Even if Marissa's world record breaking flight speed was certain to be omitted from all official records, I knew that my hair would never forget.

I brushed away bits of my ransacked fringe as we neared our destination, marvelling at both the technical skill involved in following the heels of a fully mature dragon, as well as the fact that I hadn't upended my breakfast during the thrill ride.

As the reward for defeating my nausea, I was able to look past where my feet were dangling off Marissa's slightly smoking broomstick and see the boundary of Witschblume marked by the lanterns and brightly lit windows.

The panic had already begun.

Even in the darkness, I could make out the little ant lines of panicked citizens beginning to escape into the night, dragging children and valuables alike onto carts and flying carpets in a bid to escape from the big scary dragon that had suddenly decided to remind them about the pecking order of things.

“GGGGWWWAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR.”

We'd made it.

Just.

And so long as Oirdan continued fixing his attention on the only thing larger than him within fire breathing range, we would continue to have made it. Below him were the walls of Witschblume Castle, its windows alive with the movement of those performing their emergency dragon drills.

“Oh my,” remarked Marissa, casually fixing her hat back into place. “The magic. Do you feel it? It's like when the archwitches all gather to see who can conjure the rainbow with the most colour gradients. The magical potency in the air is phenomenal.”

I nodded without replying.

I could feel it. And so could my sword.

Both my ordained weapon and my skin were tingling. Normally, it'd just be the occasion. Any showdown between a heroine and a dragon, however engineered, was guaranteed to draw fate's attention. But right now, it was more than that.

Magic was in the air. And not all of it from the dragon. Because like a veritable lighthouse in an ocean of darkness, the walls of Duchess Cadence's home was aglow with divine light as it failed to be moved by the very confused dragon attempting to melt it into goo.

“GGWWAAAAA …... RRRRRRRRRRR?”

It was a sight to behold.

Like a page from a storybook written when chivalry still bloomed and romance waited atop ivory towers, the silhouette of a magnificent dragon could be seen beneath a full moon, its very puzzled face illuminated by each bellow of flame ineffectually lashing out against the glowing walls of Witschblume Castle.

“GWAAAAA …... HMMMM?”

Pausing mid-stream, Oirdan's golden eyes narrowed at the almost indiscernible mark his molten flame had just about managed to leave on a corner.

And then he widened his maw once more. Except no searing flame was sent to warp the air.

Instead, a languishing groan of frustration could be heard echoing throughout the night sky, as well more than a little hint of embarrassment.

“What is this? Has slumber dulled my flames? Or is it now that the power of dragons finally wanes, our legend falling by the wayside?”

Oirdan beat his great wings, bringing himself close enough to the castle's walls that he could spy the minor cracks between the masonry.

What may have begun as a languished ode to duty was now a genuine attempt to lay siege to the castle. And why not? Dragons were stronger than walls. Therefore, a wall that did not immediately crumble to a dragon was not only an affront to common decency, but also highly embarrassing.

Unfortunately for Oirdan, the failure of his magnificent flames to melt the glowing walls of Witschblume Castle wasn't due to the slow demise of dragonkind as a force of relevancy.

It was because Duchess Cadence was many things. And while that often meant being a champion of biscuit crumbs, it also included being ruler of her own castle. She might not care about loose socks, but she did about dragonproofing her own home to modern safety standards.

“How curious,” remarked Marissa, eyeing the spectacle as she expertly maintained a holding position just beyond the spewing range of Oirdan's flames. “I've heard that the castle was a repository for unspeakably powerful artifacts. Are they currently being employed to ward away the dragon flames?”

“No,” I replied. “Just modern engineering techniques.”

“Oh.”

It was a given that construction methodology and structural design had advanced in the 200 years since Martuk the Mad had burned down a good chunk of Widzenport. Being a recently renovated castle, Witschblume enjoyed the benefits of several generations' worth of accumulated knowledge.

Marissa leaned in slightly, raising a palm over her bangs to not risk the chance of a wayward singe.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“The lanterns past the castle's windows have become extraordinarily luminous. Are they being powered by the dragonfire?”

I nodded.

“Heat absorbing runes built into the walls. They retain everything from sunlight to magical flames. The accumulated energy is cycled throughout the castle to power the lanterns and underfloor heating for the bathrooms.”

Once upon a time, Witschblume's castle was considered the unfashionable duckling among its peers. Sure, it boasted impenetrable battlements and a complete ring of magically fortified towers, but what were sound defences when compared to self-heating floors and vogue curtains?

That all changed when Duchess Cadence was installed as the castle's permanent caretaker.

The first thing she did upon leaving the workshop was to dismiss the fretting maids who insisted that she should not be naked. The second thing she did was to renovate the castle. Despite Lady Uxna’s well-founded complaints, the duchess was not always idle.

Just most of the time.

She’d done her job. And now it was time to do mine.

“Right.” I scrunched my hands around the back of the broomstick and forced my brain to spin. “The castle is more or less impregnable. But the town below isn't. That's a problem.”

“Do you think Oirdan will attack the town?”

I shook my head, which I assumed Marissa could somehow see.

“I think he would've if he wanted to. But it's not necessary. Striking at the castle is enough. It's a traditional spot for a showdown.”

While I didn't believe it was likely that Oirdan would turn his attention to the town for the sake of forcing my intervention, I was still worried about collateral damage. Fire was dangerous. And dragon fire was its much less discerning sibling. If any embers spewed onto the rooftops, it would be worse than another Widzenport. Half the town was still in the streets.

“And now I know why fairytales are all classics,” said Marissa as she eyed another frustrated belching of flame. “Modern ones are not really up to par, are they?”

“I wouldn't say that. I've met some wonderful prospective villains so far. I think some of them might go on to become the Next Great Evil even without a prophecy to help them.”

“Well, maybe this one needs to take note, since he seems rather set on an early exit.”

“Dragons are the oldest and noblest of creatures. If one thinks that their entire existence is based around eventually falling at the hands of a heroine, then cutting the 'eventually' out of it is simply a way of reclaiming some agency while still obeying the rules they're obligated to follow.”

“That's tragic. And also idiotic.”

“Yes, it is.”

It was a way of thinking which was almost unique to dragons. As beings whose strength was woven from tales, they were obligated to maintain their place as creatures of legend, or risk fading altogether.

When it came to seeing out their role, there was no side stepping expectations or bending the rules. If told to make lemonade, they would use lemons, not limes. Close enough was not good enough.

“I don't suppose your sword could just cut through a few more threads?”

“This isn't a minotaur's labyrinth. All I did was speed up the story. That's the last thing I want to do right now. Until someone other than me tells him he doesn't need to go out and do Next Great Evil stuff, I think he's just going to beeline it straight to the ...”

I paused as something caught my eye.

Looking down past my dangling feet at the hive of activity occurring in the town below, I saw a familiar location illuminated by the moonlight.

Even among the flurry of movement, I could easily distinguish the Bread & Berry Cafe. All its windows were lit with a gentle hue, and a casual plume of smoke was waffling from the chimney. An oasis of calm within a desert of chaos.

Lize was down there. As was Tutu. I sorely wanted to check up on them. But just like myself and Oirdan, they had their own roles to fulfil.

“Huh.”

And then–

I had an idea.

Marissa twisted around slightly, peeking behind her shoulder in puzzlement.

“Straight to the … ?” she queried.

“Conclusion,” I answered. “A newly written one.”

“I see.” She paused. “I don't see.”

I smiled and pointed downwards.

“Could you drop me off at the cafe? I won't be long.”

“Sure. But what about the dragon?”

“The dragon will still be there. There's something I need to do first.”

“Should I wait?”

“I can just use my own broomstick when I'm done. Could you help with prodding the fleeing citizens along in the meantime? Sorry to be a bother.”

“Oh, it's fine. We witches are contracted as contingency workers in the event of any emergency where we can retrospectively bill an absurd amount of money afterwards. Plus I like being helpful.”

I nodded, then braced as Marissa allowed gravity to swiftly plunge us towards the ground.

Moments later, I bore witness to the familiar sign of the Bread & Berry Cafe winking merrily at me beneath a ray of moonlight, followed by an actual wink by Lize as she expectantly opened the front door. A warm jingle sounded from the shop bell.

“Hiya,” said my co-worker, as she expertly balanced several of Madame Zaiba's most prized porcelain plates in her arms. “We’re open! What can I get you?”

I smiled.

“I need a flying black tabby.”

***

To my delight, Tutu had actually made a gallant effort at hiding.

More than half of his body was stuck in a pile of boxes before he'd apparently decided to call it quits. And so that was the position I found him dozing off in. His tail lazed over the edge of a cardboard box, while his wings flopped against his back, moving only to scratch an itch.

I peered over Tutu's snoozing form as I assessed the best way to rescue him from the bowels of a box of aprons that had somehow become his new home.

I was impressed. His head was tangled among a dozen straps, but rather than panicking at his enviable predicament, he'd smartly decided that sleeping it out until someone rescued him was the logical course of action.

With someone as diligent and forward thinking as this, I had little doubt that the job I had for him was suited to no other.

“All right, Tutu. It's your show now.”

I gently poked him until he stirred. As soon as I saw his tail moving to bat my hand away, I leaned down and scooped him into my arms.

“Ooph. You've been sneaking into tuna barrels again, haven't you? Well, sorry to wake you, but it's time you pitted your wings up against a dragon's.”

Tutu looked up, licked his paw, yawned, then closed his eyes again. The tail that had briefly flicked against my stomach went back to dormancy as he promptly went back to sleep.

For a very brief moment, I considered the wisdom in setting an 8 pound domesticated cat against a 19,950 pound fire breathing armoured behemoth.

And then, I shrugged.

It was time he got some exercise, anyway.