Windmane had never seen so much as a tailtip of a medusa, and she very much wanted to keep it that way. From what little she knew, they could usually be trusted not to murder anyone who offended them — usually! — but that was a lot to risk. They could kill with a look and a thought. The magic that turned their victims into stone was irreversible.

Windmane turned to Razorscale, the unofficial alpha of the group. She hoped that he would either say they should leave, or that he had a some magical charm to keep them safe.

He said neither. The dragon was inspecting the moonlit beach in silence, looking at the the chunks of statues that Windmane was just now seeing. She wondered if his temporarily-human eyes were any better than hers.

“These are likely fake,” he said. “Meant to scare people off.”

“What if they’re not?” Windmane demanded, floating higher on the pixie dust.

“Stay close.” Razorscale muttered something to his young apprentice, then glided toward the forest. Silver obligingly took the lead.

Beak and Twig followed the two dragons, leaving Windmane alongside Stomp. Windmane cast an adrenaline-spiked glance at the minotaur, who looked just as wide-eyed as she felt.

Stomp silently held out a hand. Windmane took it.

Herd solidarity.

Together they drifted after the others, all of them gliding silently on pixie dust with varying levels of fear. Windmane knew Razorscale was worried. He hadn’t hidden it quickly enough.

Anything that worried a dragon, even one so inconvenienced as this, was something that worried a centaur severely.

Windmane held Stomp’s hand tightly, eyes darting everywhere, and took deliberately deep breaths as the treeline approached. It was extremely dark between the trees.

It was also, Windmane was startled to discover, hot.

“I know,” Razorscale whispered at the chorus of surprised noises. “Hush. We’re inside the area of a spell. I thought it did something else, but … Hush.”

Windmane’s hand was already sweaty in Stomp’s. That alone wouldn’t have been reason to drop it, but the spaces between the trees were narrow. The centaur exchanged looks with the minotaur, then separated into single file. Windmane went first, just so she didn’t have to be last. She silently apologized for putting Stomp at the back of the herd. She said nothing out loud.

Progress through the unexpectedly tropical forest was slow. Windmane didn’t object to the caution, but the suspense was agonizing. She realized at one point that there were no sounds of nighttime creatures — no birds or frogs or whatever else usually lived in this kind of terrain. Just breeze shifting the leaves, and the occasional noise she or her companions made. It was beyond eerie.

In the faint moonlight that filtered between the trees, Windmane watched the ground for more remains. That white sand was everywhere. At first it looked like the broken sculptures were only on the beach — a distraction, like Razorscale had said — but no, there was a bird. Mostly intact, its wings folded, laying on the ground where it had fallen from a branch at the moment it turned to stone.

Windmane shuddered and fought the urge to run.

Then came the tree heavy with fruit, a type Windmane was unfamiliar with. She smelled it before she saw it: a thick scent of fruit both ripe and rotting. When it finally came into view, Windmane stared at the dozens of fruits scattered around its base. Some had been eaten down to cores, then cast aside. Most hadn’t been touched. Fuzzy mold was rampant on the fruit along the ground.

Is this poisonous too? Windmane wondered, keeping a careful distance. Then she realized, No, there are just no scavengers alive to clean it up. That bird probably wanted some.

Ahead of her, Silver paused to pick something up and show it to Razorscale. The two said nothing. When Silver set it down to move on, Windmane floated over to have a look.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

She expected remains, or a weapon. She didn’t expect art. Carved out of wood, sanded smooth but not varnished, it appeared to be a stylized figure of a medusa. Standard two-arm body, snake tail, many snakelets instead of hair. It was simplistic but lovely.

Why is this here? Windmane stared as Stomp moved forward to join her. Are those toothmarks??

With thoughts of breaking the silence to ask the dragons what they thought it meant, Windmane floated around the tree in pursuit. Razorscale was worming his way through a dense bush. Windmane didn’t catch him in time to ask, and had to follow. She kept the figure clenched in one fist. The rustle of leaves was far too loud. Something would hear.

On the other side of the bush, Windmane suddenly had new questions.

Bright moonlight shone down on a clearing full of nameless shapes — her first assumption was large statues that had once been flesh, but they were more amorphous than that. It was only when she saw the slide that it all clicked into place.

This was a playground. A playground with, she saw now, snake motifs carved into everything. Windmane spun to face the dragons, overshooting with the pixie dust and spending a panicked moment trying to orient herself while the rest of the group gathered in the clearing.

“What’s all this?” Beak whispered.

“Aggravating,” Razorscale snapped. Windmane settled to find the dragon visibly angry. He worked his fingers like they were still tipped with claws, ready to rend someone specific. “We are all in an immense, infuriating amount of danger.”

“What?” Windmane squeaked.

The dragon spoke in a hiss. “This island is a gorgon hatchery. I cannot believe those wizards had the audacity to build a safehouse under this.”

Twig floated over the slide. “Why is that so dangerous? Babies aren’t scary. I guess the adults are overprotective…”

“No, it’s the babies,” Razorscale interrupted. “They kill anything they see that isn’t their own species. They haven’t learned not to yet.”

“Oh,” Twig said. He drifted back from the slide. “Oh.”

Windmane again thought of all the white sand, this time imagining the number of generations that had passed while it built up. An untold number of animals and people rendered to dust.

She was shaking. It made her fly crooked. She realized she was still holding the wooden carving … which now appeared to be a teething toy. She dropped it and scrubbed her hands on her clothes.

Beak pointed back toward the beach. “Should we leave before they find us? Come back with some kind of protection?”

Razorscale shook his head. “No time. If we don’t find the wizards before they leave, we may never get them all in once place again. We’re lucky; the young gorgons should be asleep. We’ll just have to be stealthy. Speaking of which—” He turned to Silver. “I’m using one of the last invisibility charges. I’ll be watching you. If you sense anything, point it out to me and I’ll scout it. If they can’t see me, or hear any footsteps, I should be safe.”

Windmane whimpered. “Should be?”

He gave her a withering look. “It’s the best option we have. Now everyone be silent. Follow Silver toward the strongest source of magic.”

With a flare of blue lines, he winked from sight.

The small silver dragon pointed toward the exit from the clearing. Not waiting for confirmation, Silver undulated through the air, wings folded tight. They had clearly gotten the hang of the pixie dust.

Windmane wasn’t nearly as graceful as she exited the clearing, but at least she didn’t knock anyone into a bush. The constant fear-shivers didn’t help.

In as much silence as they could manage, the group glided down a well-trodden forest path, not touching a thing. Windmane didn’t like the idea of using actual paths, since that raised their odds of meeting someone, but it also lowered their chances of making noise. And theoretically the one dragon’s keen senses would spot any dangers, which the other would assess. Theoretically.

Windmane didn’t much care for “theoretically” right now.

But Silver did hear something — or see, or smell, Windmane couldn’t tell — and when that lithe silver form reared to backpedal, the rest of the group instantly shot back the way they had come. Silver hid behind a tree and pointed. Then they all waited for someone invisible and silent to tell them it was safe.

Windmane was huddled behind a different tree with Stomp when she heard the faintest of whispers. Her racing heart clenched in terror before she realized Silver was whispering back. Razorscale had done his scouting. She caught what sounded like “sleeping outside” and “go around.”

Silver swam back down the pathway in the opposite direction, waving the others along. A safer direction. Right.

The path did curve around the area that they were avoiding, and the trees above let in enough light to see well. Windmane’s heart rate showed signs of slowing just a hair.

Then they reached the crossroads, and something shrieked.

Windmane spun, trying to figure out which direction was safe to run. She saw them then: two small forms with wings — medusas didn’t fly; what was this?

Gargoyles, she realized. He said “gorgon hatchery.” These are gorgons too. They can’t do the stone magic?

But they could scream loud enough to rouse whoever had been sleeping outside. Children’s voices, then adult female, then male. Thunderous crashing through bushes.

Then Windmane was fleeing in terror, and knew nothing other than speed and panic and trees flashing by. Cold air. Sand underneath. Water.

Speed. Panic. Run.

Run until limbs or lungs fail, whichever comes first.