#but then one of my cats jumped onto the bowl and sent the burnt creatures flying through the air

[neonganymede]

when several things happen in succession, and you just have to accept its going to be one of those days....

[stilesxeveryone]

Netflix and Chill - Steter Week

~Ta da, Steter Week day 1 with Creature Stiles! It’s been so long since I last posted any writing, jesus! Don’t forget I’m always open to requests for fics, moodboards or art!

You can find it on AO3 here and my account is here!~

Stiles ran. Trees flew past him as he leaped over roots, stones, branches, anything in his way. His paws hit the ground almost silently, light in his small form.

He needed to get away. Just for a day, an afternoon, an hour, any amount of time that he could.

The preserve was still considered too dangerous to enter alone, but he honestly didn’t care. It didn’t matter to him that any number of creatures could be lurking inside. He had been dealing with the fuckers since Scott got bit in sophomore year and hadn’t had a chance to run since then. Well, unless it was for his life.

He just needed to run.

So, he ran, and he ran, and he ran, until he was flying over the edge of a small cliff and tumbling down the other side.

He stopped at the bottom with a jolt, a cry and a resounding snap. He tried to stand up and quickly discovered where the snap originated from. His hind leg.

He let out a whine and his eyes flared orange. He tried to stand again, putting as little pressure on his back leg as possible. Once standing, he realised he wouldn’t actually be able to get back up the cliff.

For once in his life he wished he was a werewolf. Whatever was responsible for werecreatures—evolution, magic or some kind of god—had decided that foxes could skip out on the super healing because speed and extra-extra-heightened senses were more important. He certainly healed faster than an average human, but a broken bone would take at least a few days, rather than seconds.  

He swivelled his head, looking left to right, then went over ‘eeny meeny’ in his head. He turned right and started limping his way forwards, hoping the cliff would flatten out enough for him to walk it soon.

~

Peter was on patrol of the woods alone. Some would say he was mad to go alone, others knew he had no one to go with. Derek was in a bad mood and Stiles wasn’t answering his phone. No one else could tolerate him for long enough to finish the patrol.

Deep into the preserve, his nose and eyebrows scrunched up as he caught the scent of blood and pain. He crept forward silently, following the scent, and stopped just before he could slip down the small cliff. Peering over the edge, his eyes were drawn to the red fox staring up at him. He sniffed at the air, quickly confirming that the pained smell was definitely coming from the fox. Its injury was obvious by the leg being held carefully off the ground and, although Peter was certainly not an expert, the odd angle it bent in.

He searched around for an easier way down to the fox’s level, but the cliff seemed to continue for as far as he could see.

“I’m going to come down to you, little one, don’t be frightened,” he called. Carefully, he slid down the cliff, thankful that it wasn’t a straight drop as him jumping down would surely scare the creature off.

Once at the bottom, he crouched down to the fox’s height. He held out a hand for the fox to sniff, the most unsure of what was proper etiquette he had ever been in his life.

The fox stared at him blankly for a moment, before leaning in to nuzzle at his hand.

“You’re very friendly,” he murmured, moving his hand to scratch its head affectionately. He was hoping that foxes were similar enough to cats and dogs. The fox leaned into the scratching, the scent of comfort seeping passed the pain.

Hesitantly, he drained the pain away and paused in his scratching as the fox watched the black veins flow up his skin.

“Alright, little one, while I don’t usually trust Deaton, I think animals are one thing I can handle going to him for help with,” Peter said and carefully picked up the fox.

He made sure to pay attention to any shift in scent, in case he accidentally hurt the creature. Its fear kicked up a little, but not an alarming amount, and it stayed calm in his arms.

He made his way back up the small cliff, one hand holding the fox steady and the other keeping himself steady on the ground. Once at the top, it was a straightforward and uneventful walk.

~

“Peter, this is certainly a surprise,” Deaton said as soon as he looked up from where he had been reading.

“I think its leg is broken.” Peter was quick to ignore anything unimportant Deaton was saying.

“Yes, follow me.” Deaton seemed unaffected, as always, as he led Peter to a backroom.

Once the fox was on the table Deaton began examining it.

“Where did you find him?”

The fox was male, useful information.

“He was in the preserve. Looked like he had taken a tumble down a small cliff,” he explained.

Deaton nodded and was silent for awhile as he looked over the fox. He muttered something under his breath and, although he could barely hear it, Peter was sure it was in another language. The fox’s eyes flared a bright orange in response to Deaton’s words.

“Just as I suspected,” Deaton said, most likely talking to himself.

“Do you know what he is?” Peter asked, staring at the fox curiously.

“I’m afraid I don’t, most spells for finding out such a thing are far too elaborate. It just means I can’t call any proper services to look after him—I’ll have to take care of him myself.”

The fox let out a screech in response, something akin to an antagonistic witch being burnt alive.

“Or maybe not.” Deaton frowned, options of what he could do floating about in his head.

“I can take care of him, if that’s a possibility,” Peter said without meaning to at all.

Deaton glanced between the two before speaking, “Well, if he lets you then I guess that would be okay.”

Peter held his hand out to the fox again and, gently, the fox bit at his fingertips.

“I think that’s a yes.”

~

Stiles soon had his leg fixed up to the best of Deaton’s abilities, and both him and Peter were happy to be leaving the vet/cryptic asshole and his mountain ash-filled building. Unfortunately, they would have to go back in a few days' time to check on his leg.

Stiles was trying to get comfy in Peter’s passenger seat, a difficult task with his leg, and he spent the whole ride shuffling into different positions. Before he knew it, Peter had parked and was carrying him out of the car.

As one of Peter’s neighbours left her house to do some gardening and gave them a strange look, they were both very thankful that Peter had moved out of his apartment and into a proper house. A lot less people to judge.

Once inside, Peter tossed his keys and wallet into the bowl, his phone onto the couch and a look over his shoulder at Stiles as he said, “I need to have a shower. You can explore but try not to break anything or yourself.” He disappeared with an affectionate grin that Stiles didn’t know Peter was capable of.

Stiles quickly scrambled over to Peter’s phone, using his nose to turn it on and type. He guessed the password on the second try, then searched the contacts for his dad. The contact name was a surprisingly boring ‘John Stilinski’, one of the only names that were so formal (though he was too stressed to get a proper look at the others).

Painstakingly slowly, he typed out the message: ‘this is stiles broken leg but okay shifted safe with peter he doesnt know cover for me’. He deleted any evidence of the message from the phone after it was sent.

It wasn’t exactly the first time that Stiles had gotten into a situation where he couldn’t shift back, but it always worried his dad to no end.

He left the phone and looked around the room. It was a living room filled with warm colours and a surprising number of cushions. The TV looked large and expensive, but Stiles expected nothing less from Peter.

The kitchen was connected to the living room, no walls between, and he could see the pristine counter tops and appliances. Again, very expensive looking and very expected.

He limped around the rooms, looking through the books on Peter’s shelf, before heading down the hallway.

None of the doors were open.

Rude.

He huffed and went back to the couch. Staring up at it from the ground wasn’t usually so daunting, but with a broken leg he had no idea how he could get up there. He huffed again, pouted as much as a fox could, and lied down on the floor in front of the couch.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been lying there, but he was dozing off to sleep by the time Peter finished in the shower and dressed.

“Can’t reach the couch, little one?” Peter asked, crouching down.

Stiles raised his head and nodded in confirmation. Peter picked him up and sat down on the couch, laying the fox down on top of him. As Stiles shifted about to get comfortable yet again, Peter turned the TV on and switched to Netflix. The fox let out a bark as he went passed 'The Good Place' and he looked down at the now comfortable creature.

"You wanna watch this?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles barked and nodded again.

"I hope you have good taste in shows," Peter muttered as he clicked to start playing.

~

'The Good Place' was a brilliant show.

~

"This is Stiles, I'm either passed out or running for my life-"

Peter clicked out of the call before Stiles' voice could finish whatever it was he had pre-recorded. He let out a sigh and ran a hand over the fox's head, something he had been doing all day.

"What's that boy doing? He's as bad as Scott today," he muttered. He flicked through his contacts and settled on John Stilinski's number, debating for less than a second whether it was worth the hassle. He clicked call.

"Peter? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, as far as I'm aware, just that I've been trying to contact your son all day and he hasn't responded," Peter explained. He felt the fox underneath his hand tense, but he barely took notice, continuing to run his hand through the fur.

"Oh, he didn't tell you?" the Sheriff asked, his voice rising in his surprise.

"Tell me what?" He tried to keep any strong emotions out of his voice.

"Stiles is visiting his grandmother for a few days. It's very possible that he left his phone behind, I guess. It was all a bit of a rush, we didn't really know he was going until a few days ago."

He felt the fox nuzzle closer onto his stomach.

"Right, well, thank you for telling me. Have a good day, Sheriff."

"You too."

The call ended, and the tension finally left Peter's shoulders as he melted into the couch. He slid to the side, lying down on the couch and pulling the fox up onto his chest. The animal let out a strange squeak, surprised at the sudden movement, but went with it easily.

"That boy is going to be the death of me, I swear," Peter grumbled, "always getting himself into trouble."

Stiles looked up at him, eyes wide, and he let out a soft noise. Neither of them were quite sure what the noise was supposed to mean, so Peter continued talking,

"I mean, it's not always his fault. Honestly, a lot of the time it's the rest of the pack's fault for not picking up when he calls. Because, yeah, Stiles runs off a lot after he works something out, but he usually tries to call Scott or Derek or someone to back him up, but if no one picks up then he's left to do it himself." He huffed and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, the one not still petting the fox. "That was really loaded for a fox who may or may not understand me."

Stiles had no idea how to react to everything that Peter had dumped on him, so he ran with his instincts. He sat up a little, leaned forward and nuzzled at Peter's cheek. The man smiled, leaning into the touch without question. Stiles dropped down a little, pressing flat against Peter with his nose tucked under the man's jaw, and began purring.

"Comfortable?" Peter teased, a fond smile on his face. Stiles didn't bother responding as he started to fall asleep. Peter closed his eyes and rested his head back down on a pillow before joining the fox in purring.

Despite the fact that Peter's bedroom was only a room away, they slept together on the couch.

~

Peter woke up to the fox standing on his chest and pawing at him. He blinked up at the creature blearily before mumbling, "What do you want?" The pawing wasn't urgent enough for him to be too concerned.

The fox moved downwards, poked his stomach with his nose, then leapt off him to stand in the kitchen.

"Hungry, huh?"

The fox nodded and barked softly. Peter stood up slowly, stretching, and joined the fox in his kitchen.

"Do you have a name? Because so far, I've just been referring to you as 'the fox' in my head," Peter said as he opened the fridge.

Stiles shook his head, you know, like a liar.

"What do you eat?"

He had to think for a moment before he walked up to the fridge and peered inside. After a few moments of looking and smelling, he placed his paws on the bottom of the fridge and pushed up to nose at the small variety of fruit inside.

"Fruit salad for breakfast?" Peter grabbed the fruit, as well as two bowls and a cutting board, despite his question. Once he had washed and cut the fruit, he placed one bowl on the floor for the fox and kept the other, standing as he ate with a fork.

"Is there any way for you to convey what you would prefer I call you?"

Stiles thought for a moment before shaking his head.

"Fox it is, then."

Peter looked like he was about to speak again but 'Toxic' by Britney Spears started blasting from his phone.

"Of course, he would," Peter muttered before moving to answer the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Petey, it's Erica! I need you to cover my shift for patrol of the preserve today," Erica chirped down the line.

"And what's so important that has you ditching your duties?" He waved the fork around as he spoke.

"Boyd, obviously."

Erica could hear the eyeroll.

"And what do I get out of this? I do have important things I could be doing." Such as watching more of 'The Good Place' and cuddling up with a fox.

"I have pictures of Derek in a bunny costume—one that Stiles had managed to get him into during a previous Halloween costume search—that I'm sure will be useful for both entertainment and blackmail."

Peter paused at that. It certainly sounded like a very good deal, but he had to ask, "You're wasting your blackmail on a single shift of patrol?"

"No, I'm wasting two pictures of Derek on getting out of patrol for reservations at an expensive restaurant and amazing sex with my boyfriend. I have several photos from that same day where I managed to convince Stiles into a slutty red riding hood outfit. Those, I'm saving for when I need something important from you."

"That's the little devil I know and love. Okay, I'll cover your shift, if not for the photos then to reward you for your brilliance."

"Wonderful, thanks Peter! I'll send you the photos once your shift is over. Have a great time!" With that, Erica hung up.

Peter put his phone down and picked his food back, smirk planted firmly on his face. Even if he would never be able to see those photos of Stiles, the idea of it would fuel a few fun nights with himself.

He heard a snuffle come from near his feet. He glanced down to find the fox had finished his food and was now waiting patiently, his tail sweeping across the floor quickly.

He raised an eyebrow. "You wanna patrol with me, little one?"

The fox nodded and barked, which seemed to be his favourite way of saying yes. Peter nodded in reply and picked his bowl up from the floor, placing both bowls in the sink for later.

"Alright, just let me get ready and we'll go."

~

Patrolling with the fox was enjoyable, more so than when he was by himself or with Derek. Every so often the creature would bark and run off, only to come back with a strange smelling flower.

"Do you know what all of these flowers are?" Peter asked, eight different flowers in hand.

The fox barked and nodded.

"Can you try to communicate what type of supernatural creature you are?" he asked a moment later.

The fox didn't reply.

"How long do you think it'll take for your leg to heal up?"

The fox paused at that. His head tilted from left to right as he thought, though Peter wasn't sure if he was thinking about the question or just how to communicate his answer. Finally, he drew a wonky '4' in the dirt.

They started walking again and, after several minutes of wondering whether he should ask the question, Peter spoke up, "Will I see you again once you do heal?"

No response.

~

The rest of their second day together was spent hunting rabbits, making dinner, and finishing the second season of 'The Good Place'. They both slept on Peter's bed that night.

~

Their third day together was pretty much the same, minus patrol as no one had decided to bribe Peter again. They had breakfast together, more fruit as well as a couple omelettes for Peter. Then they were on the couch, Stiles barking as Peter went passed 'Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency'.

It was peaceful. Peter lying on the couch with the fox in his favourite place: on top of Peter's chest.

Their eyes met. Only for a brief moment. Just while they were waiting for the episode to change over to the next one.

But it was long enough that Peter could notice what he hadn't cared to look at.

Bright, amber eyes.

The same eyes as,

"Stiles," he breathed out.

The fox froze.

"Fucking hell, really?" He suddenly sat up, Stiles yelping and falling into his lap as a result. "Stiles," he stated confidently, moving the fox's face with cupped hands to stare into his eyes.

Stiles' eyes were wide, concern and just a hint of fear drifting off of him.

Peter frowned. "Why don't you smell like a shifter?"

Stiles shrugged, or at least he moved in a way that resembled a shrug.

"Why did your dad say you were at your grandmothers?"

With a guilty smell rolling off of him, Stiles nosed at the phone resting on the coffee table.

"Right, well, I guess we can talk more about this when you've shifted back. For now, shall we get back to Dirk Gently?"

Somehow, the fox looked like he couldn't be happier to do so.

~

Hesitantly on Stiles' part, they slept on Peter's bed together again.

~

"It seems like his leg has healed completely by now. Considering I don't know what type of creature he is, the best course of action would probably be to leave him at the edge of the preserve."

"Sounds good."

~

Peter, of course, didn't take Stiles to the preserve, but instead to his house. Thankfully, the Sheriff was at work.

Stiles nudged Peter into the living room before dashing upstairs. A few minutes later a very human looking Stiles walked back down the stairs, dressed in sweatpants and a soft looking shirt.

"So," Stiles started, sitting down stiffly, "I guess you can ask your questions."

"Why were you in the preserve?" Peter started out simple.

"I just kinda needed to get away for a bit, you know? I mean, before the whole shitstorm of supernatural things happened I used to run in the woods regularly, so." Stiles shrugged.

Peter nodded in understanding, he felt similar urges all the time. "Is your dad the only one who knows you're a fox shifter?"

"Yeah, I'd thought about telling Scott when I was younger but… but mum was always very adamant about keeping it a secret. I guess nowadays it's just easier to keep up the lie than tell him about it."

Peter turned to face him better as he said, "I've never actually heard of a fox shifter before. How exactly does it differ to werewolves, other than the obvious?"

"Um, well, you might've noticed that we take longer to heal," he let out a weak laugh. "We have better senses, if you can believe, and we're generally faster too. We don't have a beta shift, just a full shift. We, uh, don't really have packs, either. Like alphas, betas and omegas aren't really a thing."

"Huh," Peter muttered, sifting through the information and comparing it with what he already knew. He paused for a moment, debating whether he should ask the next question before settling confidently on a yes.

"Can we keep watching shows and cuddling together?"

Before he could blink, Stiles was tackling him back onto the couch. His chin rested on top of the man's chest as he spoke, "There's this one show, 'Santa Clarita Diet', and it's about a family dealing with their mum turning into a zombie so, you know, you should relate."

[ignitingwriting]

Igniting Writing Fantasy Roleplay Contest 2020, Submission by Alex Harvard

Living in a world of magic, you are a talented young magician. In this fantasy world magicians act as adventurers, peacekeepers, advisors and more to the citizens. As you travel from place to place you solve problems, seek out new magical knowledge and keep the people safe from harm.

One day you are walking towards the nearest town to top up on supplies when you spot an out of control magic carpet careering through the air. It’s elaborately designed but seems to be badly damaged – it has noticeable holes and its edges appear to be covered in ice crystals. With a shock of recognition, you realise that you’ve heard of this carpet before – it belongs to Alexus Ignitingus, a famous sorcerer known for being the guardian of the biggest magical library in the world. As you look closer you see that in one of the carpet’s tassels there is a scroll – is it some sort of message from Alexus? What do you do?

Option one – you chase after the carpet to see where it’s going.

Option two – you try and grab onto the carpet and climb aboard to regain control.

Option three – you try and use your magic to blast the carpet out of the sky.

 Chapter One – Option One

You decide to chase after the carpet. It’s going at a fast pace, but you manage to keep up and you see that it’s heading towards the town. But it seems that the damage the carpet has taken is too much for it to stay airborne for much longer and it finally crash lands, right in the middle of the town’s bustling marketplace. In the chaos of the crash, a stall of potions is knocked into the neighbouring stall, which sells exotic carnivorous flowers. A potion bottle cracks, spilling onto several of the plants, and to the horror of the townspeople they come to life, bursting out of their plant pots and attacking and eating anything in their path. You must find a way to protect the townspeople and either destroy the plants or revert them back to normal, so that you can retrieve the scroll. This chapter will end when you pick up the carpet’s scroll.

I ran into town, following the carpet’s careening flight down, but was pulled up short by sudden crashing and screams. Frozen for a second, I stood empty-handed and empty-headed, before the terrified wail of a child sent up like a flare and I jerked back into action, haring off to find the source of the chaos.

What on earth could have happened in the moment between the carpet disappearing, beyond the line of shingled roofs and chimneys, and now? It hadn’t looked dangerous – it was a damaged rug, for goodness sake.

Finally, I found the town’s centre, emerging from an alley in a whirl. I came upon rather an extraordinary scene, even for a travelling mage like myself.

If only I hadn’t dumped my bag racing after that damned carpet, the Comb of Cinders Master had given me before I set off journeying sure would have come in handy right now.

The townspeople who remained cowering in the square set up a cry when they caught sight of my coloured robes, denoting my status as a magic user.

“Please!” one woman shouted, cowering under what I assumed had been her market stand. “Help us!”

Allowing myself a single second to wonder at the absurdity of my life, I sighed, then sprung into the fray, mind racing through scenarios and possible solutions.

Plants. The plants were alive and enormous, and creeping over the town, vines sinister tentacles, capturing townsfolk and caging them in like a cat with a mouse between its claws. Prising open shutters and doors, indiscriminately knocking over stalls and generally causing havoc – this was not good. So far, I saw no corpses, but that couldn’t be trusted to remain true.

I brought out my knuckles, slipping them onto my fingers in a familiar motion as I ran through all the spells I knew for dealing with plant life (or maybe magical creatures? I couldn’t say yet). But then, a touch on my ankle and I jumped straight into the air like a startled horse, shouting the first thing that came to mind.

“Thalla!”

Get away.

My brass knuckles glowed warm on my right hand and my feet touched the ground with a sound much too loud for my weight. Dust rose in a ring around me. It seemed every living thing in the vicinity flinched back.

I felt humans and plants alike staring at me in confusion and dismay.

“Oops. Sorry?”

“Is that it?” A child’s voice was sharp in the momentary calm I’d created, although I could tell they hadn’t meant for the words to carry. My ears grew hot. At least the vine was gone. But now my desperate spell had worn off… and there were plants with teeth? Where in all hell had they come from?!

“Air a spìonadh leis a ‘ghèile!”

This time it was purposeful, determined, and I felt the calluses on my fingers blistering again under the searing heat. A tearing gale blew in, ripping away enormous leaves and unanchored vines.

“Help!” The voice from before, the snarky youngster – it came from the centre of the madness and it was high and desperate and very young.

I left the eye of my storm and ran blindly through whipping hair and leaves. There. The child – they couldn’t have been older than ten – hidden away under a fallen sign, a fern as big as a tree looming above. It was bending and rising again and now the kid was out in the open and vulnerable. They screamed, but it was drowned out by the crash of the discarded sign hitting the cobbles.

“Sgiath! Losgahd!” I commanded without breaking my stride, spells directed at the child and plant monster respectively.

Within a moment I was there, scooping up the child and turning my back on the plant. It steamed and seemed to creak and whistle in confusion. I tried not to use this spell too often – it was messy and dangerous, especially in a cramped town. I only heard the spell’s effect. The crack and whoosh of the creature bursting into flames, like the fire had come from within. Ash snowed down upon us, making my hair almost as pale as the blonde kid’s.

“I’ve got you, buddy.” The child’s cheeks were tear-stained, but the belief in their eyes was all-encompassing, despite their earlier disenchantment.

Damn kids and their innocence.

I was ripped out of my relatively safe bubble by a roar – but not of pain. This was anger. The townsfolk had mobbed together and as my gale had died, they threw themselves upon the remaining unfortunate plants with the desperate force of a cornered vixen.

All I had to do was sit and watch, holding the child, and before I knew it everything was still – a graveyard silence.

“Is everyone alright?” I called tentatively. One woman came out of nowhere, barrelling down on me at a run. I handed the child over without trouble, recognising her expression.

“Oh, Riven! Thank you, ma’am, thank you,” she sobbed, clutching Riven so tightly I was almost wondering if I’d have to save the kid a second time today.

“Don’t mention it,” I returned, averting my eyes with an awkward smile and shaking the ash from my hair with my unadorned hand.

“But, hold on a moment –” I finally had a moment to gather myself, and found formless emotions rising within. “Could anyone tell me what the actual hell happened here?” I spun around, discovering I was asking empty air, the townsfolk having immediately lost interest in me now there was no immediate danger. I sighed, removed my brass knuckles and tucked them away, almost resigned to not knowing. But the woman was still there, kneeling by Riven. She answered me.

“Ma’am, something flew outta the sky. I didn’t see what it was – ‘cuz someone ran off again,” she shot an unimpressed look at Riven with her words, and they returned a sheepish grin, “so I was a lil’ busy, but I think it knocked over a couple stalls.”

“And created… all of these?” I nudged a random severed vine which lay still and dead on the cobbles, surprised.

She shrugged. “Coulda been Marita’s plants. And the potion stall of that traveller was right nearby. He seemed kinda sketchy – I guess it coulda caused all this.”

I was a bit incredulous at this improbable sequence of events but nodded anyway.

“Alright, thank you. I don’t suppose you saw where that flying thing went?” I asked.

She looked at me harder then, squinting. “Why, is it yours? That why you appeared just now, outta nowhere?”

I blushed when her child looked up at me, made bold once more by curiosity. “That flying carpet’s yours?”

“No!” I answered quickly. “No, I saw it out above one of the farms. I followed it in.”

Riven pouted. “That’s a boring story,” they told me, unimpressed.

I shrugged – I didn’t know how to respond. Kids weren’t my forte. Or people, generally.

The youngster popped up suddenly, wriggled out of their mother’s grasp and in one quick motion grabbed me by the hand. I flinched. It was the burnt one – my casting hand. Riven didn’t notice, dragging me along as their mother’s chastisements and warnings fell on deaf ears.

“I can show you where it went, though!” They grinned back at me, gap-toothed.

Now I was interested. I was tugged across the square, almost faceplanting a good few times. Riven just scrambled over the debris like a goat. Absolutely unfair, really. I swerved violently when Riven hopped right on over a well – water and I were not good friends. As soon as we were past it, I was grabbed once more and given a look which assured me I wasn’t getting away so easily.

“Ta dah!” We halted suddenly and I almost bowled the child over with my momentum. But they were right – here was the flying carpet, torn and icy and attached to the scroll, just as I’d seen it before. It reminded me…

“Hey, kid,” I turned to see a small herd of children had somehow amassed behind me whilst I wasn’t watching. Riven cocked their head.

“Yeah?”

I shuffled a bit under their stares. “Umm – could you do me a favour? If your parents don’t need you home yet.”

The youngster grinned crookedly, hardly resembling the one I had rescued maybe 15 minutes before, save for the ash in their hair and tracks on their cheeks.

“Name it, lady. Ma will live.”

I coughed. “Well – I dropped a satchel just outside of town, on one of the farm tracks. I was wondering if you could find it for me? It should be near a copse of stunted poplars, to the south-west of –”

“I know the place,” Riven asserted. With not a moment of hesitation, they turned to their gang. “Old Man Grey’s farm, got it? Spread out, bring me the bag.”

Like royalty they were obeyed instantly, children shooting off down alleys and pushing at each other as they raced to be the favoured subject.

It made me raise an eyebrow, but I turned back to the carpet, shaking my head. If I’d tried that as a kid, well… I took the object in once more and without touching anything tried to discern what had happened – even using my brass knuckles at one point to scan for any trace magic. I realised not quickly enough that it was useless – this was a flying carpet. Of course, there would be spell residue. If there wasn’t, then I should be worried.

I must have been working for a while, because before I knew it, my satchel was being dumped beside me and child-sized shadows were skulking away again.

I checked my bag. Everything intact, even the Comb. Good job those kids didn’t know value when they saw it. That had been a risky ask, even for me. If I could find them again, I decided I’d give Riven a thank you gift before I left.

But now I was stalling. I took a breath. And another. Another. I opened my eyes and took the scroll in my hand, taking care not to touch Alexus’s carpet.

Well done, you’ve managed to claim the scroll. As you pick it up, you unfurl it and read the following words:

‘To whomever reads this message,

Greetings, fellow sorcerer – I apologise for the unorthodox means of transporting this message, but I am in dire peril. I have been imprisoned within my library by Zarix, a cruel and greedy elven warlock intent on gathering all the world’s magic for himself. Zarix has somehow gained control over a mighty frost dragon and with its freezing breath it has encased my quarters in a block of unmelting ice, leaving me trapped – all I can do is hastily scrawl this message and command my trusty magic carpet to bring it to a worthy magician.

I know that my own magic is not powerful enough to break frost dragon ice, as it magically refreezes whenever I try to dispel it. My library’s charms prevent entry to anyone that means harm, but Zarix is resourceful and I am sure that he will soon find a way to undo my spells and steal the library’s magical secrets for his own. This knowledge must not be allowed to fall into his hands – please, come at once to put an end to my captivity and Zarix’s schemes!

Yours humbly,

Alexus Ignitingus’

With his message Alexus has enclosed a map and you immediately head towards his library. Soon you come to the first major obstacle on your quest – a wide, deep valley of water known as Howling Lake, so called because of the sound the fierce winds make as they whip along the water’s surface. It’s surrounded on both sides by high sand dunes, making it the only way through, but it’s rumoured to be home to all sorts of dangerous creatures. At the side of the lake there is a rickety old raft, which seems to be the only way across the water – the only other possibilities are to swim or to skirt around the shore through the sand dunes. What do you do?

Option one – you swim.

Option two – you take the raft.

Option three – you walk along the shore through the sand dunes.

 Chapter Two – Option Three

You decide to travel across the sand dunes on the shore of the lake. The wind picks up and before long it’s a raging sandstorm, nearly blinding you with every gust. Through the sound of the whistling wind you begin to hear something new; a voice, singing soothingly to you and encouraging you to come towards it. You stumble after it, almost hypnotised, but as you follow your foot slips into a pool of quicksand. As you struggle to pull yourself free the source of the beautiful singing reveals itself to you – it’s a sand siren, who has lured you into the quicksand to eat you! You must free yourself from the quicksand and defend yourself against the sand siren’s attack. This chapter will end when you defeat or escape from the sand siren.

I took one look at the lake and immediately turned off the path that led to the pier. Sure, the sand dunes were rumoured to hold creatures I would much rather avoid, but at least you could trust a desert to be free of water.

I mean really, the entire situation was a series of improbable events. Me, the one to attract Alexus’ favourite carpet as the ‘worthy sorcerer’? A frost dragon enslaved and Alexus trapped? A lake put into my path just to make the entire ordeal more unpleasant?

The universe hated me – I was sure of it. The irony of the carpet having found me, of all people. I knew Alexus from long ago – he accompanied my parents and I on our expedition – but anyway, it was safe to say we had never gotten on particularly well. I would make him eat his words when the ‘silly little hatchling’ arrived to free him.

Stomping along the ridge of the sand dunes, I kept finding myself blinded by the sun glinting off the surface of the Howling Lake (as it was labelled on my map). It wasn’t bringing back pleasant memories. Deciding on the spot, I stepped away from the slope that led to the sparkling water until sandy dunes hid the lake from view, the ridge of the valley’s edge becoming the new horizon. I’d just make sure to keep that in sight and I wouldn’t stray off into the rolling dunes.

So, onwards I trekked. The sun was low in the sky – it still being early in the day – but was cruelly hot, beating me down until I had to take my outer robe off to create a makeshift headscarf to keep my dark hair and skin from soaking up the heat. But nearly as soon as it was completed, the sun’s rays seemed to dim. Had I wasted so much time already?

But no, the sun was still hanging in the same place.

It was a dark, roiling cloud rising from the far away horizon and masking the sunlight. That’s why it was getting darker. I looked at the violently looming mass steadily rising higher as it approached. I looked towards where the lake surely hid, still and indifferent.

I’d brave the sandstorm, thanks.

Wasn’t much further to go until I would join the path once more.

Onwards I trekked. It grew dimmer and now I felt the wind pulling at my headscarf, picking up sand to sting exposed skin. My eyes felt gritty, imitating the familiar feeling of not having slept for many days.

But I’d slept well last night in the town’s inn, having gifted Riven a box of sweets as promised.

I smiled distantly.

On I went.

Now I couldn’t hear myself over the roar and whistle – could barely differentiate the ground from sand-filled air as I stumbled ever on. Now my only thought was escape – get away – you’re not safe here. I could feel something – someone – there with me. I couldn’t stop.

I hummed, although I couldn’t hear the tune over the din – they were familiar notes, playing away in my mind. A song for travelling. But actually, now I could hear it – whisked to me on the wind, the melody lilting, soaring, sweet and steady and my mother’s voice. I’d stopped. The song continued. My feet moved without my consent. One step and another, and her voice grew louder. On and on and I was running, sprinting – I felt the end of my headscarf tear free but didn’t dare stop to fix it. It fluttered and I ran and the song was so familiar, voices joined together in harmony as the wind carried me to her.

The ground sank, but her song rose above that and I scrambled forwards, on hands and knees, shin deep in sand, elbow deep, and it sucked and – from the sandy air came a figure silhouetted, and she was there, right there.

“Mam! Mam, you’re back! How did you get out?”

Her voice trailed off as she emerged, and stopped, still far from my reach. The wind whistled in her silence. I reached out to her with one hand.

“But Mam, I left you in Tuama Reòta with Da, how – how did you…?”

My words trailed off as my mind began to turn. “You…”

This creature was not my mother.

It hissed and my arm dropped. My hand was covered in mud. I tried to stand, to back away. My limbs – were stuck. I was stuck and sinking and in the storm I made out more dark shapes flittering through the storm.

Damn sand sirens had lured me into quicksand by imitating my dead mother?

Oh, they were going to get it.

Taking stock as swiftly as possible, I stopped writhing and lay still, trying to get the pressure off my trapped legs. I knew the drill – it wasn’t too different from escaping cracked ice sheets. Laying back and ignoring the second issue that was steadily encroaching, I used my free hand to grope for my knuckles. It was my left hand, the only one available for use.

I guessed there was a first time for everything.

Slipping the metal onto unblemished fingers felt beyond strange, but currently I had more pressing issues.

“Buadhach,” I whispered, and felt my limbs float to the surface just a fraction more hurriedly. I could see the details on the slithering, reptilian lower half of its body now. I shouldn’t be able to make those out. It was too close.

I whispered the spell over and over with growing urgency, not daring to put too much power into it for fear of doing more harm than good. Finally, my legs reached the surface, and floated there. I lay on my back, feeling the siren’s long shadow drape over my skin. I unwrapped my headscarf with haste and threw it behind me like a carpet.

With a much more forceful, “Cruadhaich! Agus Seòladh!” the material became rigid and lay primly atop the silty mud, no longer threatening to sink. A hasty flip and scramble got me onto the stiff robe, and without hesitating I put as much distance as I could between me and my almost tomb. Solid land was only a couple of metres away, I discovered. Go figure.

“Alright!” I exclaimed as I switched the hand wearing my knuckles, spinning to face the creature who I could now clearly see was not at all motherly and in fact rather snaky. I grinned and it bared its rows of fangs back at me with a hiss. A command to attack, I deduced, when the dark figures all coalesced from the sand into equally pointy-looking snake people and launched themselves at me simultaneously.

“Sgiath!” The protection spell gave me a moment to figure out the best move to make. All the creatures hit the barrier at once, making my previously warm knuckles flash hot and pulling a cry from my cracked lips.

I didn’t need skin, right? I damn well hoped not. The sirens were charging the barrier again and again – I wouldn’t have fingers left to wear the knuckles at this rate, they’d be burnt straight through.

Remembering with a touch of undeserved pride that I hadn’t dropped the bag with all my possessions this time around, I scrabbled for my Comb of Cinders.

“I really hope this thing isn’t faulty,” I gritted out. With a thought that felt more like a sigh of relief than it perhaps should have, my spell dropped. The sirens charged as one, hissing.

I pointed and hoped it would shoot. “Falbh!”

It did. Maybe the universe wanted to repent. The weapon (which was shaped like the crest of a chicken for some reason, metal as red as anything) somehow seemed to pulse in my grip. The sirens stopped dead.

Quite literally. I’m reasonably sure they were dead before they hit the sand, tails only continuing to writhe because of muscles burning away at varying speeds, pulling the rapidly disintegrating flesh one way, then the other.

The sandstorm picked up their ashes for only a moment before it all died down, having been brought on by the sand sirens for ease of access to their meal. The sand looked darker as it settled.

In that moment I thought back and decided the only reason I’d made so much progress before falling into a trap had been my distance from the lake’s shore. Quicksand needs water – it must have been harder to find a sink to lure me into out here.

Who would have thought the trauma they used to lure me towards becoming a meal was the same one that might have saved my arse?

Standing there with a red, oddly shaped lump of metal in one fist and gradually cooling knuckles on the damaged other, both weapons given to me long ago by good men, I felt entirely overwrought.

I groaned loud and drawn-out at the cloudless sky. “How come Master’s gift doesn’t burn the skin from my flesh, Da? Huh? That would have been a nice feature for yours, you know!”

The sole answer was the steady lapping of water from across the sand dunes. I felt that was apt enough.

I sighed, put my belongings back in order as best I could and set off towards the road, which I could see now that the air was clear and I wasn’t being hypnotised.

I walked and my right hand throbbed, blisters still rising; one round more on top of so many others.

Congratulations, you have reached the other side of the lake. But as you consult Alexus’ map, you realise there is one more obstacle between yourself and his library – the enchanted forest known as the Neverwoods. The Neverwoods are renowned for being a place of great natural beauty and home to all kinds of magical creatures, but also for being full of long, winding paths, which twist and turn dizzyingly to disorientate all but the most experienced explorers. As you enter, doing your best to keep your bearings through all the wondrous sights, sounds and smells, you encounter a threeway fork in the path up ahead. The left path is the brightest, with dappled sunlight shining through the leafy canopy, and seems to be leading towards a clearing of some kind. The centre path seems to be the darkest, leading deep into the very heart of the forest, but is also the most direct route. And the right path is the one which seems to be most travelled, as you spot multiple imprints on the ground. What do you do?

Option one – you choose the left path.

Option two – you choose the centre path.

Option three – you choose the right path.

 Chapter Three – Option Two

You decide to walk down the centre pathway. The trail is dark and narrow, with thorny vines snagging at your clothes and dense undergrowth threatening to trip you with every step, but eventually you come to a small building. The building appears to be an ancient temple or shrine of some sort, covered in an incredible variety of flowers, shrubs, moss and other plant life. Suddenly, a figure emerges from within the building – a person with the body of a human, but the head of a majestic stag, antlers and all. The figure angrily tells you that he is the Forest Spirit, a protector of all nature, and that you have stepped uninvited onto sacred ground. You must persuade the Forest Spirit that you mean no harm for him to let you pass, either through negotiation, an offering to the temple or even combat if the Forest Spirit attacks you. This chapter will end when the Forest Guardian gives you permission to proceed.

I looked at the crossroads for a long moment. I took the centre path of the three.

No matter how dark and eerie this one appeared at first, at least I could trust it to provide what it advertised. I wasn’t being dragged into another trap, nor did I want to come across nosy travellers or any packs which may be hunting them, so – the enticingly sunlit clearing, or the seemingly well-travelled road? No, thank you.

Besides, time was running out. Who knew how long Alexus’ carpet had been searching before it came to me? It may have already been too late, the library breached and Zarix at large, armed with fatal knowledge. I needed to cross ground as the crow flew and if that meant scary little trails through the deep dark wood then so be it.

But damn, they hadn’t been selling the Neverwoods short – I was walking along the centre of the path and already leaves brushed my arms as I passed, with branches catching at my hood in warning as the path continued to narrow and twist in on itself. The sun could hardly be seen, dim light reminding me of my last run in with creatures of the land and how they’d shown me Mam, risen warm and alive from the ice – but she wasn’t alive and if I wanted to put off joining her I needed to have a clear mind.

Shaking my head, I stumbled on, resolute. I needed to deal with Zarix and his frost dragon. (But actually, let’s pause there for a moment. How on earth had he manacled one of those? Dragons submitted to no one – I knew from experience – and those native to cold climates were generally even worse. Unless… he’d somehow won its loyalty? I really, truly hoped otherwise – I would like to be leaving that library with my physical form still intact, thanks.)

But anyway, I’d make use of my newly broken in Comb of Cinders, vanquish the villain, free the poor damsel and be swiftly on my way, hopefully having finally earned some respect from that bòidheach Alexus. Not that I needed his respect – or approval! It just wasn’t good to have an influential sorcerer – even a patronising, cowardly, selfish one like him – flouncing around and bad-mouthing you if you’re trying to carve your own patch in a world full of magic users.

“Honestly, why can’t I just be left in peace?” I muttered, kicking roots (certainly not tripping, it was just my way of venting frustrations) and slapping branches out of my path. It was futile. They just closed in behind me, more often than not whipping back once I’d passed, encircling me until the foliage huddled close, trees towered reproachfully and I wondered if I hadn’t in fact strayed away from the track.

Stopping as soon as I realised the situation, I pulled my knuckles from my robes, but hesitated. My fingers were sensitive to the extreme – some of the blisters having been inadvertently popped and drained, others still taut and translucent, creating a sight like one of the poison dragon fledglings had breathed over my skin and I’d left it untreated since. Which in a way, I guess I had.

Magic backlash couldn’t be healed with any learned spell or enchantment as far as I was aware. Once, in my younger years, Master had treated me with a potion of his own creation, when the taunts of the others pushed me just that bit too far and I lashed out, overextending my magic. The potion didn’t speed up the healing process, just soothed the pain, but I was still exceptionally grateful – I was informed how expensive and lengthy the brewing process was by Mam when I arrived home that evening with the poultice. I had my knuckles confiscated that night for the following three months. Not that it changed much – I couldn’t have worn them for the majority of that time anyway, with my hand and arm in such a state.

But I didn’t have any of Master’s potion with me now and the thought of searing metal against my skin was what made me pause. Did I have a choice? I was, for all intents and purposes, lost in the notoriously inescapable Neverwoods, without even the sky to navigate by. I supposed… but I’d used my left hand last time, hadn’t I? And it’d worked, miracles of miracles. Why not do it again?

I switched hands and slowly slid the brass knuckles onto my left hand. It felt wrong, as if the item itself felt uncomfortable on my fingers. The metal was worn in and old and rejected the change. What choice did I have though? I wasn’t a masochist – after twice exerting myself in the last two days, no one (but perhaps Da) would have expected me to cast anything for a long time.

But this was an easy spell and I was being dramatic.

“Treòraich mi troimhe,” I uttered softly, the language of my childhood rolling easily off my tongue. As expected, the metal warmed hardly more than the temperature of my skin. I felt a non-existent breeze blow against one cheek, and I turned to follow it, trusting my magic.

Time passed. It became more and more difficult to forge through the branches, with mud sucking at my boots, reminding me uncomfortably of earlier in the day. I began to question.

Then, I saw a flash of white behind a veil of leaves, directly in my path. With the promise of – well, something – ahead, I kept my pace steady, dismissed my misgivings. I arrived at the spot, but the green and brown shades remained uninterrupted.

That was when I figured the stress of the day was really getting to me. I recast my spell, affirmed the correct direction and continued. Or tried to.

Within two steps, I felt a shudder against my skin and a flash of heat through my body. Well – not heat, as such. It was like sunlight warmth through my veins, the chill of deep water pebbling my skin, a sense of unwarranted, unnatural dread making my hair stand on end. And yet the air in my lungs became light enough to float me away from this plane of existence entirely, as if my soul would drift from my body.

Whatever it was, it was entirely without warning and jarred me. It was magic of some sort – I was almost entirely certain. A spell? A trap? Of what nature? I stood where the shock had halted my progress for a good few minutes.

“Nochdaidh,” I intoned lowly, the same spell I’d used on the carpet.

Yeah, definitely magical. But, so what? Until a real threat presented itself, I had no target for a counterstrike and no excess energy to be throwing around doing difficult magic anyway.

I started onwards once more. And somehow, just then, the trees thinned out around me, opening into an unlikely clearing.

With a pure white hind, standing and staring at me quite in the eye.

Right there, not ten paces ahead.

Before I could truly register its presence, I blinked and it disappeared without a trace. Not even a rustle in the bushes lining the clearing marked its departure.

This was not a glad tiding. Quite the opposite in fact. As someone who liked my life separate from the Otherworld, I really didn’t appreciate that damn deer coming to greet me.

With extreme wariness, I looked over the clearing. I wasn’t comforted.

There was a – a structure, of some sort. So bedecked in moss and fungi and an ominously colourful selection of wildflowers that I could hardly make out the stone of its walls. In fact, the plants made it appear almost bark-like, as if four trees had grown up into walls and woven a steeple, then been petrified.

But the only possible way that could be true would be the attendance of Otherworldly beings and I had specifically requested the universe leave me out of that whole mess. A section of the wall rustled and a veil of trailing vines were pulled aside, to emit…

A man – no, a woman – a creature, as tall and lean as a willow tree, skin dark as loam, hair long and wild and framing a face unlike any I’d seen. Its eyes were pits, the green of mossy rocks and algae pools and millennia, with no pupil or whites to be seen. It stood straight, and its antlers were level with the forest’s canopy. It was still and stared, almost fading into the trees.

Apparently, I’d forgot the universe’s sense of humour when it came to my life.

It made no sound at all – didn’t even seem present by the way the breeze passed through it – but I heard a whining keen.

I swallowed.

It was me.

“Cernunnos?”

I felt like my words were soaked up by the wood itself as soon as they left my tongue. I couldn’t be sure it heard me.

I registered a response deep in my head, a hum of acknowledgement. It was like no other sensation – but I recognised it. It caused the earlier unexplainable sensation. But it wasn’t a sorcerer, that was for sure.

The reverberation in my skull was the forest itself, the trees and creatures and elements they lived with, all present at once, and listening, just as they always did.

But now I was acutely aware of the fact.

I had no delusions in that moment. I dropped my knees in an instant, eyes absorbing every detail they could keep a hold of. Its image seemed to stray and blur when I stared too directly.

But now I was pinned. How could it be my place to address Cernunnos, an embodiment of Nature itself? Beg for his favour – safe passage – my life –

My answer came, not in words, but as a sort of feeling. It was as sure as the tides ebbing and the sun rising.

It is not for you to do.

I was inexplicably calmed. I couldn’t protect against this, so why try, and fail? Opening completely, I became exposed, vulnerable, mind laid bare.

It rushed through me, a flash flood and thunderstorm and forest fire.

The icy water, Mam’s face sinking from view –

a Gaelic melody and breath-warmed fur tickling my face –

the crunch of snow boots in winter, with the hollow thud that made every instinct lay its ears back and tremble –

thin arms around my chest, caging me in, holding me back, condemning them to die alone –

pain in my hand, rain on my face, cold in my bones, fear and anguish and nothing in my heart –

I gasped. My lungs filled with relief.

I was alone, and in the middle of a path, and alive.

Alive.

Alive.

I met Cernunnos and lived.

Judged worthy.

Judged necessary.

I didn’t understand. I couldn’t. I rolled onto my back, arms limp by my sides, barely feeling the knuckles chilly on my fingers, or satchel digging into my flank.

I lay there and apologised for ever thinking I’d fallen out of favour with the universe.

Good work, you reach the end of the forest and in the distance the magical library is visible. But as you carefully approach you see that Alexus’ warning was true – his house is encased in ice, with the gigantic frost dragon lying nearby and Zarix is standing at the doorway muttering incantations to try and enter. You also see that the frost dragon has a glowing chain around its neck and you realise that this chain must be what is keeping it under Zarix’s command. Weighing up your options, you settle on three possible courses of action. You could try and sneak up to the frost dragon and break the chain, to free it from Zarix’s control – there’s the risk of the frost dragon going on a wild rampage once it is freed and becoming even more dangerous than Zarix though. You could fight Zarix in a head to head duel, magician against magician – you’ve overcome plenty of dangerous obstacles to make it this far, but a magician of his calibre is a dangerous enemy, especially if he commands his frost dragon to attack you. Or you could try and find a way to destroy the ice and free Alexus so that the two of you can team up and defeat Zarix together – however, you remember that the ice magically froze again every time Alexus tried to melt it, so you’ll need to come up with an inventive way to get past it. What do you do?

Option one – you attempt to free the frost dragon from Zarix’s control.

Option two – you attempt to defeat Zarix in a magical duel.

Option three – you attempt to melt the ice and free Alexus.

 Chapter Four – Option One

You decide to try and free the frost dragon from the enchanted chain. As quietly as you can you sneak up to the frost dragon. For a brief moment you panic as the frost dragon notices your presence, but to your relief it doesn’t attack you or make any noise, so you judge that the frost dragon is intelligent enough to realise you are trying to free it and has some free will when Zarix is not directly commanding it. You channel your magic to break the chain and after an initial struggle you’re able to split it open, revealing painful looking blisters where the chain links dug into the frost dragon’s skin. The frost dragon immediately rears up and roars, taking aim at Zarix in vengeance for being enslaved. Caught off guard, the evil wizard tries to resist, but the frost dragon’s relentless assault overwhelms him and he is frozen solid. But even after Zarix’s defeat the frost dragon still won’t calm down, thrashing around in pain and putting the library at risk of collapsing. You must find a way to stop the frost dragon’s frenzied attacks, either by calming it down or defeating it in combat. This chapter will end when the frost dragon stops attacking.

Creeping through the bushes, I finally came in sight of Neverwood’s edge and there, tall and stately and so very fitting for its owner, was the library; windows high and arched, walls a shining white. It glistened in the light of sunrise. A peculiar sort of reflection, so for a second, I was left wondering at the material. But then I realised – it was ice.

The ice which had trapped Alexus still encased the building, stained glass made dull with frost, creeping ivy frozen to picturesque shards, no doubt fragile enough that a glancing blow would send the leaves shattering down.

But the ice must be sustained by Zarix. From my position, I tried the best I could to make out his distant figure striding around the building, or occupied some other futile action. Was he somehow upholding the spell remotely?

An echoing thwap, like a leather crop striking the hide of a stallion, and beating wings emerged from behind the shoulder of the building, as wide as a ballroom, blue as winter sea ice. The head roared power, crest sharp and ribbed and as expressive as the ears of a cat, jaws lined with teeth longer than my forearm and glinting with gathered breath.

It soared higher and higher and I saw in that moment the dragons of my childhood, casting shadows that eclipsed the hatching house, wingtips of returning mothers grazing both our house and the sanctuary’s hospital building in a single swoop. In the shine of its eyes I saw the age of my father’s companion and the strength of my mother’s. I saw dragons I’d raised, alive now still and migrating over mountain and ocean to visit the place they’d hatched.

But this poor creature… Chains dripped from flesh rubbed raw of snow-pure scales, scars glaringly out of place in the pure expanse of muscle. And there, sitting like it was his due atop the shoulders of this powerful, timeless creature – Zarix, a tiny, frail figure, wreathed in light. I could make out no details yet – he was too far away, circling the library that stood atop the slope the wood had been creeping up for some time.

I weighed the situation carefully.

What did I know? Nothing of importance.

What could I do? Nothing, until I knew more.

How could I defeat this airborne mage, who had both a dragon and many years of experience over me? Well, I’m sure I’d figure it out if I stopped dilly-dallying and got closer already.

I’d reached 100 metres from the building itself, maybe five seconds from the last straggling trees, when I heard a yell and a bellowing roar – although it sounded shriller than any I’d ever heard at the sanctuary. I scrambled to get past the foliage and was provided a face full of underbelly, swooping so low leaves showered down, branches cracked, and a breeze snatched at my hair.

I flinched, every muscle seizing. Only deeply ingrained instincts caught the scream in my throat and then the creature was past, chains rattling, glowing, searing. They landed, or had at least halted (it seemed a precarious meeting with the ground, but who was I to judge) by the library’s entrance, and here Zarix dismounted with jerky limbs.

“Stupid, obstinate reptile!” came the reproach, over the wheeze and rattle of icy pants.

Frowning, I watched him turn away from the creature to face the doors, but not before yanking, hard, on its collar. The chain glowed more fiercely, and I heard what could have been a yelp, but it was cut short.

Taking the chance provided by his turned back, I made a break for them, abandoning any vestige of safety the foliage provided. I was in this now, no turning back.

I imagined Alexus staring down from a lofty window at my wind-torn tresses, robes flapping as I ran low, and I didn’t even want to turn back.

This was my chance, finally. This one thing, then I would have proved my abilities to an extent that the dastard would never have to interfere in my life again.

“Ireki. Urtutako. Ez izoztu!” The voice rose in pitch, conveying the number of times he’d tried to force entry to the library already, but I didn’t recognise the words of his incantation – his magic was not like mine.

“Uko ezuazu zure presoa eraikin basatia! Ugh!”

Thinking fast, I sprinted up behind the dragon’s bulk, hoping in its restrained state it wouldn’t – or couldn’t – react. And if it did, well… I was trusting my fate to Cernunnos from now on.

Some people might retort that I ‘shouldn’t try my luck’, but I believed good fortune was there for its limits to be pushed – and broken. Where even was the fun in it otherwise?

The dragon didn’t react. Unfortunately, its stillness didn’t give me any inspiration for the next stage of my brilliant plan. I predicted Zarix would be running out of patience for the stubbornly unopened doors by now. He’d soon want his dragon back to fly away in a huff (one more tantrum in a line of who knew how many so far).

This had to be fast.

I was close enough to touch the metal stirrup dangling against the frost dragon’s flank. Now was the moment. The dragon gave a gentle sway of its tail, as if it agreed.

On went the brass knuckles.

“Cruback air falbh,” I hissed, left hand grasping the closest chain to try and minimise the energy I’d need for this momentous task.

The moment the words passed my lips, I felt the magic of the restraints push back and I knew I had to succeed, or else the likelihood of my death became uncomfortably relevant. I didn’t know if Zarix or some other sorcerer had enchanted these chains, but either way, he was no doubt linked to his beast in some way more than physical. He’d feel the intrusion upon his territory soon.

My flesh burnt and blistered and the dragon’s chained glowed, and glowed, and its hide began to steam.

I made up my mind.

A whispered spell, and the ivy came tumbling down, as terrifyingly beautiful as I’d pictured. Whilst Zarix was momentarily distracted, I hunkered down for my final trick.

“Fosgail. An-is!”

Open. Now.

The chains shattered, chips of metal clinking as they littered the grass. Zarix finally spun, alerted by the noise and swell of magic.

It was too late, thank the universe.

I flung the knuckles away, but the damage was done. I wasn’t sure they were ever going back on.

Newly freed and determined never again to return to such degradation, the dragon sucked in a breath. Blew it out. The grass ahead froze.

I saw from my probably unwise position of a few steps from its shoulder, its night-deep eyes narrowing in something that, if I’d seen the look on any other creature, I might have called a lust for revenge.

But dragons weren’t vindictive. I’d never known, nor heard of, a vengeful dragon. They were honourable, humble creatures – especially for being such great predators.

Apparently, its time in forced servitude had loosened its ties to the species’ expected behaviours.

It lunged, not bothering with sounding a warning. Zarix threw up what I assumed was a protection spell, but the frost dragon broke it as easily as a spider web, not pausing when Zarix stumbled, unprepared for the brute force of the dragon’s onslaught. He hadn’t bound this dragon himself – he would have been ready for this if he’d seen it wild.

Its momentum kept it going like a bullet at his temple, but he managed to regain his footing and uttered a yell.

“Geldialdi!”

Then –

Everything just…

Stopped.

The air was still. The dragon froze, two feet off the ground, jaws extended in a silent snarl. The last of the frozen ivy halted mid fall.

Time had stopped.

All but Zarix – and I.

“Well, well. Someone comes to free the pitiable prisoner and his library, is that it?” the warlock chuckled, stepping past the claws and bared teeth not a metre away with an irreverent pat to the snout. The dragon showed no recognition at the touch, staying just as frozen and furious.

He spread his arms with a flourish.

“Pretty neat trick, right?” he grinned, referring to the way he had stopped time entirely. “I picked it up when I travelled to America. They have such cool little shops – you can find spell books on everything from teleportation, to necromancy, to domestic chores! And – as I’m sure you can tell by now – the manipulation of time bubbles.”

I scowled, feeling wrong-footed. This was not in the plan. That was not allowed.

“What do you want with Alexus anyway?”

His eyebrows raised into what would have been his hairline, had he not been sporting a thoroughly bald, tattooed head, ink curling around his tapered ears. “Alexus, is it? Not Master Ignitingus? No title whatsoever? Don’t you have any respect for the man widely regarded as the most knowledgeable mage on this side of the world?” he inquired, eyes wide and mocking.

“Or perhaps…” He squinted at me, despite the sun being behind the building at his back, “you are here out of something more than duty? Do you perhaps know Alexus Ignitingus, personally?”

I shifted, uncomfortable with his implications and my continued lack of ideas. ‘Now would be a fantastic time for a stroke of genius, brain!’

“No, it’s just – I got a distress message. He sent it out to the closest magic user. That’s – that’s why I’m here.” I had no clue as to why I stuttered over the words, but I did, and I hated myself for my lack of social skills under pressure. This was my damn enemy! They’re not supposed to make me anxious – they’re supposed to make me angry!

He was grinning again. “Funny. It’s been a while since I froze the library. I suppose he only remembered to send out a message on day three of imprisonment? Because I know for a fact there’s a very active trading village not so far from here, and those never come without a mage or three.”

I frowned. At this rate I was definitely getting wrinkles. “How am I supposed to know what the bòidheach meant by it? All I know is I’m here, and you’re going to be stopped.”

He laughed, outright. “Language, language. Oh, aren’t you just super! I never get interesting people anymore – your type is why I even bother with all this these days. The masses, they’re just so dull, y’know? Them – you wouldn’t be able to see a difference even if they were telepathically connected to a hivemind and enslaved! Not… that anyone would plan to do something like that, of course.” He grinned boyishly, every aspect of his appearance at odds with the rest. Deep blue tattoos snaking over near every exposed centimetre of skin, bright purple knee-length cape, black woollen fabric around his legs looking like the skin-tight suit of an acrobat, curly-toed leather shoes that looked decidedly foreign and no-longer-glowing chains draped over each arm with metal cuffs at elbow and wrist.

“So, did your Mam forget to dress you this morning, or what?” I asked aloud, forgetting we were having a serious (or at least important – I’m not sure I could call this guy serious, terrifyingly powerful warlock or not) conversation.

His brows drew together, and for a second, I cursed my lack of self-preservation instincts. But then, he did something I wouldn’t have believed if a true seer told me of it. Zarix’s lips pursed and his eyes became shiny, as if he were holding back tears. He sniffed, then spoke tremulously.

“Fine – but you’re off the list of those-I-might-maybe-think-about-sparing! Obviously, I misjudged your level of interesting-ness.” He turned his back, content I’d been put in my place, and I watched him muttering as he shuffled back towards the building’s still tightly sealed doors.

Utterly perplexed, I looked around, as if to discover someone were standing just out of sight and cackling at my gullibility. Because what else could this be but a practical joke? But then – there. Movement in the high windows of the library.

Alexus? He… wasn’t frozen?

It seemed not. And if it turned out he was, well – I figured hallucinations weren’t sounding too unlikely after the last few days.

But real or not, it saw me looking and started waving frantically, only just visible through the frosty glass. I cocked my head, not understanding what it was getting at.

There was a long moment more of this flailing before it must have figured out that I was quite useless as a collaborator and took matters into its own hands.

Just as Zarix reached the building, most likely to start up a new round of useless incantations, the doors gave a click and creaked outwards, standing ajar enticingly. The warlock was understandably awestruck, seemingly rooted to the ground, previously inexorably busy jaw hanging slack. An unfortunate situation for him, in the circumstances. He never even got the chance to take a peek inside.

Alexus sent a bolt down. It shattered the window he was standing at before dissipating with a boom and blast that made Zarix and I stagger, releasing time from its confines. Life was moving once more.

And now, it was taking no prisoners.

The dragon jolted to the ground empty-handed, strongly displeased at the momentary escape of its prey. In a moment, it had zeroed in on the figure standing in the library’s doorway and was on the move once more, the wind its great wings created as it sprang blowing my hair across my face so that I spluttered and had to scramble to clear my eyes and mouth.

I took notice once more when I felt heat on my face for the first time since the desert and was faced with – Zarix, standing amidst a ring of fire. He must have cast that whilst I was occupied and couldn’t hear over the wind.

It was certainly effective at fending off the dragon. It seemed to dance, frustration frank in its snapping teeth and deep, rolling growl. If Zarix ever came out of his little fiery fortress, he was dead.

I watched the light play on his face as he watched the beast jitter before him. He must have felt his control over the situation returning and been bolstered by its addicting rush, because he flashed a wide grin (much too smugly for the situation, in my opinion).

“Oh, how easily the tides do turn,” he tutted, crossing his arms over his chest, as if he had any right to be calm in this moment.

He obviously wanted my attention – and thought this situation had provided him the perfect captive audience – but I was determined not to be that. Fulfilling his wishes could never be in my best interests, I knew that much.

Zarix continued to monologue, but my attention was elsewhere, watching the dragon readying itself quietly, and the glassless window, standing empty high above our heads. Alexus had definitely been there a moment before, so where was he now?

My question was answered with uncommon promptness.

The door banged against the wall, startling me. A palpable iciness was carried on the gust of air that had rushed from the doorway, and in a moment Zarix’s fire had been extinguished, the wind appearing to move with form.

The frost dragon took this as its chance. It lunged, and this time the warlock was too distracted by Alexus’s appearance to cast even a meagre shield.

The warlock fell to his knees. His hands thumped to the ground. His chest sounded hollow against the grass.

The dragon roared to the cloudless sky.

Zarix was very, very dead.

Ice was creeping from his corpse to coat the grass surrounding.

I stepped back – once, twice, perhaps twenty paces. The grass crackled under the dragon’s pads; turf thrown up by its claws.

This wasn’t over yet.

The chains falling away had revealed skin rubbed raw of scales, blistered and burnt and weeping.

“Oh, darling. I’m so sorry,” I whispered, looking on as this enraged shell of a creature spun circles, wings held high as if bracing for punishment.

Ice spread, crawled, and it took the leather of my boots creaking with cold for me to snap back to the moment.

I stood straight. Shed my robes, discarded the Comb and every other possession still carried on my person with equal disregard.

This poor dragon. The shards of my heart cracked.

I whistled then – a tune so old I thought I’d forgotten it. It seemed familiar company awakened many memories.

I heard my parents in the notes, the wordless song of comfort and understanding having reached many a terrified dragon. They were called dragon tamers, masters of beasts, the greatest dragon breakers in their own land and the next.

Our family knew the truth – had for all the centuries we had been in the business. Dragons were not to be made into pets or labourers or servants. They were so much more than we could ever be. If only you acknowledged that – gave them your respect, your service, your trust – they could be the greatest companions known to our kind.

And now, I paid my homage, as my parents had done so many times in the past, an awestruck me of yesteryear looking on from the side-lines with amazement and envy. I supposed I had finally got my wish.

There I was – a dragon tamer myself.

My melody rang clear, sounding even to my own ears deeper than anything a human could be assumed to produce, sung at a frequency all dragons could hear.

Its frenzied movements didn’t slow, but it turned to face me and met my gaze, challenging. If this didn’t work, I was now the prime target upon which to vent past injustices.

But I went on whistling, and tried to look as entirely opposite to its previous master as was possible when we shared a species. I advanced towards the swaying jaws with its curled lips revealing bone-white teeth, and in one movement dropped smoothly to my knees.

I tipped my head back to meet its gaze, neck long and arctic-goose graceful and oh-so delicate. A half-hearted swipe would be enough, like swatting a fly, brushing away a stray hair.

It stilled, eyes fixed upon me with an intelligence no animal possessed, and I kept on with my melody. Slowly, slowly – it dipped its snout towards my skull. Its head tipped. Mine tilted back even further, tendons tight and tense, eyes sliding shut. Sure, I was kneeling there, but that didn’t make me brave. If I’d drank more recently than at a stream of questionable origin the night before, I’d have quite literally been wetting myself.

Its breath washed over me. My own breath caught, and the song cut short.

I felt it touch my head, skin hard and leathery, but no colder than a stone wall in winter. I felt it, projecting to me.

Fapadh leat, piathar bheag.

Thank you, little sister.

And we stayed there, no longer at odds, my knees pressing into the hard, frosty ground, the dragon standing quietly, finally at peace. We were interrupted by shoes shifting on marble floor, and with a collective sigh we parted, now understanding each other better than many life partners did.

“Is… is that you, little hatchling?”

I turned, eyes still closed, unwilling to address the man I’d come here to save.

“It’s been a long time, thu beag cac. No free moment to spend visiting your brother?”

“Half.” I gritted out. “Half-brother, you bòidheach.”

He smiled sadly. “Harsh. But… fair, I suppose.”

I saw it all then –

Rippling icy water, Mam’s face sinking from our view, the shriek high in my throat replacing lilting notes.

The crunch of snow as Alexus ran to wrap his thin arms around my chest, caging me in, holding me back, leaving them to sink into the icy seawater – all to keep me from following them.

The pain in my hand as he crushed me to him in a shuddering embrace, rain – or were those tears – on my face, deep, ocean-cold in my bones, fear and anguish and nothing in my chest.

“You left them.”

The words were a croak, my throat dry and cheeks wet.

“But I looked after you, just like Mam told me. And your Da would have given everything for you to be safe, even if he’d never say it.”

“I can look after myself. I don’t need your pity.”

“Oh, little hatchling, you never would accept I meant you well. I love you, you know – now as I did then.”

I spun, and spat, “Give up the act already, bòidheach! All you ever cared about was your dragons – and books – and precious reports. You didn’t even turn back with me after Mam – Mam and Da – ”

“The dragon still needed help.”

“You’re a dragon! All duty and honour over the real people in your life… You are heartless.”

His hand covered his face, bony fingers clasping the bridge of his nose in an all too familiar habit. “I won’t argue with you. I love you. But we can’t put ourselves over every other living creature.” He looked up at me, eyes pleading for something – pity, or agreement, or compromise, perhaps.

“Besides,” he continued, glancing over at the frost dragon who stood as calmly as Stonehenge, just where I’d left it, “this dragon wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gone on when I did.”

That caught me out, not because it meant anything to me, but because it didn’t.

“What?”

Alexus softened and walked over to rest a hand on the dragon’s neck. His eyes closed for a split second, the dragon’s eyelids flicking simultaneously, and I knew they were sharing memories, a skill I hadn’t mastered before I withdrew from the dragon business bequeathed to my older half-brother.

He turned to me with exhilaration curving his lips and crinkling his eyes. “This is the dragon we were going to help, on that journey up North, when it happened. You, my silly little hatchling, have rescued your first dragon.”

And he looked at me with the pride of my entire family behind his eyes, and I felt it wash over me. The feeling that had kept them working in such a risky business, for so many years, despite all their close calls and unfortunate ends our ancestors had met pushing them to leave.

The fulfilment – satisfaction – joyful thrill. The knowing you had made a difference, and that the universe would remember.

And damn, was I thankful.

Excellent work! With Zarix defeated and the frost dragon no longer under his spell, the ice is dispelled and the library is safe. Alexus is so impressed by your skill he offers you the position of co-librarian and agrees to work in partnership with you to grow the library’s magical knowledge even further!