, attempting to follow her out of the shop so many times she gave up trying to stop it. She set the gemstones in its collar the same night she adopted it, a gift for Beryl, and for herself.

“Nothing’s guaranteed, eh?” she mused, talking more to herself. “This thing could go any way at all.”

Sculpting gargoyles, as rewarding as she found the work, was truly an art without an answer. Nobody knew how this stone was able to breathe life into statues, or why it was only one type of stone. History had long since forgotten how gargoyles came to be before there were those around to carve them—if they existed at all before some ancient creature took up hammer and chisel.

There were plenty of theories: that gargoyles were blessings from the gods, they were curses from those same gods, that they were simply magical wisps finding a magic-porous stone to inhabit, or that the compound sediment of this particular rock was susceptible to magical transformation. Ostaeline never paid them any mind—what mattered was that gargoyles could exist, and she would be the finest sculptor her statues could have ever asked for.

She looked back at the unfinished brick that would soon become Myril’s gargoyle. Often, she wondered if the life inside the stone could hear her voice, feel her hands, maybe even see her chisel working to break it free. Ostaeline would be the finest sculptor it ever knew—the only sculptor, frankly—but what happened when the sculptor’s job was over? Were gargoyles born knowing companionship, or was it something taught to them?

Ostaeline scooped Beryl into her arms. She sat down on the floor next to the unfinished sculpture and placed her palm flat to the stone. Breathing deeply, she tried to reach that mysterious spark of life inside the rock. The potential for more.

“Just between us,” she told it, “there’s someone out there who’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

The rock didn’t reply. Beryl clambered over her arm and mirrored her pose, pressing a curious paw flat against the cool surface. Ostaeline chuckled, scratching behind its wings.

“I’d be excited too, if I were you,” she added. “If Myril is anything like me, I know for a fact you’ll be pampered to death. Beloved more than any diamond. More precious than any amount of gold. And if you’re anything like Beryl, you’ll bring them more joy than you’ll ever understand. That’s what being a companion is all about, after all.” She cradled Beryl’s stone head in her palm. “It’s about taking care of someone, and letting them care for you back.”

Beryl made a sound like stones scraping together, nuzzling into her hand. She smiled down at her lap, but she let her mind wander a little farther.

“It’s not all perfect. Maybe you don’t fit into someone’s house. Maybe you get a chip in your wing, or a crack on your face that people would rather scream about than actually try to fix. Or maybe they gave you that crack themselves. Maybe…” She swallowed thickly, unsure who she was keeping her composure for. “Maybe you feel like giving up on care. Companionship. All that. But there’s always someone out there who wants to care about you. All you have to do is let them.”

Her voice broke and a few stray tears slipped into her braided beard. Beryl turned away from the stone entirely, anxiously trying to climb her shirt. Ostaeline let the rest of her emotions burst out in a laugh instead, plucking Beryl off and setting it on the floor.

“Anyway,” she finished, “keep your mind open to being someone’s buddy while you’re in there.” With a grunt, she pushed up to her feet and swiped her abandoned tools off the floor. “We’ve got a lot of work to do in the meantime.”

Ostaeline went back to work as if she’d never stopped, focus renewed, and more determined than ever to complete this project.

 

 

A month later, Ostaeline was finally satisfied.

She called Myril the morning after she completed their commission, and they promised to arrive to pick it up that same afternoon. A few rushed preparations later, Ostaeline managed to clean up her workshop and move the gargoyle to the front of the main shop with the help of an enchanted hovering dolly. It sat proudly at the front counter, a testament to her efforts.

An elegant beak extended from its bowed head, the lion’s mane flowing with an expertly sculpted mane. The dual set of wings were tricky to place, but she managed to place them almost on top of each other—the dragon wings raised to the sky, and the bat wings at a lower angle underneath. Its dragon body had individually engraved scales, from the neck down to the tail, curled around the plinth as requested. The flower-engraved plinth itself was some of her finest detail work in years, if she could say so herself. And finally, the gemstones: brilliant opals set into the head, chest, and front legs. All things considered, the gargoyle was perfect.

Except it hadn’t woken up yet.

Ostaeline inspected the gargoyle one last time and hoped she didn’t look nervous. She had carved gargoyles that slept through their first night alive, but they were always awake the next morning. This one hadn’t so much as blinked since she put the finishing touches on the plinth. She knew it was alive—she’d stake her career on it—but it was sleeping for an abnormally long time. Like it was damaged, or shy, or… something.

“What do you think, Beryl?” she asked. Beryl was too busy chasing a bug around the counter to respond.

Behind her, the welcome bell jingled, and the shop door swung open. Myril bustled in dressed to impressed, somehow wearing an even more extravagant outfit than the one Ostaeline had met them in. They had the stony facial expression of someone trying very hard to hold themself together.

“Right on time,” Ostaeline greeted. Beryl abandoned the chase to crawl forward curiously.

“It’s ready?” they blurted, letting the mask slip a tad.

She stepped aside, presenting it with one hand. “See for yourself.”

The cool façade completely melted. Myril rushed to the gargoyle and dropped to their knees in front of it. They reached a shaky hand out, unsure. “C-can I?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Ostaeline said, and they snapped up straight. She couldn’t help a smile. “I was just going to warn you it’s sleeping. The best way to wake a gargoyle up is with a treat.”

They nodded seriously. “Of course. I—I’m afraid I don’t have anything.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Ostaeline produced a handful of colorful landscaping pebbles from her pocket. Myril held out their cupped hands for the offered treat, eyes wide and reverent.

“Just hold them out like this,” she said, guiding their hands under the gargoyle’s beak. “It might take a minute for it to recognize the smell, but—”

She cut herself off as the gargoyle stirred. The dragon paws shifted on the plinth, blank stone eyes blinked for the first time. It stretched both sets of its wings and folded them onto its back. It was alive. Myril appeared to have stopped breathing.

It looked at the pebbles in their hand, head tilted. It lowered its beak, pulling back at the click of stone hitting stone. Then, it plucked one out of their hand, and swallowed it. And then another, and another, until it was eating out of Myril’s hand like it had known them all its life—and, Ostaeline supposed, it had. Myril laughed in breathy disbelief, smiling ear to ear.

Ostaeline finally let herself relax, sighing against the counter. “Congratulations,” she said, “on your newest member of the family.” Beryl crawled up its perch and clattered in agreement.

“Thank you,” they breathed. “Thank you so much, I never—” They choked, eyes shining with happy tears. “I’ve always wanted a gargoyle, but I was never able to convince my parents.”

The gargoyle nuzzled into their hands, now empty of pebbles, and clattered. Myril laughed wetly, petting its stiff mane and the back of its neck. Now that the worst was over, Ostaeline couldn’t help brimming with pride at the work she’d done.

“There’s still one thing left to do,” she said, marching behind the counter.

Myril followed with their eyes, but didn’t move. “What else?”

“I’ve approved your application, obviously.” Ostaeline presented a new form. “Now, you fill out the adoption certificate, so we can make it official.”

“Oh! Right, of course, of course.” They bustled to standing, but had their eyes trained on the gargoyle sitting at their feet.

“Have a name picked out yet?”

Myril beamed at her. “Summerset.”

Ostaeline couldn’t help but return their enthusiasm. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you.” They looked down at Summerset again, their smile never wavering. “It’s everything I dreamed it would be.”

While Myril filled out the certificate, Ostaeline put together a care sheet for them to take home. It included everything they’d ever need to know about caring for a gargoyle properly, and her shop number, just in case they had any questions. She went over it briefly after the adoption was certified, but she could tell Myril was only half listening. Summerset had every ounce of their attention—and Ostaeline couldn’t blame them.

After another round of profuse thank-yous, Myril left with the plinth under their arm, and Summerset following at their heels. Ostaeline stared out the door, arms folded behind the counter, for a long few minutes after they’d gone.

Was her pep talk all that Summerset needed for this to go well? Was it all useless, and it was always meant to be this way? Could Ostaeline have changed its mind at all, knowing how much she didn’t know about how gargoyles thought?

“I guess it’s another mystery,” she said, looking up at Beryl. “But I did a pretty damn good job, don’t you think?” Beryl stared blankly at her. Close enough.

Ostaeline patted herself on the back for a job well done, and meant to retreat back into her workshop, to continue one of her dozen unfinished projects… but there was something else on her mind.

Instead, she shuffled up her stepladder and grabbed Feldspar off its shelf. It rattled and snapped at her, of course, but she didn’t let go. She tucked it against her chest and carried it away.

“Come on, you little stinker,” she told it. “Let’s see if we can’t fix that wing of yours.”

excerpt from the Tales from Athendrolyn Anthology by Annika Sage Ellis

Full prompt list for the Anthology Blast

Tips are appreciated!

---

“Welcome back to the final day of the 345^th annual Holawynn Den Club Dragon Show, and folks, it is going to be a real nail-biter this year.”

Bula stared wide-eyed up at the TV from her living room floor, her tusks almost close enough to touch the screen. She was too excited to stay on the couch, even though it was harder to see this way. She had even dragged the family dragon, Modra, down with her. He didn’t seem to mind, coiled up in her lap and snoozing through the whole affair.

“After this weekend, I can’t believe the judges have narrowed it down to just three final competitors for the acclaimed title of Best in Show,” the first announcer continued, a cardinal harpy with a perfectly coiffed crest.

“I’m having trouble believing it myself, Theleano,” the second announcer agreed. They tongue-flicked before continuing, a rat snake naga with black and yellow scales. “I’ll be honest, it’s hard to believe any one of these dragons can beat out the other.”

“Well, Lana, the rules here at Holawynn dictate there can be only one winner. That is, until the committee stops ignoring my letters.”

“I’ll tie my tail in a knot before that happens, but more importantly, let’s get back to the show floor.”

Bula sat up, smugly superior to the announcers. She knew which dragon was going to win. When the finalists were announced the previous night, she could tell from the line-up alone which dragon was the best competitor.

The camera transitioned from the announcers’ box to the arena. Thousands of people gathered in attendance to see the most prestigious dragon show in the country, from one of the oldest-established den clubs in elvish dragon husbandry history. Bula had read at least a hundred books about it. It was probably a hundred—that’s what her mom always said about her book collection. She bounced up and down in excitement, jostling Modra in her lap. He didn’t move.

“Our first competitor doing a fly-by to start us off,” Theleano said.

Curtains on one end of the stage drew up and the first dragon and handler emerged, a gray and white tabby catfolk, holding the end of a thin harness. A brilliant purple dragon with white spines along its back flew on the end of it. The audience clapped politely as she circled the show floor. Bula narrowed her eyes, watching carefully for any mistake.

“Marya and her competitor Evolet, a stunning example of the Ivoryback breed. You know, she actually competed last year and was eliminated in the Best of Breed competition.”

Evolet tilted her wings and swung around the first curve of the arena, Marya not far behind. The dragon’s short, stocky body was nearly invisible behind her wingspan, a signature of the Ivoryback. Bula nodded at the display of such a fine specimen, but something felt off about the performance.

“It certainly seems like she’s learned her lesson this year,” Lana added. “Marya and Evolet have dominated all weekend, only losing points because Evolet is almost too enthusiastic about it.”

That was it! Evolet flew too high above, Marya’s head, displaying a lack of control between dragon and trainer. Bula pointed at the screen with all the authority of her school teachers.

“Lose points for handling!” she declared.

“Bula, honey,” her mom called, poking her head in from the kitchen. Her mouth formed a stern line around her tusks. “Don’t shout at the TV.”

She retracted her arm. “Sorry, Mama.” She whispered instead, ”Lose points for handling.”

Marya and Evolet completed their circuit around the show floor, disappearing behind a second set of curtains. The second competitor emerged from the first set. The crowd clapped politely once more, but Bula clapped furiously.

Theleano started off the introduction: “Our second finalist is Yotul with his Eastern Highflyer Durza, both of them first-time competitors all the way from Athendrolyn, can you believe that, Lana?”

Bula whooped loud enough that she finally woke Modra. He blew a puff of smoke out of his nose, annoyed at the disturbance. She scooped his long-coiled body up in her short arms and tried to lift him to see the TV.

“Look, look!” she said. “Durza is just like you!”

 Yotul, an orc with dark green skin and two gold bands around his tusks, held Durza on his lead with confidence. The Eastern Highflyer on screen slithered through the air above him, high enough to show off how well he lived up to his breed’s standard but not so high that it would lose them any points. And Durza was exactly like Modra.

Well, maybe not exactly the same. Modra was a soft blue, the color of the sky, and Durza was a fiery reddish-orange, but the basics were still there! They both had long slinky bodies, thin wings meant for aerial diving, feathery tails, and long silly mustaches. They were basically the same, and more importantly—

“I won’t lie, I was surprised when I saw these two pull through,” Lana said, as the two made their lap around the show floor. “For first timers, they’ve run an almost flawless performance compared to even seasoned professionals. Honestly, I can’t say for sure who’s going to win this competition, but Yotul and Durza certainly have a higher chance than most.”

“Yes!” Bula cheered, dropping Modra back in her lap. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“If they do manage to pull this one out,” Theleano said, “I might have to visit Athendrolyn and see if there’s something in the water that causes unprecedented success.”

“Maybe the committee will finally answer your letters.”

“Hey, it’s worth a shot!”

Disgruntled, Modra uncoiled and slunk off to nap somewhere else. Bula pouted as he left, but didn’t stop him. He was old now, and didn’t like playing as much as he used to.

Yotul and Durza disappeared through the second curtain, and the first set opened once more for a halfling and muddy green dragon with prominent frills on its face, legs, and tail.

“Our third and final competitor is Molly Cotton with their Frilled Guardian, Baily. A more predictable contender, the two of them have been familiar faces here for—”

“It’s dinnertime, Bula,” her mom called again.

“Okay,” she sighed. She crawled back to the TV to grab the remote and shut it off. Her dad had made sure to record it, so she wouldn’t really miss anything. She already knew who was going to win anyway.

That cheered her up enough to skip to the kitchen, where the rest of the family was waiting. Bula clambered onto her chair as her mom sat a big pot of stew in the center of the dinner table.

“How’s your dragon thing going?” Ghorza, her big sister, asked. She wore silver bands around her tusks that matched her spiky earrings.

“They award Best in Show today,” Bula explained, puffing her chest, “and Durza is definitely going to win.”

“You think so?” She held out her bowl for their dad to ladle some stew into it.

“I know it! He’s already won Best in Breed, and he’s the best trained, and he’s from Athendrolyn, which means he’s better.”

“Bowl, sweetheart,” her dad said, his tiny glasses sitting on the edge of his nose. Bula always wondered if they would fall off and hang across his tusks.

She quickly held out her dish. “Thank you.”

“It sounds like an exciting day for dragon trainers, huh?” her mom asked.

Bula put her hands on her hips. “It’s pretty boring when you already know who’s going to win.”

“What was all that shouting for, then?”

“Because it’s polite. And I had to show Modra how cool Eastern Highflyers are.”

Ghorza glanced into the living room, where Modra slumped over the arm of the couch. “He’s just a dragon,” she said.

“But he’s a special dragon! Eastern Highflyers are the best at doing air tricks, and they’re one of the only dragon breeds that has fur and scales. Oh! And also, they were bred to be pets and do tricks, so they’re really smart and easy to train for—”

“Slow down, Bula,” her dad said, tapping her bowl with his spoon. “Don’t forget to eat.”

She slumped, but scooped a spoonful of the stew into her mouth. Dragon facts were more important than dinner, in her opinion, but nobody else ever seemed to feel the same. They never wanted to watch the show with her, either.

“Well, girls,” her mom said, across the table. “The Community Contribution Show is coming up soon. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

Bula sank closer to her strew, but Ghorza sat up tall and proud. “I’m going to do a traditional dance,” she declared, “because it shows that I value my culture and history.”

“That’s a wonderful idea!”

“Absolutely, how thoughtful,” her dad added. All three sets of eyes turned to Bula. “What about you, kiddo? Any ideas?”

“Um…” Bula put her spoon in her mouth to avoid answering.

“She’s probably nervous because of last year,” Ghorza said.

“Shut up!”

“Language,” her mom scolded, then turned to the other sister. “Don’t tease your sister, Ghorza, it was her first year presenting. Everyone’s nervous the first time, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Okay, sorry,” she muttered.

Bula frowned into her stew like she could boil it with her eyes. The art project she brought for last year’s Contribution Show was fine, but she could barely look up from her shoes. The moment she did, when she took in the crowd of her family, friends, neighbors, and classmates, all waiting to hear what she’d contributed to her community in the last year… She turned several shades greener and threw up on her art project in front of everyone. This time, she was going to prove herself. This time, her presentation would be so awesome, everyone would forget about last year.

“Go on, Bula,” her dad encouraged. “What did you have in mind this year?”

The problem was: she didn’t have any ideas. Bula scooped some more stew into her mouth to stall for time. She’d been so excited for the Holawynn Dragon Show that she hadn’t bothered to think about a presentation.

But wait. That was perfect!

“I’m going to train Modra!” she announced, sitting up straight with a wide grin. Her family exchanged confused glances.

“Train Modra?” her dad asked.

“Yeah! I’m gonna make him do an agility course and show everyone how awesome it is!”

Ghorza put her cheek on her fist. “How does that improve the community, though?”

“Uh. Because it…” Bula raced through the facts she memorized from her books. “Because dragons are part of the community too? And it’s important to build bonds with them…”

“Bula,” her mom said, gently, “that’s a really good idea. But don’t you want to do something  a little… simpler?”

“Why?”

“The dragons in your shows are a lot younger than Modra. He might not be able to do all the tricks you see on TV.”

“But the agility course isn’t tricks! It’s just running and flying, and he can do all that stuff." She looked earnestly between her parents, trying to will them to understand. “We take him on flights every day!”

“A short flight around the block is different than an agility course.”

Before Bula could protest again, her dad put a hand on her back. “We just don’t want Modra to get hurt, that’s all. That’s a lot of exercise for a little guy like him.”

“What if it’s a really short one? Please?”

Her parents looked at each other. Bula thought about holding her breath until they said yes.

“You can try a short one,” her mom conceded.

Bula cheered and jumped out of her chair.

“We can set it up tomorrow.”

She climbed back onto her chair. The dinner conversations continued all around her, but all Bula could think about was her awesome idea. She was going to train Modra, and then everyone would have to clap for her and tell her how amazing dragon training was. Every bite of stew was sweet with the promise of victory.

As soon as dinner was over and they were all excused, Bula raced to the living room to continue the Holawynn Dragon Show. Now that she was a dragon trainer, she would need to study extra hard to make sure her presentation was the best it could be.

Modra lifted his head when she sat down on the couch. Bula patted the cushion next to her. “Come on! We have to be ready for action tomorrow!”

He slunk down to coil up next to her, but it was a false start. He put his feathery tail over his face and went right back to sleep. Bula pouted, but wasn’t too bothered. They’d have plenty of time to practice before the big show.

“Goodnight, Bula,” her mom said, dimming the lights with a wave of her hand. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Goodnight, Mama, I won’t!”

She picked up the show right where she left off and was immediately enraptured again. After finishing the introduction of Molly and Baily, the three competitors were off the final challenges of the show. Having already passed the Breed Standard Judging, Obedience Trial, and  Advanced Agility Trial to even get to the finals, the last two challenges were the Master’s Agility Trial, and the most difficult test of all: the Performance Trial.

Bula watched with bated breath as each handler and their dragon ran through the complex agility course. Every display of maneuverability, control during flight, and the sheer speed at which they completed the trial was electrifying. The weave polls, magically floating and rotating hoops, the landing boxes that dove straight into a crawl space—each one was navigated with masterful grace. Bula kept her eyes peeled for any mistakes, from all competitors, but especially from Durza. She only spotted a few minor hiccups, nothing that would take out a competitor from the running. It was still anyone’s game.

“Breathtaking,” Lana said, once the course was over. “I can’t wait to see how close those scores are from the judges.”

“I’m guessing we’re in the decimal points,” said Theleano. “With only a few infractions, I think it’s all going to come down to the Performance Trial up next.”

Bula sat with her fingers crossed over her chest as the judges awarded points for the Master’s Agility Trial. Theleano was right—the differences were small, but she gasped at Marya and Evolet’s scores. They’d lost points in handling.

“I was right!” she cheered, and quickly covered her mouth when she remembered it was nighttime. She squealed into her hands, “I was right!”

But it wasn’t over yet. The Performance Trial was where everything would be decided.

A different sort of challenge, the performance part of the show was where the competitors and their dragons would show off the unique flight characteristics of the breed. It was a beautifully choregraphed air show that would truly show how well the trainers knew their dragons, and how well the dragons knew their trainers’ commands. No two Performance Trials were alike, even between the same breed of dragon, and it was where any truly skilled duo shined.

Bula knew Yotul and Durza had an advantage. Eastern Highflyers were known for their stunning flight patterns and capacity for learning tricks. But were they skilled enough to prove it?

Marya and Evolet went first. The show was impressive, but Bula could see the sloppy handling mistakes right away. Evolet really wanted to do her own thing, constrained by the limits of her handler, and it showed.

Her favorites were next. It was everything she could have hoped for, full of incredible dives, twisting flight paths, and excellent displays of what the Eastern Highflyer was bred for. She almost woke up Modra to encourage him to watch and see all the incredible things he could do, but nothing could tear her eyes off the screen. Yotul and Durza were flawless, in her eyes, and much better than Evolet.

Finally, Molly and Baily. As a Frilled Guardian, a stockier species skilled in gliding and swimming, there was a limit to what they could do during a performance. But Molly was clearly a professional, and made full use of Baily’s breed to offer a less flashy, but still honest display of the things a Frilled Guardian was capable of. Bula pulled her pigtails nervously—it wasn’t as fancy as Durza, but would the judges appreciate a more grounded, breed-sensitive performance more?

At last, the award for Best in Show was upon them. The three competitors lined up by the podiums for first, second, and third, awaiting their scores. Bula almost didn’t want to watch.

“In third place,” one of the judges announced, “Evolet, the Ivoryback, and her handler Marya.”

Bula clapped politely as they took the stand. No surprises there.

“In second place, Baily, the Frilled Guardian and her handler Molly Cotton.”

Bula jumped out of her seat. That meant—

“And congratulations to our winner of Best in Show: Durza, the Eastern Highflyer, and his handler Yotul.”

The only thing that kept Bula from screaming with happiness was that she couldn’t breathe. She watched Yotul and Durza, the orc from Athendrolyn with an Eastern Highflyer, take the first place stand and get showered with awards. Durza stood noble and upright on the podium, and Yotul grinned behind him, overjoyed. Not at the applause or the ribbon or the trophy, but at his dragon.

“Unbelievable!” Theleano laughed. “Absolutely unbelievable, I’m booking my flight tomorrow.”

“What an incredible performance,” Lana agreed. “From all three competitors, but I think those two have something special.”

“I completely agree, Lana, Yotul and Durza have truly made their mark today. They say emotional bonds dragons forge when they care about someone can be seen right on their faces, and you can absolutely see how much those two care for each other. No doubt it’s why they won today, and were able to put on such a good show for us. It’s outstanding.”

Bula knew what she had to do now. Knowing that Yotul and Durza would win wasn’t a guess, or luck, or even skill. It was destiny.

As the announcers closed out the show, Bula turned around to face her sleeping family pet. Modra still had his tail over his eyes, blinded to the truth. But Bula knew it.

She would become the greatest dragon trainer in the world.

 

 

As promised, the very next morning Bula and her dad got to work. They worked together to pull out scrap, wood, and carboard boxes from the garage so they could build their very own dragon agility course in the backyard. Bula assigned herself the role of manager—because her dad wouldn’t let her use the power tools—with the task of finding pictures of all the many types of obstacles that a good agility course needed in order for theirs to count.

By late afternoon, they’d crafted a course that had Bula beaming with pride. It wasn’t as big as the ones at the Holawynn Dragon Show—they only had a few weave poles made out of some old plastic pipes, an A-frame made of wood planks, a floating toy hoop enchanted by her mom, and an upturned box for a landing spot. It was a start, though. They could always add more obstacles when her career as the world’s greatest dragon trainer took off.

“What do you think, kiddo?” her dad asked, as they admired their finished work.

“It’s awesome!” she said. “Can I try it with Modra now?”

“Sure, if he wants to come out with us.”

Bula rushed inside, plucking Modra’s harness off the hook by the door. Her parents agreed to skip Modra’s evening walk, so he’d be full of energy for her training session. She found him in his favorite basking spot in the kitchen, coiled up on the tile.

“Modra!” she called, holding his harness triumphantly. “It’s time for your training to begin!”

Seeing the harness he unwrapped himself and stood politely to be hooked up. Bula slipped his skinny body through the loops, tightened them, and marched back outside. Modra followed at her ankles, probably thinking he was going on another walk. Bula grinned to herself—he had no idea how amazing his life was about to become.

“Ta-da!” she announced, arm spread to show off the course.

“I think he’s impressed,” her dad said, standing on the porch to observe her session.

Modra blinked and cocked his head.

Bula nodded. “He’s speechless.”

“Why don’t you show him the ropes?”

The first trial. She nodded, determined.

She approached the first obstacle with Modra: the weave poles. This should be easy for him as an Eastern Highflyer—their long, slinky bodies were ideal for the flexibility this challenge required. She stood to the side, harness held aloft, just like she’d seen the professionals do.

“Go!”

Modra sniffed the first pole. He didn’t go.

Bula tugged the harness a little. “Come on, Modra.”

“I think you have to show him first,” her dad suggested.

She wrinkled her nose—he was supposed to be good at this already. But he was an old dragon. Maybe he just forgot.

“Okay, Modra,” she said, dropping the harness. “Watch me.”

Bula waddled through the weave poles. She crossed one space to the other side, then squeezed through the next, in a zig-zag pattern, until she reached the end. Satisfied with her demonstration, she turned around with her hands on her hips.

“See? It’s easy, so now you—”

Modra had melted down into the grass, not paying attention at all. She groaned.

“Why don’t you try something easier?” her dad suggested. He pointed at the A-frame. “Modra goes up and down the stairs all the time. Maybe he’ll be better at that one.”

Bula thought about it. Modra was clearly out of practice, compared to his breed standard. Maybe doing something familiar would jog his memory about all the other things.

“Okay,” she agreed, and picked up his harness again.

The A-frame was a better challenge to show off heavier-bodied dragons. They didn’t have much flexibility, but were excellently balanced. Modra was used to running up and down the stairs in their house, so he might have an advantage over other Eastern Highflyers in that way.

Bula scooted him right at the base of the A-frame, close enough for his front claws to touch it. “Okay, Modra,” she instructed. “Go up that thing!”

She held the harness up again and waited. When nothing happened again, she tugged it forward. Modra scrambled up the first two claw grips—which were just skinnier pieces of scrap wood—and Bula gasped. He climbed up the first side of the A-frame all on his own! He perched at the top, confused, his lanky body all scrunched up to keep his balance. Now all he needed to do was climb down the other side, and he would master this obstacle!

“Come on, you can do it!” she encouraged.

Modra wiggled, put two of his paws on the other side of the A-frame…

And jumped off. Bula put a hand over her face.

“That was cool!” her dad said, clapping from the other end of the yard.

“No, no! That’s wrong!”

“Oh, whoops.” He stopped clapping.

Bula narrowed her eyes. The last obstacle was the hoop and landing box. Surely, Modra would be able to do that. Any dragon could jump through a hoop and land on a box. That would be the one.

For the third time, Bula dragged Modra to the obstacle, and set him in front of it. This time, she crouched down and explained it to him in detail.

“All you have to do,” she said, “is fly through this hoop, and land on that box.” She pointed to the cardboard box, with a white circle painted on its underside. “It’s super easy and—hey!”

Modra took off without warning. He ignored the hoop completely, raced over to the box, and nudged it until it turned on its side. The interior exposed, he crawled inside and tipped it back over, invisible except for the leash end of his harness trailing across the grass.

“Modra!” she cried.

Her dad jogged over. “Hey, Bula, maybe you should take a break for today.”

“But we didn’t do anything!”

“Well, you showed him the course right? He has to get used to it.”

She folded her arms, frustrated. “But…”

He crouched down next to her, a hand on her back. “He’s never done an agility course, kiddo. He has to learn the rules, and that might take some time. Didn’t it take you a long time to learn all the rules, too?”

She remembered. She scoured the library for books about dragon shows—their history, their trials, and more. Her teachers had to remind her to pay attention in class, because she was too busy reading about dragon shows. After all that studying, Bula had only begun to understand.

“I guess so,” she admitted.

“Come on, let’s go inside,” he said, standing up and holding out a hand. “Maybe tomorrow he’ll be ready to train.”

Bula grabbed his hand—mostly his fingers. “Maybe.”

Her dad took her inside, then he went back out to get Modra’s harness. They let him run around the course on his own, to see if he’d be any better at it the next day. But Bula wasn’t going to take any chances.

That night, she took Modra to her room and read him a book about dragon shows.

 

 

“What are you doing?” Ghorza asked. She was on the couch watching TV when Bula came down the stairs, a pile of books in her arms.

She peeked over the top of the stack. “Training Modra.”

“With books?”

“He has to learn the rules.”

“He can’t read, doofus.”

“Duh. I know that.” Bula put her books down to put her hands on her hips. “I’m going to read it to him. So he knows what to do.”

“Why don’t you just give him treats?” Bula gasped. Ghorza put a hand over her eyes. “Don’t tell me you forgot about treats.”

Bula ignored her and raced back up the stairs. “Mama!”

“I’m in the office!” her mom called back.

Bula raced down the hall to her office, skidding to a stop in the threshold. “Can I have some treats for Modra?”

Her mom looked up from a pile of floating paperwork. “For what?”

“To train him today. Modra can’t read, so I need them.”

She blinked. “Alright, just don’t give him too many.”

“Yay, thank you!”

Bula raced back down the stairs. She stopped before sprinting all the way to the kitchen, contemplating if she needed them. Even if Modra couldn’t read, it was always a good idea to have a back-up plan. She retrieved a bag of jackalope treats, placed them on top of her book pile, and heaved it all into her arms again. Unfortunately, she ran into another problem almost. She couldn’t open the back door.

“Here, I got it,” Ghorza said. She hopped off the couch and opened the door for her.

“Thank you,” Bula said, waddling outside.

“Good luck.”

The door shut before she could respond, but it was fine. Bula didn’t need luck. She had skill. And a bag of treats.

Modra was already outside, sleeping on the back porch. The sun turned him into a disco ball, a kaleidoscope of blue scale-shaped reflections speckling the porch. Bula picked up the treat bag and sat down next to him.

“Hey, Modra,” she said, in the excited voice her parents used. “Look what I have.”

She shook the treat bag, rattling the contents. Modra shot up instantly, yellow eyes trained right on the treats.

“Maybe if you come with me,” she continued, scooting down the porch, “you’ll get a bunch of yummy treats.”

Modra slunk toward her, sniffing wildly. She kept shaking the bag, all the way down into the grass. When she’d led Modra all the way to the weave poles, she reached into the bag and revealed one of the tiny brown chunks that he wanted so badly. Modra huffed, swishing his tail side to side.

“Come this way,” she said holding the treat on her side of the first gap.

With no hesitation and no trouble, Modra slipped between the first two poles. He snatched the treat out of Bula’s hand, and she happily let him. The new method was a success! Now to complete the challenge.

She ran to the other side of the weave poles to set up her next trap, but Modra followed her.

“No, stay over there,” she ordered, pointing him back to the other side. He didn’t listen, staring up at the treat bag hungrily. Bula sighed. Maybe this would be harder than she thought.

For the next hour, she tried to get Modra through the weave poles with the aid of treats. She left a piece between each pole, but he just walked on one side and ate them all one at a time. She tried to throw them, but he just jumped after them. Which was cool, but not what she wanted. Finally, she walked through the weave poles herself, using the treat as bait, which finally got him through, but she couldn’t do that for the presentation! It would look silly!

So she gave up and tried the A-frame again. It was Modra’s best, so she almost thought she wouldn’t need treats. She was wrong—Modra refused to climb it a second time. She lured him up to the top with a treat, but he wouldn’t step down. Even when she put treats on all the claw grips, he just jumped off and gobbled them up.

Getting more than a little mad, Bula held a treat on one side of the hoop. Modra spread his wings and leapt through, taking the treat from her hand as he did. But instead of landing, he whisked it away, back to the porch to eat.

The next day, Bula gave up on treats. She gave up on books, too. And as the days turned into weeks, and the Community Contribution Show drew nearer, Bula was getting scared. And frustrated. And confused as to why Modra just wouldn’t do what she asked.

In an act of desperation, she carried Modra through the entire course, locked in her arms. She walked him through the weave poles, lifted him up and down the A-frame, lowered the floating hoop so she could step through it, and set him down on the landing box. When it was over, she sat on the grass and stared at him intently.

“Can you do that?” she asked. “Can you please just do that on your own?”

Modra lowered his head to be level with hers. His eyes were big and yellow and blank. She wasn’t sure if he’d listened to her at all.

All the failed attempts bubbled up and she shouted, “Fine! Don’t do the course, I don’t care! It’s stupid anyway!”

Bula marched back into the house, slamming the back door behind her. She winced, because she wasn’t supposed to do that, but she couldn’t help it. She stomped all the way up the stairs, all the way to her room, and slammed that door too. She stood in the center of her room, fuming. Her eyes stung with tears.

All around her room, she had scattered books about dragon shows, posters, her own drawings. Her life was full of dragon shows and dragon training. She watched every recorded show she could find. Dragon training was her favorite thing in the world.

So why wasn’t she allowed to have it?

There was a knock at the door. “Bula?” her mom said.

“Go away!” she demanded. Some stupid teardrops slipped down her cheeks. She swiped them away angrily.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay, honey.”

She sniffed. Of course she wasn’t okay, what kind of question was that?

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Bula shifted in place. She didn’t understand anything that happened, she didn’t know what she was doing wrong. But maybe her mom would. She shuffled to the door and opened it up. All she saw were her mom’s green feet, because she didn’t want to look up.

She didn’t have to. Her mom crouched down, taking her cheeks. “Let’s go sit down, okay?”

Bula swallowed a lump and nodded.

They sat together on her bed, Bula clutching a stuffed dragon. It was an Eastern Highflyer.

“What happened today?” her mom asked.

“Modra wouldn’t do the course,” Bula said, trying to keep her voice steady. It was hard.

“I’m sorry, honey.” She petted Bula’s hair. “Dragon training is pretty hard, huh?”

“But I know so many things! I know everything about dragon training, why isn’t it working?”

“Maybe it just takes a really long time, like going to school. You don’t think Modra would be able to learn all of your school work in a month, do you?”

“But it’s just one course.” Bula squeezed her stuffed dragon. “It’s not even that much, I don’t know why he can’t do it.”

“Maybe he’s nervous. He’s never done anything like this before.”

“He does though,” Bula protested. “He flies around. He climbs up and down the stairs. When we have rabbit for dinner, he twists around under the table to get our crumbs. Why can’t he do them now?”

“Well, let’s think about it.” Her mom put an arm around her shoulders. “Modra does all those things because he wants to. Nobody’s ever told him to do them on purpose. He’s never seen an agility course in the backyard before. He doesn’t know what they’re for.” Before Bula could protest again, she added, “He doesn’t know everything you know. He has a dragon brain, not an orc brain.” She tapped Bula’s head. “There’s different stuff up here.”

“But… But I really wanted to do it.”

She couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, and they flooded down her cheeks in a hot waterfall. Her mom hugged her while she sobbed, murmuring things she didn’t hear, and didn’t really care about. There was nothing more Bula wanted than to do a dragon show for her family—for her whole community. But she just couldn’t, and it wasn’t fair.

When she got too tired to keep sobbing, her mom handed her the tissue box off the nightstand. She wiped her eyes, cheeks, and where a little drool had leaked out near her horns.

“I’m not saying you have to change your mind,” her mom said, “but maybe you can do a report on dragon shows for the presentation instead. I’m sure everyone would love to know everything you’ve learned.”

Bula couldn’t even muster the energy to be nervous. “Maybe.”

Her mom kissed the top of her head and stood up. “I’m going to make dinner, do you want to eat upstairs tonight?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright, I’ll bring it up for you.”

And Bula sat in her room for the rest of the night. She ate dinner in bed, changed right into her pajamas, and tried to sleep. It was hard, even though she was tired. When the sun set, the only light was Ghorza’s room across the hall. Eventually, even that light turned off.

When Bula was thinking about going to the kitchen for a glass of water, a slinky silhouette peered into her room. A silhouette with a funny mustache and feathery tail. She decided she was still mad and rolled over.

That didn’t stop him. Modra leapt up onto her bed, crawled over her, and tried to coil up near her chest. She scooted to the edge.

“Go away,” she muttered. “I don’t like you right now.”

Modra sniffed her cheek and made a rumbling sound. Maybe he was saying sorry.

Bula pushed up to sit and he immediately curled up in her lap. She fought back tears again.

“I don’t hate you,” she promised. “I’m just sad.”

He blinked, his wide eyes bright in the dark.

“I just wanted to do a dragon show,” she confessed. “I feel like nobody understands how cool they are. Nobody watches my shows with me or reads my books or anything and I thought—” She sniffed and had to pause. “I thought maybe if I did a cool show, everyone would like it with me.”

Modra nuzzled into her hand. She stroked his skinny neck and felt a bit in her stomach.

“I’m sorry if I made you scared. I didn’t mean to. I just think you’re a really cool dragon.”

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He was a dragon, not an orc.

“I guess I have to do something else for the presentation now.”

At that, Modra sat up. He jumped off the bed and slunk his way to her door. Bula shuffled back under the covers. He probably needed a drink of water.

But then he came back. He stood up on his back legs and nudged her face with his head. She watched him pace to the door, stop, and look at her. He… wanted Bula to follow him. Curious, she got out of bed and did just that.

Modra led her all the way downstairs and to the backdoor. She sighed, but put on her shoes. He should have woken up Ghorza if he needed to go to the bathroom. He darted out the door, again waiting for her to step outside before he moved again.

Bula expected him to dart behind the bushes, but instead, he went to the A-frame. Modra tentatively crawled up the first half and… down the second half. Shakily, unsure, but… he did it.

Speechless, Bula just stood there, in her boots and pajamas, wondering if she was dreaming. Modra flew back to her, as if to make sure she’d seen it. And she had.

“Are you,” she started, “learning?”

Modra’s yellow eyes glittered in the night. Bula suddenly remembered what the dragon show announcer had said— the emotional bonds dragons forge when they care about someone can be seen right on their faces.

Was he… trying to show her that he cared?

Bula crouched down and hugged Modra, as tight as she could without hurting him. Modra rumbled, and it vibrated his entire body.

“Tomorrow,” she declared, “we’re going to try again.”

Modra didn’t say anything, but she knew he agreed.

 

 

The Community Contribution Show was upon them.

Bula had her dad load the agility course into the trunk of the car, piece by piece. All the way there, she held Modra in her lap, and tried not to think about where they were going. She wished they had more time to practice.

“Nervous?” Ghorza asked. She was wearing a traditional orcish dancing skirt—a gift passed down by their grandparents that had been stuffed in the closet until now. It was really pretty, bright red with extra layers to make spinning and jumping look cooler. Bula felt weird wearing just a regular outfit.

“Yeah,” she admitted.

“Don’t be. You’re gonna do fine.”

Bula nodded, swallowing hard. She hoped so.

When they arrived at the park outside the community center, it was already packed. A little stage had been set up under a large tree, a floating sign instructed presenters where to store their props if they had them, and a ton of fold-out chairs were planted in the grass. There were dozens of people mingling around the park, some had brought blankets to sit on, some brought their own chairs, and others sat on their cars. Orcs made up most of the attendees, but there were other creatures there too—Bula recognized a few of her half-orcish classmates attending with both their parents. She waved out the window. Then she remembered she’d have to perform in front of all of them.

Before she could slump down, Modra perked up. He stretched his long body, and nuzzled her hand. She rubbed his head, heartened by his encouragement.

“Parking is going to be a nightmare,” her dad lamented from the driver’s seat.

“It’s a nightmare every year, Agrob,” her mom sighed back.

“Yes, Dura, I know. We are a bit later than usual, too.”

“We’ll never find a seat like this.” Her mom turned around in her seat. “Girls, let’s get out here and go find somewhere to sit while Dad parks the car.”

“What about my course?” Bula asked.

“Don’t worry,” her dad said, “I’ll get it all out of the trunk and set it up with the other props.”

With that settled, Bula got out of the car, Modra in her arms. She, Ghorza, and their mom squeezed through the crowd, stopping what felt like every five seconds to talk to a friend, neighbor, or random friendly stranger. Bula clutched Modra close to her chest to keep him from falling… and because she needed a hug.

Finally, they reached the stage. They snagged the first four seats in a row they could find, her mom planting her bag on one to save it for her dad. Bula would have used Modra to save it for him, but she couldn’t bring herself to let him go. Modra twisted around in her grip.

“Sorry,” she said, and quickly let go.

Modra put his front paws on her chest and rubbed her cheek with his face. She steeled herself. If Modra believed in her, Bula knew she could do anything.

It took a long time for the show to start. So many people had to sit down, so many more people arrived, and her dad could barely find them when he got finished transferring Bula’s props. But the noisy crowd went almost silent when someone got up on stage holding a microphone and clipboard, a big orc with golden tusk jewelry and a sundress.

“Wow, what a great turnout,” they said, peering out into the crowd with a hand over their eyes. Everyone clapped and cheered. “When I saw how many people signed up to present this year, I was worried we’d have to rent out the university stadium.”

Everyone laughed, but Bula thought that was a great idea. There would be so much room for cooler presentations. And more props!

“Since there’s so many of you, I’ll cut right to the chase. Once a year, we celebrate what we have for generations: community, togetherness, and achievement. There’s no such thing as a society without people to push it forward, and today, we have a lot of people who are ready to share what they contributed to the community in the past year.” They glanced at their clipboard. “First up: Argha, with an educational achievement.”

It went on for hours. Probably days. Bula sat, watched people come up on stage, listened to them talk about what they did, watched a demonstration if they had one, clapped, and then waited for the next person. She was worried the announcer had left her off the list—part of her hoped she’d been left off the list.

“Ghorza, with a cultural tribute.”

She stood up, the whole family wishing her good luck on her way to the stage. Everyone clapped when she got up there, and took the microphone from the announcer.

“This year, I learned to dance,” she said, proudly. “Specifically, I learned a traditional war dance from my ancestor’s clan. I want to share with my community, so we can all reflect on our history, and how far we’ve come.”

The audience clapped, but Bula tried to clap the loudest. Ghorza waited for everyone to quiet down, standing tall in the center of the stage. She handed the mic back to the announcer, and, with no music, she started her dance.

Ghorza stomped, kicked, and clapped aggressively. The skirt flew like a dragon’s wings whenever she turned, jumped, struck out with her legs as if she were actually at war. Every step beat down an invisible enemy, and the skirt flashed to clear the battlefield for another. Bula couldn’t tear her eyes away mesmerized by the performance.

When she finished, sweating and chest heaving, everyone burst into applause. Ghorza beamed at the crowd and took a bow. Bula would have jumped out of her seat if not for Modra—it was so cool!

Uh oh. It was really cool.

Ghorza left the stage and the announcer came back. “What a spectacular performance!” they said. “Only blessings to you and your ancestors, but I think I’d break a hip trying to pull of moves like that.” They paused for the audience to laugh. “Up next, we have Bula, with her tribute to entertainment.”

“Time to go, kiddo,” her dad said, and held out his hand.

“Good luck, honey,” her mom said.

Bula didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything. She just nodded and took her dad’s hand as he led her through the crowd. She held Modra in the other. He draped himself over her back and around her neck like a scarf.

They passed Ghorza on the way. “Hey, good luck.”

“Th-thanks,” she managed.

All the way to the stage, Bula thought about how awesome Ghorza’s dance was. Would she be able to do something like that? Something that meaningful and that everyone loved? Was she going to ruin everything like last year again?

Before she knew it, her dad had let her hand go and she was on the stage. A sea of green faces unfolded before her eyes. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people, watching her. Talking. About her. She dropped Modra.

Luckily for her, he was an Eastern Highflyer, and landed flawlessly. Some people murmured, a mess of voices Bula couldn’t begin to understand. She felt a little dizzy.

Modra clawed her hip, standing up on his hind legs. Bula tried to brush him off, but looking down she remembered: she prepared for this. Hurriedly, she dug into her pocket and unfolded a square of paper. She stared at it, instead of the crowd.

“Um,” she said, and stopped when the announcer rushed over and handed her the microphone. It was big. And sweaty. “Um. Th-this year, I learned dragon training. Dragons have, um, been in our community for a really long time, going back to ancient times. They’re an important part of our culture, and I think people should bond with their dragons more. By training them. Like this.”

Bula stuffed the speech back into her pocket, and spun around as people clapped politely. Her dad had set up the agility course while she was talking: a bag of treats, the weave poles, the A-frame, and the hoop and box. Standing at the very back of the stage, he gave her a double-thumbs up. She gave a weak one back.

Gripping Modra’s harness like a lifeline, Bula shuffled to the start of the agility course. It looked so different on a stage, instead of in her backyard. Almost like a real dragon show. She took a breath.

Bula unclipped Modra’s harness, and heard the crowd behind her bubble up with questions. She ignored them, with all her might, and took a treat out of the bag. Modra stepped up to the weave poles, just like they practiced. He looked up at her with his big yellow eyes, glittering, just like they had before. That night he told her that he wanted to try.

Bula wanted to try too. She stuck her arm out, holding the treat aloft, just like they practiced. And took off running.

Modra zipped along behind her, weaving through the poles like he was made of water. The curves of his body flowed between the empty spaces, not touching a single side. Behind her, the audience gasped, but they didn’t have time to process the first trick before they reached the A-frame. Modra climbed up to the center of the obstacle and stopped.

Bula let him, just like they practiced, holding the treat as high as she could. He posed on his hind legs, showing off his lanky body. It wasn’t “correct,” but Modra liked to collect himself after running up one side—Bula learned that during practice. After a few seconds, he let her guide him down the other side.

The next trick was easy. Modra leapt into the air and soared through the hoop, landing in the empty, upright cardboard box on the front corner of the stage. Bula rushed around to one side to make sure he was ready. When she saw him coiled up and ready to pounce, she tossed the treat in the air. He jumped like a spring toy, catching it out of midair.

And… that was it. They did it.

Bula turned around, only to be blasted with a soundwave of applause. People cheered for her, shouting their appreciation into the sky. She was so surprised she fell over, landing on her backside. It didn’t even hurt—she stared, in awe. She did it. She did it well! She started laughing and then couldn’t stop, thrilled and shaking and dizzy and maybe she would throw up again. But in a good way, this time.

Modra didn’t let her take all the credit. He jumped out of the box and into her lap, showing off his sparkly scales. The audience clapped even louder, and Bula threw her arms around him. He nuzzled her cheek, his eyes bright with understanding. He was happy. And she was happy too.

Even if she didn’t do it “right,” the way the professionals did, Bula got to bond with her pet. She worked with Modra, instead of making him do whatever she wanted. And then they put on the best dragon show ever.

Bula finally collected herself enough to stand up, grinning ear to ear. This was destiny. She would become the greatest dragon trainer of all time.

excerpt from the Tales from Athendrolyn Anthology by Annika Sage Ellis

Full prompt list for the Anthology Blast

Tips are appreciated!

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It was a beautiful spring day in Athendrolyn. Parks blossomed with fresh leaves and bright flowers, the streets bustled with people, and a collective sigh of relief that the long winter had finally ended. Dhosseda took in the sights as she made her way down the sidewalk, an engraved blackthorn wood cane in one hand and a bulging purse under her opposite arm. It was a lovely day all around, and what better way to spend a lovely day than with her neighborhood?

In the distance, a Mid-Kingdom Elvish style building came into view. A dignified construction of polished wood, marble columns, stained glass, and an artfully slanted roof, it would have been a cathedral in nearly any other city. In Athendrolyn, the sign over the entrance—new, but styled to match the historic architecture—announced itself to all passersby as the Waterside Community Senior Center. Dhosseda turned down the street and through the entrance garden, a rainbow of plants greeting her on the way.

The enchanted doors slid open as she approached. A quaint reception desk sat in the center of a small lobby, but Dhosseda didn’t need to bother the volunteer behind it. She turned down the same hallway as always, and looked for the floor sign with “Weekly Knitting Circle” scrawled across it in big, looping chalk letters. It was the third room on the left, as usual, with its doors wide open to anyone who cared to join.

“Good morning, Miss Oakfall,” said the pleasantly soft voice of Fiadh, a young selkie with brown hair down to her lower back. She wore her velvety, spotted, sealskin coat as if winter had never ended, though that was no surprise.

“Please, dear, I’ve said it a hundred times,” she replied, waving a hand. “Call me Dhosseda—or you can even call me Eda, if you like.”

Fiadh took her cane when she offered it and held out her arm instead. “Sorry, Miss—Dhosseda. Old habits are hard to break.”

“You’re much too young to be saying that.”

“Am I?”

“Mark my words, Fiadh: when your hair goes as gray as my beard, you’ll remember this talk and guffaw until your heart gives out.”

She laughed gently. “I’ll take your word for it.” Fiadh lead her to the nearest low seat in the knitting circle, to accommodate her dwarvish stature. She set the cane against the wall. “Just call for me if you need anything, okay?”

“Thank you, dear, it’s a pleasure to see you as always.”

“Eda, is that you?” asked Vinthia, a blindfold secured tightly over her eyes. Her bullsnake hair twisted over and over itself, each snake flicking its tongue trying to sniff out the newcomer. Her hands worked at almost the same rate, knitting needles clicking burnt orange yarn into even rows.

“It most certainly is,” Dhosseda replied, opening her purse for her own project. “I didn’t mean to be late, but it was such a lovely day, I walked instead of taking the trolley.”

“It is pleasant today, isn’t it?” Crabapple agreed from across the circle, a stout dryad—closer to a shrub, really—with long, spindly branches tipped with springtime leaves.

“Hold onto your hats, everyone,” said Pimpernel, a halfling on their other side, “Ol’ Crabby has something positive to say for once.” The circle only laughed because it was true.

Crabapple brandished their crochet hook. “Don’t you start with me, or won’t bring my homemade jelly when my fruit starts to ripen.”

“A threat, indeed!”

Dhosseda chuckled into her beard, unfolding her latest blanket project onto her lap. There was nothing she’d rather do than be here among her neighbors. She’d gotten so used to the regulars, she almost felt like they’d known each other their whole lives. Vinthia, Crabapple, and Pimpernel, of course. Then there was Oloyra, an elf older than the building but didn’t look a day over six-hundred, Xilbeth, a minotaur with needles double the size of Dhosseda’s legs, and Tokea, the satyr who used yarn made of its own fleece. Yes, she truly couldn’t have asked for a better group of friends. The only problem she’d ever had at the knitting circle was—

“Good morning, Miss Meldrish,” Fiadh said. Dhosseda snapped up.

A brilliantly purple dragonfolk entered the room in a frilly, square-neckline dress. The wide sunhat on her head had holes poked in it for her horns. She had a wicker basket over her elbow, stuffed with colorful yarn and different sized needles. Her sharp teeth flashed while she spoke with Fiadh, the picture of polite innocence. Dhosseda felt her blood pressure rise.

Meldrish squeezed between chairs into the circle. “Excuse me, darlings, I hate to interrupt.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Pimpernel said, scooting his seat over to let her pass. “All you’ve cut short is talk about the weather.”

“It is such a lovely day, isn’t it?” Meldrish had the gall to plop her scaly behind right next to Dhosseda, her tail slipping through the gap in the chair’s back. “I took a walk to get some sun on my scales.”

“That’s what Dhosseda said!”

“Oh, is that so?” Meldrish put her basket in her lap, and coolly turned her gaze. “How lovely, Dhosseda, we all need some fresh air from time to time.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed, smiling through gritted teeth. “It’s hard to imagine a better time for it than today, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course, I feel the same.” Meldrish plucked a pair of needles out of her basket. “But of course, I’d never miss a meeting. Not even for an entire hoard of scrap fabric.”

“As if you need another hoard,” Oloyra teased.

Everyone laughed again, and Dhosseda pretended to join them. She picked up her own needles and yarn. She would ignore Meldrish, and focus on her project. Nothing this woman said was going to send her ranting today. Not this time.

Dhosseda assessed her next row. She’d been working on this blanket for a few months now, and it was in its final stages now. Her choice to use an alternating zig-zag pattern in forest green, bright lime, white, and gray required stopping to switch colors fairly often, but it was nothing she hadn’t done before. For this blanket in particular, all the hardship in the world was worth it. She picked up where she’d left off with her dark green yarn.

“What are you working on this week, Vinthia?” she asked.

“Now that it’s getting warmer,” she replied, “I thought I’d try a light shawl for the beach.”

“That’s a great idea! I love the color you chose, it looks excellent with your hair.”

 The bullsnakes writhed in her direction. “I’m so glad you think so! I was worried it would be a bit too bold.”

“Nonsense, there’s no such thing as too bold. Especially not for you, dear, it suits you.”

She smoothed her hair back and the snakes tangled around her fingers. “Oh, enough about me. What are you working on, Eda?”

“The same blanket I brought last week, I’m finally getting to the end of it.”

“Well, just make sure not to start a new blanket before you’re done.”

Dhosseda chuckled knowingly. “Oh, believe me, I’ve thought about it. But I’m on a bit of a time crunch with this one.”

“How so?”

“I have to get it done in two months for my grandson’s graduation.” She paused, sitting up taller. “He’s on track to be at the top of his class in Thaumaturgic Engineering at Cragshield University, and I want to surprise him with this.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“I agree!” interrupted Meldrish, sticking her snout where Dhosseda certainly didn’t want it. “Congratulations to your family! One of my grandsons graduated with high honors from Cragshield last year. It’s such a rigorous school to succeed in, your grandson must be very astute indeed.”

“Thank you,” Dhosseda said, forcing the platitudes past her tongue. “And congratulations to yours as well.”

She scoffed, waving it off with her needles. “Oh, it’s old news now. He’s no engineer like yours, but he did land an office at Montagar & Powell Law this year, and we’re all very proud.”

Before Dhosseda could reply—spit a reply—Xilbeth chimed in. “My granddaughter did an internship at Montagar & Powell!”

“What a small world,” Meldrish said. “How did she like it there?”

They continued to chit-chat, but Dhosseda couldn’t hear them over her blood boiling in her ears. How dare this overgrown lizard “congratulate” her grandson, only to sweep him aside to brag about her own. How dare she try to dismiss his success by name-dropping one of the most prestigious law firms in the country!

“Eda…” Vinthia warned. Even the snakes were giving her wary looks. She huffed, but knew Vinthia was right. She should just focus on her own project, let Meldrish gloat to Xilbeth until he keeled over instead.

No such luck—Meldrish put a hand on her arm. “But where are my manners?” she chided herself, and Dhosseda almost rolled her eyes. “I meant to say that two of his clutchmates are at Cragshield as well, perhaps the three of our grandkids know each other?”

“I doubt it,” she said, before she could stop herself. “My grandson is quite studious, as I’m sure you assumed, and lately he’s been working very hard to polish up his Master’s thesis—it’s his second degree.” Dhosseda shrugged, trying to hint for her to get those obnoxious claws off. “So unless they both happen to be engineers, I don’t think they could possibly know each other.”

“Oh my, that’s impressive.” She sat back, nodding into her chest. “It does sound like he’d be too busy. Maybe they’ll meet up if he goes back for his doctorate? At least one of mine is going back for a Ph.D. in—”

“Unless it’s in engineering, I highly doubt they’ll ever see each other.”

“Ladies,” Tokea interrupted with a sigh. “Do you have to do this every time?”

“Yes, do you?” Vinthia agreed.

“Do what?” Meldrish asked, blinking around the circle. “Don’t tell me none of you ever talk about your grandchildren.”

Dhosseda felt her eye twitch. “I’d hate to cut this short, but I would like to focus on my project now. Dear.”

“It’s not a problem at all!”

Meldrish cheerfully went back to her basket and the project in her hands, knitting row after row of light blue yarn. Dhosseda almost snapped her needles in half.

“I think I might try a halter top next,” Vinthia said, overly loud. “What do you think, Eda?”

Dhosseda a calming breath. “I think that sounds lovely, darling.”

Despite her best efforts, Dhosseda spent the rest of the knitting circle fuming. Vinthia, the kind soul that she was, tried to keep her occupied in conversation, but it only went so far. Weeks upon weeks of bitterness bubbled to the surface and simmered at the top of her mind for hours. When everyone packed up to leave, Dhosseda was shocked there wasn’t steam pouring out of her ears.

She couldn’t even enjoy the walk home like she planned. She stomped down the street, striking her cane against the pavement, and sulked. Birds chirped, people watered flowers in their gardens, and Dhosseda scowled at her feet. A gorgeous spring afternoon—wasted by that foul woman’s obsession with herself!

Dhosseda reached the door to her condo complex and took the elevator down to the basement levels. She was still grumbling by the time she reached her door, not even comforted by the familiar confinement of stone walls and fairy light lamps.

“I’m back,” she announced on the way inside.

“Well, you don’t sound happy about it,” replied Turel, her husband and much calmer half.

She sighed harshly, kicking her shoes off in the foyer. “You’ll never guess why!”

“Was it Mel—”

“It was Meldrish again!”

Dhosseda stomped into the living room. Turel sat on his favorite lounge chair, short beard tucked into his chest while he fed treats to their phoenix, Nora. The fiery feathered bird perked up and cocked her head from where she perched on the arm of the chair. If Dhosseda had been in any other mood, she would have joined them quietly, but she just couldn’t wait to get the off her chest.

“I was talking to Vinthia about Reiroc’s graduation,” she ranted, “and this woman has the gall to interrupt and talk about how her grandson is a big, fancy lawyer at Montagar & Powell, and that two of his siblings are at Cragshield doing their fancy degrees—”

“Eda.”

“—and just happened to mention that they’ll be going back for doctorates when I said Reiroc was busy with his Master’s defense! Oh, and when I mentioned what a lovely day it was for a walk—”

“Eda.”

“—she told me that ‘we all could use some fresh air’ and I just know she was trying to insinuate something—”

Turel waved his arms in desperation. “Blessings and curses, Eda, slow down!”

Dhosseda broke off, huffing and puffing. Nora raised and lowered the crest on her head, chirping in alarm. Turel stroked the back of her neck.

“You’re going to make the old girl burst into flames at this rate,” he chided.

“Well, I won’t be far behind,” she replied, and slumped on the chair across from his. She set her cane against the side and put her head against her fist. “I swear on all the stone in the earth, if I have to talk to that woman one more time…”

“Why do you talk to her?”

“I don’t! She talks to me first!”

“So ignore it!” Turel hushed apologetically when Nora chirped again. “Honestly, Eda, you’ve never had a nice word to say about Meldrish, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you go out of your way to speak to her every week.”

“It’s not—I don’t start the conversations, but I can’t just let her have the last word.”

“Why not? What are you actually getting out of entertaining these talks?”

She didn’t know, honestly. Dhosseda hated how Meldrish clearly craved to be the center of attention. She couldn’t let anyone speak well about themselves or their family without trying to counter it with a brag of her own, something that would inevitably turn the group’s praise and ears toward her. There was an undercurrent of challenge to her every rebuke, daring someone else to steal the spotlight back. Dhosseda couldn’t stand Meldrish or her antics, but she hated to be dismissed even more. Not that their terse conversations ever made her feel any better, even on the few occasions she had “won.”

“Nothing,” she admitted, with a sigh. “My pride gets the better of me, I guess.”

Turel nodded, a smile on his face. “That’s the Eda I married, no question. But you’re going to make yourself sick with all this hate you bring home. Just try ignoring her next time.”

How? she wanted to ask. How could she possibly ignore it when her own achievements, her family’s achievements, her joy was constantly under scrutiny like that? When there was someone like Meldrish in the room, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting conversations? It took everything she had not to fly off the handle. How was she supposed to sit quietly?

Nora flew off Turel’s chair and landed on hers. She cooed, eyes pinning in interest. Dhosseda ran a hand down her long back and wings. She took a deep breath.

If she couldn’t ignore Meldrish for her own sake, then she’d do it for her husband, who deserved better than to hear her rant about this unpleasant woman every week. She’d do it for Nora, who stressed so terribly easily. If Meldrish needed to tear others down to lift herself up, that was her business. Dhosseda didn’t want any part of it—would choose not to take part in it. Besides, they were both too old for these childish games. She didn’t want to poison herself with anger, or ruin the time she spent with her neighbors by dreading a single person.

“I’ll do my best,” she agreed.

Her mind was made up. Next week, she would protect her peace.

Dhosseda “making herself sick” was supposed to be a figure of speech.

The day before the knitting circle she felt a bit groggy, but on the fateful morning of what was supposed to be her new beginning, she could barely get out of bed. As the last straggling cases of the winter flu popped up around the city, Dhosseda was, unfortunately, one of its victims. Instead of knitting, she spent that day—and several days afterward—feverish and coughing. It was bad enough that she tried to convince Turel to wax her beard clean off, but thankfully he didn’t.

He and Nora were constants at her bedside, the darlings, and Vinthia dropped by with a pot of soup. While she ate, the two of them got to talking about what she missed at the knitting circle, and Vinthia reported that, while everyone wished she could have been there, Meldrish seemed particularly unhappy. Dhosseda couldn’t help puzzling over that.

“I thought she hated me,” she remarked to Turel that night.

“It could be that you were the most fun to argue with,” he suggested. “Hold still, now.”

He rubbed his hands together and a cool blue spark jumped between his palms. A little ghostly familiar in the shape of a mouse ran down his arm. A spell burst from his fingertips, and the mouse disappeared as the welcome relief of chilly air washed over Dhosseda’s face.

“Thank you, dear,” she sighed, relaxing into her pillow. “I think the worst of it’s behind me.”

“Hope so.” He scooted under the blankets next to her. “After all, I think you’d lose your mind if you had to miss two weeks of knitting in a row.”

She laughed, but it was subdued by her unanswered questions. If all Meldrish really wanted was a good argument, couldn’t she get that from anybody? Maybe Dhosseda was the only one who fought back as fiercely, but wouldn’t that be a detriment to her need for attention? As she recovered, the more she thought it over, and the less it made sense.

Luckily, her illness had since subsided by the time the next knitting circle rolled around. She took a bit of medicine and used the trolley instead of walking, just to be safe, but she was upright and stir-crazy from sitting in one spot for days on end.

“Miss Dhosseda! “ Fiadh greeted, rushing to her side. “Vinthia told us you were sick last week, how are you feeling?”

“I’m moving a bit slower,” she admitted, “but glad not to be hacking up my own lungs anymore.”

“We’re all glad too. Here, come sit down.”

Dhosseda took her arm to the usual seat. Vinthia was already there at her side, talking to Tokea, and Meldrish sat on the other. But this week was the week—she would not be letting her mood be dictated by petty, childish contests. She took her project out of her purse.

“Dhosseda!” Meldrish gasped, and she braced herself, “I’m so sorry to hear you’ve been ill, what happened?”

“Just a little flu,” she replied. She got to work on her blanket, counting the rows. “I’m feeling much better now, thank you.”

“I’m so glad to hear it, I was lonely without you last week.”

Dhosseda did a double take. “Lonely? Wasn’t everyone else here?”

Meldrish waved a hand. “Oh, it just isn’t the same without you, darling.”

“Oh.” That was a surprise. “Thank you?”

“Of course! And if you’re ever ill again, if you ever need anything at all, just let me know.”

“I—I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, again.”

Meldrish went back to her project. Dhosseda went back to hers—or tried to.

It was as if the months of arguments had been an elaborate joke. Meldrish was unflappably kind the entire time. They had a genuine conversation about their pets when Dhosseda brought up how Nora stayed by the bed while she was sick, and Meldrish mentioned she had a dog, Dori. They… got along for the first time. Vinthia was surprised, too, Dhosseda could tell, but didn’t have an explanation for her.

By the end of the knitting circle, she still didn’t have one. Dhosseda took her time packing up her things, half on purpose, and half lost in thought. Was this supposed to be another way of getting attention? Had her brief illness knocked something loose in Meldrish that convinced her to be kinder? Was Dhosseda’s new mindset all it took to prepare her for a completely different experience? There was only one way she could find out.

“Meldrish,” she asked, once they were the final two leaving, “I hate to come across rude, but you seem different today.”

“Do I?” she asked, a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry if I came on too strong, I just missed our boasting session last week so terribly.”

Dhosseda blinked. “Boasting session?”

“Yes, is that not what dwarves call it? Our little verbal sparring matches, I love hearing about your grandson!”

A boasting session. Verbal sparring. This whole time, while Dhosseda thought she was being brushed aside, Meldrish had been trying to bond with her. She thought they were swapping stories, engaging in a friendly bragging competition. A flush of embarrassment ran through her, nearly as hot as her fever.

“It’s no trouble at all,” she quickly said. “How would you like to get tea somewhere this weekend, to make up for the meeting I missed?”

Meldrish clasped her claws together. “Oh, I’d love that! I know an excellent tea shop nearby, it’s called The Daughter’s Cup.”

“I can meet you there at two o’clock tomorrow.”

“Perfect!”

They said their goodbyes at the sidewalk and went their separate ways. Dhosseda thought about stopping by the library on her way home—apparently, she needed to learn a bit more about dragonfolk boasting culture.

excerpt from the Tales from Athendrolyn Anthology by Annika Sage Ellis

Full prompt list for the Anthology Blast

Tips are appreciated!

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Aka knew her social life was over.

When her eyes unclouded at the end of the shed cycle, she wished she was blind again. Her scales flaked off in uneven patches, got stuck in hard to reach places, and made her look like garbage. They had tried everything to get their shed to come off in one piece, but nothing worked. Aka gave up after hours of trying to save herself. They hadn’t moved from their vanity since, flopped over on the counter in despair with their arms over their head.

The heat bulbs screwed into the mirror did nothing to help her mood. She couldn’t even be bothered to drag herself into her bed-hide—she didn’t want to shed flakes all over the blankets. Not that it mattered. There were flakes all over the floor from her incessant picking, lost in the carpet. And down there with them, the evidence of her useless work: bottle after bottle of the latest products in naga scalecare.

Scale shines, scale buffs, scale hydrators, lotions, magic salves—everything. Aka tried at least a dozen of the best cosmetics, the ones all her friends and classmates and favorite creators were using. All of them promised perfect scale health, an effortless shine, and most of all, easy sheds. But not for Aka, apparently. She was doomed to have crap scales for her entire life, and she’d probably wither into a husk before being allowed to go out in public again.

There was a knock on the outside of her bedroom wall. “Hey, snakelet, it’s me.”

“Go away, Jun!” she snapped. She did not need her parent’s stupid, useless comfort right now. She needed to find a way to wear a full-body sock to school on Monday.

“I know you’re upset, Aka,” xe said, not going away, “but everyone has a bad shed every once in a while. All your clutchmates—”

“I don’t care!” For once in their life, they wished they had tear ducts. “It’s not like any of you understand what this means for me.”

“Sure I do.”

“Just leave me alone.”

“You don’t think I ever had a bad shed when I was your age? Or that nobody ever made fun of me for it?”

Aka didn’t reply, tongue flicking toward the thick entrance curtain. They hadn’t really expected that. Jun didn’t talk much about what xir life was life when xe was their age, but…

“Fine,” she relented, and dragged herself off the vanity.

She opened the curtain for Jun, coiled up in the hallway and tongue-flicking anxiously. Aka didn’t see what xe was so worried about, considering xe had a perfect shed this month. Xir glossy red and black-spotted dorsal scales, shining from xir tale to xir nose, made her wish she was blind again. Subtle pale yellow scales outlined every dark spot and the V-shaped stripes over xir head and snout. Even xir checkered belly was flawlessly shiny and new, and she knew Jun didn’t use any scale products. She couldn’t believe they were related.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Jun said, smoothing their flaky head.

“Yeah, whatever.” She brushed xir off. “Are you going to say something or what?”

Jun wasn’t looking at her. Xir eyes went right over her head to scan her bedroom, tongue curving in the direction of her vanity. “You know,” xe said, “the best way to fix a stuck shed is to soak in the bath.”

Aka groaned. “I don’t want to take a stupid bath.”

“Don’t you want to finish your shed?”

“I tried!” She threw her arm back to the mess of products. “I’ve done everything and it’s not working.”

“Except take a bath.”

“It won’t work! It’s just going to wash off all my scalecare and I’ll be right back where I started.”

“Maybe. But is that scalecare really doing anything for you now?” When Aka didn’t respond, Jun kept going. “Scale shine isn’t going to help you with stuck shed in the first place. If you really want to wear it, you can put it on your fresh scales after we get your shed off.”

Xe held out xir left hand, the one with the missing finger. Aka frowned at it. If the specialty scalecare products did absolutely nothing for her, what good would a bath do? It’s not like water was better for her scales than the other stuff.

But maybe she could start fresh. After she washed all the product off, she could try again with a fresh slate. Maybe she put them on in the wrong order or something.

“Fine,” she sighed, and took xir hand. “I’ll try taking a bath.”

Jun didn’t make her hold xir hand the whole time, thank the Gods. Just squeezed once and let go, letting her follow at her own pace. Slithering behind xir, Aka couldn’t help but feel envious of Jun’s scales again. Xe had lost the very end of xir tail, but xir shed still came off perfectly every time. It didn’t make sense—Jun hated the scalecare products she used, but never really explained why. Did xe just assume that everyone else had the same “good shed genes” xe had? Probably. Whoever Aka’s other parent was must have given her the flaky gene.

When they got to the bathroom, the recessed floor in the “bath” half of the room was already full. Jun dipped xir hand in to check the temperature, and the water bobbed against the tile lip that kept it from spilling over onto the other side.

“You planned this,” Aka remarked, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

“I knew you needed help with your shed,” xe replied, flicking the water off. “But if you didn’t want my help, I would have taken a soak anyway.”

Aka found that hard to believe, but it was pointless to argue. They slithered over the ledge and into the warm bath, hanging onto it as the rest of their body followed behind. They tried not to watch as their dull, flaky scales slunk into the water. Some of the dried shed scraped off over the tile lip, fluttering like dead leaves to the bright white floor.

Once all of their body was submerged in the bath, laying in a haphazard trail, Aka folded their arms on the ledge and rested their snout on it. “There. Soaking,” she droned.

“I can leave you alone, if you want,” Jun offered, fully coiled up on the other side of the bath.

“You can stay. Only so you can see how this doesn’t work.”

“Go ahead, then.” Xe pushed a floating basket of bath products toward her, including a rough-bristled brush. “Prove me wrong.”

Aka snatched the brush out of the basket and turned to fruitlessly scrub at their side. To her surprise, little flakes of stuck shed were already peeling off. The little brownish pieces that used to be her scales floated by in the water.

“See?” she said, triumphantly throwing the brush back in the basket. “I don’t even need the brush.”

Jun tongue-flicked at her. “Maybe the water is helping after all, huh?”

“No.” She hunkered back down on the tile barrier. “I just needed to let the product sit for a little longer.”

“Really, Aka?”

“Yeah, really! You’re just mad because you already hate scalecare stuff and want to be right all the time.”

Jun’s pupils shrank into thin slits, surprised, and Aka sort of wished she hadn’t said that. But still, it was true. Xe was always so worried about all the products on the market, but they wouldn’t be sold if they were unsafe. Xe was just overreacting to a new trend, like any parent would, from any creature’s family.

“How about this,” Jun said. “While you let your scalecare sit, I’m going to tell you about the worst shed of my life.”

“Why?”

“Just because. I think you’re old enough to hear it now.”

Aka stretched out in the bath, getting comfortable. “Fine. What happened?”

“Well, I was about your age, and it started out like any normal shed,” Jun began. “My scales got dull, I went blue, and after a couple weeks I came back to the world again. It was an awful shed, though. I was flaking everywhere, nothing came off in one piece, and no matter what I tried, there were some parts that just never came off.”

“Never?”

“I tried everything I could think of. Nothing helped. Eventually, I gave up and just left it there—it would fall off eventually, right?” Xe shook xir head. “Not even a little bit. I went through three more sheds of the exact same thing?”

Aka nearly hissed. “In a row?”

“In a row. And by the fourth shed, I started to lose circulation in the places the scales wouldn’t come off of, then I lost sensation entirely. And while all this was going on, I was lethargic every day, I could barely eat, I felt weak all the time. By that point, it was obvious something was wrong, so my mom took me to the doctor, but it was too late by then.” Jun flicked the stubby end of xir tail, and raised xir left hand. “My finger and my tail were necrotic. I had to get them amputated.”

A nervous pit opened in Aka’s chest. Necrosis gave her nightmares the first time she learned about it. “Why? What happened, why couldn’t you shed?”

Jun sighed, a long, quiet hiss. “While I was at the hospital, they ran me through all sorts of tests, and the results came back unanimous. I was so dehydrated, my body didn’t have enough moisture to dedicate to getting a clean shed. It was just trying to keep me alive.

“And the reason I was so dehydrated was because I was practically baking myself alive under my heat lamp. Eight hours a day, minimum.”

Aka did hiss that time, shocked. “Eight hours?”

“At least! Sometimes I slept with it on, and no wonder I was exhausted because I could barely sleep with that stupid light hanging over me.” Jun laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I would say I didn’t know what I was thinking, but I know exactly what I was thinking the whole time. I thought I was cool.”

“How is that cool?”

“It isn’t, really. When I was in school, though, everyone said it was the secret trick to having perfect, shiny scales—not just for the month, but for your whole life. It was what all the popular kids were doing, so people started copying them.”

“And you just went along with it?”

“Sure I did. I didn’t want to be an outcast. I didn’t want to be left behind by all my friends, or get made fun of for not having the most perfect scales. It didn’t even work, by the way, dehydration made me duller. But I thought I was the one doing something wrong, so I kept spending more and more time under the heat lamp until, well…” Xe showed off their missing finger again. “Until I realized it wasn’t worth it. Too little, too late, some might say.”

Aka didn’t know what to say. Of all the ways they imagined that Jun could have lost xir tail and finger, they didn’t expect the real answer to be so… boring. Such a mundane, normal story, without any of the drama losing a finger should come with. It was just a dumb mistake xe made, and ended up paying a nasty price for. It could have happened to anyone.

In the growing silence, they saw more and more of their stuck shed floating around in the bath. Without any prompting from a brush or hand, the flakes of scales peeled off on their own. Aka tried to sink a little further down in the water.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Jun said, smoothing their arm. “I just want you to know… I know what it’s like, to want to be up to date on all the trends. The obligation to do whatever your friends are doing, to fit in with the crowd. And I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I made.”

“I mean, it’s not like that,” Aka protested weakly. “Scalecare isn’t the same as slow roasting yourself under a heat lamp every day.”

“No, you’re right, what I did was much stupider.”

It was so unexpected they burst out laughing. Jun did too, and she wondered why? How could xe laugh about something like that?

Jun handed her the scrub brush from the basket, missing one finger that could have wrapped around the handle. Aka took it and sat up. Experimentally, she swept the rough bristles over the shed stuck to her waist. It came off easily, in a thin brownish clump.

“The trend in my day was much worse,” xe continued, as she continued to brush, “but Aka… you looked so miserable when those products didn’t work. How many of those bottles did you dump on yourself, eight? Nine? Is it even safe to use them all at the same time?”

Her heart sank, because she didn’t know. She never checked. Aka adjusted her tail to get a new section to scrape, avoiding xir eyes, and trying to remember any of the warning labels. Her shed came off in soggy chunks, slipping free to reveal the fresh, shiny red, black, and yellow scales underneath.

“How many would you have used before you found out? How far would it have gone before you realized that you were never the problem?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, because she didn’t know what else to say.

“Snakelet, come here.”

Aka dropped the brush in the water and slithered into Jun’s arms. Xe held her tight and stroked her back. More stuck shed peeled off at xir gentle touch.

“I don’t want to tell you what to do with your body,” xe said. “It’s up to you what you put on your scales. But there’s more to life than having an ideal shed every time. Sometimes it’s flawless, but you’re stressed the next month, and it comes out crappy. It happens to everyone, and it doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. Scale health is about you staying healthy, not staying perfect. Okay?”

Aka nodded against xir neck. “Okay.”

Jun squeezed them tight. “I love you, snakelet.”

“I love you too.”

Xe pulled back, pupils wide and soft. “Stay in the bath as long as you need, but I have to get dinner started for all of you.”

“Did Ishtha feed Paya yet?”

Jun hissed, a touch annoyed. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll have to ask him.”

“If he doesn’t do it tonight, can I put something else in the tank for her?”

“This is his third day of forgetting to feed Paya, so I’ll say sure. She’s been a puzzle cube for a while anyway, I’m sure she’d appreciate something new.”

“Okay!” She crossed her fingers, and hoped her brother forgot to feed the family mimic and lost his copying enrichment privileges.

“You have to remember to feed her too, Aka.”

“I know, I know!”

Jun patted her head one last time before xe left, slithering out of the bathroom, closing the curtain behind them. Aka watched xir body uncoil and disappear behind the thick drapery, and left them alone to scrub at their shed.

It took a bit of time to go down the length of her body, and huge, gross chunks of dead scales floated in the bath by the time she was done. But once she drained it all away and dried off under the bathroom lamp, Aka felt like a brand new naga. Her scales glistened without the help of any product. In fact, it all washed down the drain, just like she complained it would. Somehow it didn’t bother her.

Aka forgot all about her stuck shed by the time dinner was ready, and only recalled her distraught state when she came back to her room. Bottles of scalecare products thrown everywhere, flakes of scales scattered on her vanity and the floor.

She slithered over and picked up one of the discarded products. To be honest, it wasn’t even that high quality a brand. Maybe… she didn’t need all of these.

One by one, Aka sorted through their collection. Most of them ended up in the trash.