The Ashlands was once a kingdom.

Long before witches ever learned that telling a broomstick to sweep was better than actually sweeping themselves, the Ashlands was a land of peerless beauty.

A place where earth met sky.

An endless range of meadows and valleys tucked between glacier tipped mountains, where song and poetry were woven on beds of unblemished grass and beside springs deeper than the oceans, and where grand castles housed vast libraries of history and scrying glasses primed towards the future.

A kingdom of dragons.

Both good and bad. And all the typical business that entailed.

Although the kingdom’s name was now forgotten to all but the descendants of those who'd witnessed its scorching, the stories remained.

Tales of draconic knights whose valour rang centuries before the first freckled boy ever pulled a sword from a stone. There were villains and kings. And golden scaled damsels too. But none of those things truly mattered anymore. Because where once there was paradise, there was now something very different.

The Ashlands was a name which spoke for itself.

From my witch's eye view behind Marissa's back, I peered down past my feet and saw a bleak desert. A desolate backdrop of smouldering grey and barren rivers, where flora and fauna had long ceased to function.

The ash was total here.

A blanket from horizon to horizon, interrupted only by the scorched peaks which may very well house a prospective Next Great Evil.

Where there were hills, there were now dunes. And where there were songs, there was now silence.

Mostly, that is.

“We go woooooooooooooooooooooosh.”

Because there was also me.

Not that I could hear my own words. As soon as they left my mouth, it was as though they were left behind by the sheer speed that we were going.

I often saw witches zipping about like honey bees on a schedule, but things were always slower from the ground. Up in the air, with the wind resistance slapping any part of my face which couldn't hide behind Marissa's back, I could watch as the clouds made way for us like a parting sea.

“The first recipients for the mail are up ahead,” said Marissa, professionally ignoring her passenger's giddy outbursts of childishness. “You can see the lights from the encampment.”

I nodded.

She might not hear my reply, but she could probably feel my forehead against her back.

Already, the sack of mail she'd carried out of Witschblume was reduced to a handful of angry looking red envelopes. Her delivery drop across Heizholm's chimneys was less a detour and more a 100 metre sprint, and all that remained was one of the few places in Ouzelia where none of the witches' premium services could be purchased.

In the Ashlands, all the mail was part of the basic delivery plan. And as there were no local witches, that typically meant a very long wait.

Luckily, the inhabitants were very patient.

Yes, nothing green grew here anymore. But that wasn't to say there was no life at all.

“It's busier than I imagined,” said Marissa, her tone musing. “A unique sight. Beginning descent.”

I had just enough time to nod again before Marissa stopped actively fighting gravity.

The drop was disquieting for my stomach, but not as much as it was for my face.

As we made like a brick, ash clouds swept up to welcome our arrival back to the ground. The dust filled up my eyes, and then my mouth. Because here in the Ashlands, it wasn't enough to be here. I had to taste here, too. At least in concentrated form.

Most people actually had a little bit of the Ashlands in their breakfast, even if they didn't realise it.

Ironically, the same ash which prevented the plains from recovering also worked as excellent fertiliser.

And where there was an opportunity to make money, there was also people.

Particularly people who were famed as much for their mercantile spirit as they were for their natural hardiness against inhospitable climates.

“Good afternoon. Your names, please?”

At the edge of an expansive ash farm visible from the sky, a burly troll met us as we alighted. He wore blackened armour caked with the results of spending anywhere between ten seconds and ten years in the Ashlands.

He had his eyes cast down at a clipboard, as much to check our identities as it was to shield his face from the dust.

“Marissa Haycroix,” answered the witch smartly. “And Elise Rowe.”

The troll nodded, all 500 pounds of muscle tensing as he failed to spy our names in the clipboard.

And then he scratched his back.

Trolls did not like surprises. And our visit most certainly constituted a breach to their meticulous schedule keeping.

“My apologies, but it seems your names are not on the list,” said the troll, tapping at the clipboard with a swollen finger. “Did you notify the foreman of your intended arrival?”

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“We didn't,” replied Marissa. “I'm a delivery witch. I have mail for a … Grobbiz of Clan Rockpounder.”

A bundle of aggressively coloured envelopes appeared in the air with a puff of smoke. Marissa caught them as they fell.

The troll studied the envelopes, then looked down at the clipboard again.

He scribbled something down.

“I see. Thank you for making the long journey, Madame Witch. Grobbiz should be in the main collection depot. First building by the trenches. With the big tower.”

“Thank you.” Marissa turned to me. “I'll just be a moment. Would you mind the broomstick?”

“No problem.”

The troll looked up from the clipboard as Marissa scooted away.

“I shall need to record your arrival as well. Are you also a delivery witch or under the employ of the Bewitching Postal Service?”

“Nope, I'm a heroine.”

His dark eyes narrowed at me. Specifically, my uniform.

And then he scratched his back again.

“You do not look like a heroine.”

I nodded. No room to feel aggrieved there.

“I have a sword,” I said, helpfully twisting on the spot. “It's sanctified and certified.”

The troll's eyes narrowed further.

“My apologies, but I’m not versed in discerning legendary swords. I’m only filling in for Yargny. He’s on paternity leave. Do you have your certifications on hand?”

“Not at the moment. But I can make it glow really bright. Would that help?”

The troll scrunched up his brows.

After a few moments of consideration, he looked down and scribbled something on the clipboard.

“Unnecessary. Excess light will draw the giant corpse beetles. We've only just finished denesting the trenches.”

I smiled, unsure whether or not I needed to swish out my sword, after all.

“This is my first time seeing an ash farm,” I said, enthusiastically craning my neck around. “How's the ash yield this year?”

It was wonderfully picturesque.

Barns and carts and even the smell of manure. Except that instead of green fields, it was ash fields. Huge, organised trenches of carefully matured ash that were worth its weight in gold. Or more, depending on how much the trolls artificially limited stock.

“The yield is excellent. We'll have to burn 97% of our stock to compensate. I suggest that if you decide to tour the grounds, you maintain distance from the furnace. Otherwise, you’re free to explore. The ash trenches are quite the sight just before the harvest.”

“Oh? I never knew ash farms were available for public touring.”

“It's always been. All farms operated by any merchant guild based in Troll Country are legally required to be open for public viewing. We believe it's important to showcase exactly how our food is produced, and why eating vegetables grown from the ground is far more pleasant than chewing on humans birthed by other humans.”

“I think that's a wonderful idea. To be honest, we could also do more to learn about how our food is made.”

The troll grunted in approval. He lowered his clipboard for the first time, content he'd done his job and could therefore now chat away.

“It should be an integral part of our education. Sadly, even if it's a law to make our farms open, it doesn't mean anyone visits. Public viewing is down 74% this month alone. You're our first visitors today. And one of you is here for business purposes.”

“74% sounds like a rather steep drop. Is the season unfavourable for visits?”

“No. On the contrary, the period leading up to the harvest is usually our peak. It isn’t unusual to entertain multiple school trips here to see the ash dunes.”

I felt a familiar tingling in my spine. A sensation which made my ears perk up like a fawn sensing that the next sounds I'd hear would be very important.

“I see … and did something happen?”

The troll scratched his back.

Then, he nodded.

“Quite a few somethings. Seismic tremors. Landslides. Fissures. Corpse beetles disturbed from their hibernation. In short–earthquakes. School trips can't pass the risk assessment stage. A shame. Cafeteria always serves tiramisu on days when kids are coming.”

“That's quite the list of concerns. Have you had any problems with dragons?”

“Very much so. After all, I believe the earthquakes is a dragon.”

I nodded, glad that no dragon was around to hear that. Dragons may be heavy enough to routinely flatten trees, but that didn't make them any less self-conscious about it.

“By any chance, has this dragon only recently awoken?”

“Oh, yes. Practically saw him in his pyjamas the first time he soared over the farm. You could tell he was groggy. Only one working river in the Ashlands and he chose to drink downstream. That is not a good idea.”

The troll shuddered, looking mildly embarrassed. I chose not to think about the ramifications.

“I'm actually here to investigate a recently awakened dragon. It may likely be the same one. Has he given you any trouble beyond causing seismic activity?”

“Me? No. The company? Yes. The gentleman has poached some of our workforce. None of our best or brightest, mind you. But when word got around that vacancies were going in his lair, a few of the new hires jumped ship. I don’t personally blame them. We can't compete with the kind of entry level benefits a dragon can offer.”

I nodded. It was a familiar tale.

Dragons regularly made up the top five of Best Employers lists for a reason. Aside from offering pay in either currency or treasure, they were as meticulous with their contracts as they were with their tails. If they offered six weeks of annual holiday, a company flying carpet and overtime paid by the minute, they stuck by their word. No funny business.

“Do you know what vacancies were available?” I asked. “It'll help me determine the disposition of the dragon.”

“Goons, I believe.”

“Goons? Not labourers or workers, but goons?”

The troll nodded. I couldn't help but let out a worried frown.

If Oirdan was already hiring goons to set the backdrop for his secret lair, then that usually signalled being in an advanced stage of an evil scheme. Disposable, incompetent and also highly talkative, goons were usually the last to be hired.

“I'm guessing there's a problem?” asked the troll, having little difficulty inferring from my expression that there very much was.

“There's always a problem,” I answered. “The only question is to what degree.”

“And may I ask what degree of problem the one you're currently mulling over is currently?”

The answer was delivered by fate.

A crackling tremor ran through the earth, the noise shaking the air as much as it did the ground. Ash spiralled in every direction, forming pretty swirls as the continuous upheaval rippled beneath our feet.

And then.

“GWWAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”

The sound of a dragon's roar, its echo careening within the mountain valleys like a blaring choir, dusting snow off from peaks beyond the clouds.

I closed my eyes and allowed the chorus of the dragon's cry to sweep over me.

All I heard within that sonorous voice was hatred.

“Hmm ...” I peeked up at the mountains. “An eight.”

“Excuse me?”

“An eight. On the calamity scale. Possibly.”

“That sounds like quite a high number. For reference, what else is also an eight on the calamity scale?”

I gave it a moment's thought.

“Running out of toothpaste and toilet paper at the same time. And the last shops closed an hour ago.”

The troll blinked, then joined me in peering up at the mountain peaks.

After a while, he sighed.

“Guess I better start packing, then.”