Red washed over the world. Rivulets of blood gushed from shining, black, plated scales, and the great wings’ labored flapping shredded the lakeside calm. To avoid the beast’s counterattack, Lysander snatched his sword and stumbled backward. His first instinct was to puke, but out of the chaos, his brother’s panic-stricken “run!” fought the fog in his ears. He fled for the forest’s protection, his legs carrying him as fast as they could through the tall grass and into the dense underbrush. Thorns raked deep gouges in his skin, and branches slapped his face, but his mind fixated on a single truth and shut out the rest- he had killed a dragon.  

***  

Thick masses of white smoke billowed off the meager campfire directly into Lysander’s face, but at least the damped logs had lit among the kindling. Blazes crept up the rotten bark to engulf the wood. He heaved a sigh of relief. There would soon be enough heat to warm his body and cook the wiry hare he happened to surprise when he crashed into a thicket.  

He had fled into the Dark Forest and kept going until the land grew rough and craggy before he allowed himself to stop for the night. He clung to the hope that the boulders and clefts in the ground might be enough to hide him from the Royal Guard’s pursuit. Along the walls of an asperous crag, he noticed an auspicious cave with an angled fissure that led away from its opening. He gathered brush around the entrance to mask his incursion before he risked the fire.   

After he split the meat and braced it to roast, he slumped against the damp limestone. He wondered if the entire afternoon had been a flight of his imagination or a true and cruel trick of fate.   

The day began many ages ago, in a simpler era he longed to return to. Lysander and his brother had been trekking to the village market with the week’s finished baskets loaded in the cart hitched to their stubborn donkey. They plodded down the mundane route, but hit some unknown danger, and a wheel flopped out of joint.  

At the telltale crunch, Demetrius pulled to a stop. Dolly took offense to the change of plans and rebelled against the bit in her mouth.   

“’Sander, we’ve gotta uncouple the nag to fix this,” Demetrius grumbled. “How bout you and ol’ Dolly hunt for something to carve into an axle while I shimmy the wheel off?”  

“Why am I stuck babysitting?” Lysander demanded. “You always work on the cart!”  

“Because she bites you less, and I can build a stronger brace for the wagon,” the elder brother snapped. “Just take her and go!”   

With that, he uncoupled the ornery beast, still eager to walk, and led her to the saplings along the bank in a pout. She tugged toward the road and cried for her familiar load, but he was determined to find an appropriate branch with minimum fuss. “Come on, girl,” he soothed her and rubbed her ear. “We’ll get a drink; it won’t be so bad.”   

They plodded over the uneven roots and pushed past the lowest branches. Lysander held the lead line loosely in his left hand, with his charge closer to the lake, which was all the invitation she needed to approach the water’s edge and dip her muzzle in. Focused on the tree limbs, he missed the signs of danger: the rustling of distant grass, the soft splash as the dark form broke the surface, or the gentle steam hiss that followed.   

It wasn’t until he found and cut a suitable replacement that he noticed his surroundings. By then, Dolly was prancing sideways away from the shore and snorting with anxiety.   

Lysander snapped to attention. The branch clattered to the ground. He became hyperaware of the missing birdsong and small-animal noises. Silence engulfed the countryside. The sensation of being hunted froze his blood, and his heart choked on the ice. He drew his ensis and tightened Dolly’s lead, stepping between her and whatever she might detect.  

By then, it was too late. Already fixated on its next meal, the ancient intelligence beneath the lake’s surface felt little fear of the man beside the delicious donkey. A week had passed since it had last eaten, and it wasn’t about to allow itself to be denied. It sliced through the murky waters, strafing left and right in its most elusive pattern, never losing sight of the delectable morsel until it dipped its head to make its final leap. Just as the iron flashed.   

The beast sprang from the depths and dove onto its prey. Lysander saw only white foam spray and a woosh of movement. A screech rang out above him, and, without time to process, he raised his sword defensively. The dragon hadn’t noticed him in the way of its prize. It lunged into him hard and hit the weapon out of dumb luck, driving him back in a pool of blood.  

***  

Lysander looked at the stains on his homespun shirt, tears welling in his eyes. He’d stumbled upon a stream to wash the gore from his hands, but all the water in the world wouldn’t rinse his clothes clean or scrub the battle from his soul. The gesture had been automatic; he hadn’t realized what was coming for them or intended to take a life. And yet, it didn’t matter. The law forbade killing magical creatures under any circumstances. Their numbers were so few and their races so powerful, the smallest loss was unacceptable.   

He had only seen a dragon one other time, on the long walk home after The Mage’s Tournament. He marveled at the sparkling blue animal soaring high above the fields and trees in agape amazement. Its wings flashed in the sun like sapphire daggers. It was beauty and grace made flesh.   

His mother leaned close and whispered in his ear, “How much wisdom do you suppose someone must need to call on him for help?” His young imagination grappled with dreams of adventure. 

She filled his childhood with stories pulled from the Histories: the legend of the dragon who saved Queen Cressida from the Cliffs of Martyrdom during the Trial of Changes, the dragon who appeared to Prince Titus and caused him to dream the wisdom recorded in the Book of the Ages, and the rest of the endless list he had witlessly truncated.  

Lysander hugged his legs to his chest and buried his head in his arms. A ragged sob escaped his throat. The weight of his misfortune pressed his shoulders into his knees as he cried. He shook with certainty that he could never go home. Even if he evaded capture by the Guard, his sin would be public gossip, and knowledge of his shame would spread to everyone he held dear. They’d all curse his name; surely, he’d do the same to anyone in his position.  

There was no way to control the damage. Herbalists for miles would find fewer eggshells, forcing them to search out inferior cures. Babies might never be born, and children might die from diseases their parents laughed off. Soldiers would have no scales for their armor; a single rain of arrows could cut down a whole army. And since the dragon he killed could’ve lived for countless centuries, the loss would echo through the eons.  

Smoke rose from the rabbit. He moved the meat to the side, and the wellsprings in his eyes ran dry, but he made no effort to taste his food. He stared into the flames, his mind reeling, as if its refusal to process information would nullify the events of the day.   

A tickle across his skin surprised him; a bug must’ve found its way into his jerkin. He swiped at the back of his neck and drew out a spider, casting it away from him in a single motion.   

A tiny voice echoed from the spot where it landed. “Try that again, and I’ll give you a taste of hemlock.”  

The spider expanded with a waxing, golden glow. It grew to the size of a Luna moth, then an owl, and a wolf. Panic constricted his throat as recognition gripped him. Only the King’s witches had magic like this. He had been caught.   

She materialized by the far wall of the cave, a pretty girl no older than him, her arms covered in bangles and her neck laden with crystals. Her hair shone copper-red in the twinkling light.  

“I probably deserve it,” he admitted as he curled into a ball against the stone.   

The young witch knit her brow in confusion. She was on guard for trickery, but none of her amulets detected subterfuge. This outpouring of emotion seemed genuine. A seasoned hunter capable of felling a dragon still susceptible to remorse, though, would surprise her. She studied him cautiously.  

“Why’d you do it?” she asked when he showed no care to flee.  

“I didn’t mean to.” Lysander poked out of his hole, but he couldn’t meet her gaze.  

Muddy rivers streaked the grime on his cheeks.  “You should have avoided its lair.”  

He shifted miserably. “I was distracted. I missed the signs.”  

His sniffles left her uncomfortable; they felt different from those of other men she’d apprehended while crying over their lost lives. “You should have sacrificed the donkey,” she offered into the fire.   

“I didn’t know what was attacking us. If I had… I would have… let it….” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He sank into the feeble shelter of his arms as his slender frame shook with sobs.   

The witch’s shoulders fell. “So… it was an accident?”  

“I had my sword up in defense. The—” he choked on the word “—lunged into it, going after Dolly.”   

“You’re not a hunter?” Her face clenched in disbelief. 

“I’m a basket weaver.”  

She collapsed near him. “But the law shows no mercy for stupidity!”   

His head shot up. “Of course not!” His stomach heaved again. “Doubt I’ll last long in the Guard; I don’t imagine soldiers need many baskets.”  

“No,” she agreed. “They don’t.”  

They watched the flames dance, but the crackling logs suggested few solutions.   

Finally, the witch waved to the rabbit growing cold beside him. “Eat your dinner.”    

“I’m not hungry,” he protested.  

She shrugged. “Now or on the walk. We’ll leave as soon as the fire goes out.”  

He gave a misty nod. “What will I have to do?”  

“It’s not for me to say. My orders are to bring you to my commander.” She patted his knee. “Probably the same thing I am: traipsing across the countryside, tracking miscreants like us.”  

“Like us?” His eyes shot to hers, eager for an unfamiliar puzzle to work. “What did you do?”  

She gazed into the flickering light for a long moment before she answered. “I cast the wrong spell. Survive your training, and maybe I’ll tell you more.”   

He picked up the forgotten hare and tore off one of the hind quarters. He handed it to her and removed the other for himself. “In that case, I guess we should both keep our strength up,” he replied.  

She accepted the offering, and they ate in silence as the flames died down to embers. 

Editor: Lucy Cafiero