Valo raised his legs and stomped his way out of the rucksack, spreading his small wings and stretching his legs for the first time that day. His bones ached and his joints clicked. His legs felt strange—like they were made of water, and tingly, making it hard for him to stand.

But with a quick shake of his limbs and a stretch of his back, the young dragon was ready.

He began, first, by pointing to his own head. Hooded men, he thought, as if thinking what he meant would somehow help him act it out. He made a gesture around his head—a terribly vague, unclear one, like someone rustling their own hair.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Archie said enthusiastically, “I love this game.” He put a hand on his chin and stroked his patchy beard. “Is it… a hedge? A bush? No, no—hair. Holly’s hair!”

Valo furrowed his brow and shook his head fervently. He took a breath and slowed down, forming an arc over his head with his arms. Given that he was a hatchling, his proportions were somewhat… odd—his head was too large, his wings too small, and his limbs too short. As a result, he couldn’t quite touch his claws over his head. Nevertheless, he stretched and tried to form what looked like a hood over his head.

“A… circle?” Flakken suggested. “What the bloody hells are you…” He frowned, watching as the young dragon continued to form the ‘hood’ over his own head.

Mercifully, Garth had a better idea—a hunch, really. The man set his own light pack down on the foot of the bed. He unbuckled it and withdrew a small beige-colored bundle, kept together with a piece of red twine. It was a bundle of letters, scrawled with tiny, barely legible lines. He tugged the string free, then found a bit of clear paper and handed it to Valo.

The gesture earned a glance from all three of the warriors, wrenching their attention away from Valo’s gesturing—and for good reason. Before the dragons left, paper was as common as hay, with every city—hells, every village and every backwater town, too—having a mage dedicated to producing the stuff day in and day out, among a few other inaccessible commodities. The mage would usually be of middling skill, otherwise, and he’d be bonded to a fairly uninspiring dragon—but he was, nonetheless, important to the town’s functioning. As important, perhaps, as the town’s leader.

But when the dragons disappeared, magic went with them. Suddenly, no one had enough paper. Letters were written on scraps of apothecary notes. Laws were signed in the margins of repurposed books. Every inch of paper became more valuable than gold, for a time.

Now, they’d come up with ways to make crude, ugly sheets—brown, fragile, and heavy—for most day-to-day uses. But the real stuff—the stuff weaved with dragons’ magic, before they disappeared, immune to rot and flame—was hard to come by. Garth had a small pad of it that he’d use to send important official notices on behalf of the guild, when needed.

And he handed Valo a square of it. Valo, ignorant of its worth, snatched it. Garth wasn’t bothered by it, though, and simply turned back to dig something from his pack—a quill and inkpot, each practical and short.

“If he can’t speak,” Garth explained, noticing his comrades’ confusion, “then maybe he can write.”

“Write? On that?” Flakken frowned. “Can’t he just, I don’t know, write on a shirt or something?”

Garth nodded at the young dragon. “We don’t know what he’s saying—but we know it’s urgent. He wouldn’t try this hard to speak if it wasn’t.” He handed Valo the inkpot and quill. “I’m willing to spend the paper on it, if it’s this important.”

The warriors nodded, and their gazes craned over to Valo, who stood on the bed holding a slip of paper in one hand and the writing tools in another. He glanced down at them, then back up at the warriors, who huddled around him with looks of anticipation and awe on their faces.

After setting the inkpot down on the bed precariously, Valo clutched the piece of paper. The quill, in his other hand, shifted clumsily, his clawed fingers unable to properly grip the shaved eagle’s feather. When he finally got his fingers around it, he awkwardly stabbed at the top, missing it several times before he finally managed to get it into the narrow hole. He plunged the quill’s tip into the ink, darkening an inch too far. The inkpot shook as he plunged the quill into it, but the warriors’ hands all snapped to the small pot, steadying it. Valo yanked the quill up and out of the pot.

But after all that struggle just wetting the quill, Valo still had to actually write what he needed to tell them.

Thick ink dripped in steady, messy gobs as Valo held the quill up, splashing onto the sheets, staining them with black bruises. The four warriors were far too curious about what Valo was going to write to care about the tavern’s sheets.

But, for Valo, writing was proving… tricky. Sure, he could understand all languages. He could even read them, and he’d read plenty of rickety old signs while they were on the road, but reading and writing were very different, Valo came to find. Just like speaking, Valo simply… couldn’t. Any attempt felt clumsy, like trying to grab the wind—or, indeed, clutch a quill.

But the young dragon was far too stubborn to give up. He knew what writing was—he’d seen Garth do it, once or twice, while they were traveling. He knew what the word meant.

I can do this, he told himself, nodding firmly.

Valo pressed the tip of the quill into the paper, its plush surface a richly woven tapestry. Ink rapidly spilled onto—and into—the paper, its intricate fibers drinking in the thick black liquid. Clumsily, the hatchling dragged the tip of the quill down the surface of the paper. A rough scratching sound rang from the paper, as Valo threatened to pierce right through the sheet with the amount of force he was using to write. The young dragon focused intensely, drowning out the four warriors staring at him, his attention consumed by the task.

He placed the first stroke down, then jerked the quill in another direction, creating the rest of the letter. Before long, the quill swished across the page, leaving trails of ink seeping into the paper and forming what he wanted to tell the warriors.

Or, at least, he thought he was forming what he wanted to tell them.

Valo dropped the quill and turned the piece of paper around, displaying it proudly. He expected thoughtful nods, appreciative murmurs, some sort of plan being concocted—and maybe even a few chunks of meat tossed his way, for his efforts.

Instead, Valo received confused looks and furrowed brows. The warriors stared at the page blankly, then glanced back up at the young dragon.

“What…” Flakken muttered, furrowing his brow, “the hells does that say?”

“The… the…” Archie read, squinting at the piece of paper. After a moment, he gave up, sighing and standing upright. “I have no idea.”

Even Holly—Valo’s fiercest advocate in the group—stood with a confused look on her face. She stared at the piece of paper longer than the rest of them, but, like them, she too came up with nothing.

“Yeah, I have no idea what you’re trying to tell us, Valo,” Holly said, pursing her lips.

“Valo?” Garth asked, a smile creeping onto his face. “‘Fire’ in the Old Tongue?”

Holly nodded. “I added the ‘o’, but yes.” She shrugged. “I figured he needed a name.”

“You speak the Old Tongue?” Flakken asked.

“A bit…” Holly murmured. She glanced away, quickly trying to change the subject. “Anyway… we have no idea what you’re trying to tell us, Valo.”

The young dragon turned the piece of paper over and re-examined the ‘message’ he’d scrawled. He didn’t blame them for not being able to read it; in fact, he himself could barely make out what he was trying to say. Fragments of words were legible, but most of the message was chicken scratch at best.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Evidently, claws were not made for writing.

Just then, a knock rang from the rickety door. The four warriors’ gaze snapped over to it, and a surge of panic rang through Valo’s heart. Had the hooded men decided to come earlier than nightfall? Had they heard the commotion in the room and heard the word dragon?

Were they coming to get him—steal him away and sell him to High Wizard Alzareth?

“Under the bed—now,” Garth barked, his gaze settling on Valo.

Valo didn’t waste a moment. He scrambled over the edge of the bed with reckless abandon, scrunching the sheets and throwing the quill and inkpot off the bed. He scurried under the bed, squeezing his wings down low and clamping his maw shut, lest even the slightest whimper escape him. He watched from beneath the bed with bated breath, only the warriors’ ankles visible.

Like a well-oiled machine, the warriors fell into their places, taking action immediately. Holly and Flakken dashed forward, their steps so light that they barely made a sound. Holly slipped over to the right-hand side of the door, while Flakken took the left, their hands drifting down to their belts, where their weapons were sheathed. Archie, meanwhile, stepped back and slumped down onto the bed, his weight causing the frame to creak above Valo. The portly man slipped his dagger from his belt and tucked it under his pillow, lounging with his hands behind his head and pretending to be at ease.

Once three of them were in position, Garth took his position. The weathered warriors stepped forward, his footsteps heavy and decisive—as if to announce his presence to whoever stood beyond the door. After exchanging a brief nod with Flakken and Holly as they stood ready to pounce should the need arise, Garth yanked the door open.

But he didn’t find a threat—just the old woman who ran the tavern. Her long dress covered her feet, stained brown by years of mud and grime. As soon as the warriors heard her voice, they relaxed, sensing no threat. Slowly, the smell of rich stew wormed its way into the room.

“Yes?” Garth asked, narrowing his eyes. Evidently, he didn’t expect the intrusion.

“I thought all of you could use some food after your travels,” the old woman said, her voice strangely cheerful.

Garth narrowed his eyes. “Thank you, but—”

“No, no,” the old woman said, shoving the tray loaded with bowls of stew forward, “I won’t hear any objections. No one goes hungry in my tavern.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice slightly. “Especially not ones who know how to reward, uh, discretion.” She winked.

Garth eyed her for a moment—then he found himself seduced by the rich aroma drifting up into his nose. The usually stoic man lost himself for a moment—the tension melted from his weathered body, the crust cleared from his road-weary face, and he felt an irresistible relaxation wash over him.

“Go on, take it…” the old woman croaked, insistently shoving the tray toward Garth. “I’m an old woman—I can’t keep holding this heavy tray forever…”

And Garth, relaxed by the stew’s aroma, took the tray.

“Enjoy…” the old woman smiled, shutting the door.

“When did we start trusting strangers’ food, Garth?” Flakken asked, shuffling toward Garth, who stared at the four bowls of stew. “Uh… Garth?”

But the old man didn’t respond, entirely transfixed by the stew.

Flakken edged closer and put a hand on Garth’s shoulder, trying to get his attention—but as he drew closer, he caught a whiff of the stew.

And it captured him. Flakken’s gaze drifted down to the bowls of rich brown stew, his eyes scanning each lump, each velvety curl of sauce. Roughly chopped carrots bulged beside soft potatoes and chunks of seared beef. As Flakken focused on the stew, the rest of the world fell away.

As its odor filled their small room, even Holly and Archie found themselves enraptured by the mysterious stew. Before long, all four warriors stood crowded around the tray as Garth held it. Each of them snatched a bowl from the tray and scarfed it down, devouring spoon after spoon with the grace of starving rats chomping down chunks of cheese.

Valo pulled himself out from under the bed, expecting that he, too, would be seduced by the evidently delicious aroma (and that Holly would gladly toss him a few chunks of saucy meat).

But to his surprise, when he got out from under the bed, he was greeted with a bitter, pungent odor lingering around the warriors as they scarfed down their stew. The entire room smelled of rotting flesh, burnt wood, and vinegar. The young dragon found himself fighting back his nausea at the smell of the stew.

They’re eating that?! he exclaimed internally.

For the life of him, he could not work out what was so delicious about the stew that made the four warriors completely ignore everything else. They didn’t even chat idly as they typically did during their dinners on their road.

For the first time in his young life, Valo was grateful Holly didn’t offer him a bit of her dinner.

The warriors scarfed their portions down in just a few moments, barely stopping to chew it. And when they finished the potatoes, carrots, and chunks of meat, they abandoned the little grace they had left—each of them dove into their bowls, licking every drop of sauce from the bottom of the bowl.

When the warriors finished, they tossed their bowls aside and slumped down onto the beds, collapsing in careless piles. Flakken lounged atop Archie, who was sprawled across the bed, half his body hanging off it. Holly fell face-first into the stained pillows of one bed, her blonde hair already a mess. Even the ever-stoic Garth quickly succumbed to sleep, lowering himself onto the bed and shutting his eyes, sleep taking him as he sat.

A pang of worry shot through Valo’s chest at the warriors’ sudden collapse. He scurried over to them—to Holly, first. He gently prodded her leg as it hung off the bed—no response. Next, he hopped up onto the bed and prodded her shoulder—again, nothing. Finally, he marched over to her head—and he delivered a sloppy, wet lick to her cheek, his coarse tongue contorting her flesh and leaving a pink patch.

But still, she didn’t wake up.

Mercifully, though, Valo heard something emanating from Flakken’s maw—groarghhhrrr.

Snoring.

The young dragon had heard it a few times during their travels: these creatures, the warriors, let out a soft roar whenever they closed their eyes for too long. Flakken was, by far, the worst offender in their party, but Archie let out a steady groan—more of a hum, really. Garth occasionally muttered something whenever he slept, though the words were far too clumsy to discern. Even Holly made a few noises when she slept—just a tiny squeak, here or there, like a mouse.

And now, he heard them make the same sounds. They were… asleep.

The hatchling didn’t know much about these creatures. He’d come to know a bit about them, but his knowledge was severely limited. As far as he knew, these creatures only slept when the sun went down, and only if they had fire. Valo looked around—no fire.

But the sun was going down—or just beginning to. The mushy light coming in from the room’s cloudy window had gone from a stark white to a subtle amber-gold. Perhaps the warriors had simply sensed that the sun was going down and decided to sleep?

Valo had never seen them sleep so quickly, though. It always took them a few hours before they were snoring—and one of them always stayed awake to keep watch. Now, though, they’d all just simply gone to sleep.

Valo himself didn’t have much need for sleep. He tried, a few times—he’d closed his eyes, pursed his maw, and bundled himself up tightly, just like the warriors did. But sleep never came, and after about an hour of trying, the young dragon quickly became bored. He spent his nights, then, in feasts of knowledge: he scratched in some of their bags, examining what he found; he stared out into the darkness, growing accustomed to the sights and sounds he heard.

Most of all, though, he stared up at the sky, hoping—somehow—that another dragon would streak across the sky, its form shimmering in the moonlight.

But no dragon ever did, not in all the nights he’d spent staring up at the stars.

But tonight, he would do no such thing. Tonight, he would not stare up. Tonight, he would stare straight ahead.

Tonight, he’d protect the warriors from the hooded men who meant them harm.

Valo spun and hopped down onto the floor with a soft thud. He stomped over to the rickety wooden door and planted his claws, digging them into the wood. He furrowed his brow and clenched his maw. He stood ready and waiting for whatever—whoever—would come through the door.

Around him, the room dulled and darkened, the amber-gold light of a young sunset fading to a sultry orange, then to a deep gray. Hours passed, but the young dragon remained firm in his vigil while the warriors snored away behind him. He kept his eyes fixed on the door as night took hold of the tavern.

And suddenly, the door shuddered. Valo tensed, gritting his teeth and preparing to call on his Fire Breath skill. The door unlatched and began to drift open, its aging hinges screaming. The door creaked its way open, inch by inch, as Valo watched, unblinking.

But when it opened fully, no one was standing there. Valo waited for a moment—but there were no hooded figures waiting to charge into the room and hurt his friends.

The hatchling edged forward and peeked out of the room, whipping his head from left, right, and left again.

But there was no one—just an empty hall, bathed in the warm, uncertain light of a distant, flickering fire.

As he peeked his head further into the hall, a cool, inviting wind—of an uncertain origin—rushed through the hall, curling across the wooden floor and up into the young dragon’s nostrils.

And the moment it hit him, the entrancing smell gripped him. The smell of comfort—of warm chunks of meat and a crackling campfire, of a cozy bed and sweet apples. Valo felt his worry—and his sense of caution—melt away from his body, all the tension leaving him.

But the wind didn’t just fill his nose. It filled his ears, too. Its rich howl sounded unlike any wind he’d heard.

It sounded like language.

Valo strained his ears—at first. After a moment, the whisper on the winds swelled to an audible howl.

“Come.”