The Stuff of Legend

When the dragons first arrived, one of the most pressing issues was that of nomenclature. No human could pronounce any dragon’s name. Most dragons could, of course, pronounce most human names. There were bar fights, hostilities, and an all-around unpleasant time. Eventually, they came to an agreement. The humans would be allowed to give the dragons nicknames in human languages as long as the nicknames were reverent descriptors of how awe-inspiring and mighty the dragons were.

That is how Sanguine got their nickname.

Their claws, legs, and feet shone red as they stalked through the forest, tracking the few villagers who had escaped the Azerlian raid. Boot prints, wagon wheels, mule hoofprints, spilled grain, a stray shoe. Sanguine followed the trail for a bit. They wouldn’t attack any stragglers, of course. They just liked to know what was going on. They always took on this job, mostly to get away from the boorish humans they had agreed to follow.

It’s in the name of righteousness, they had to remind themself. No matter how much you dislike them, it’s worth it to keep Zotone from taking over…

A sob cut through the tranquility. A muffled, shuddering noise.

Off the makeshift path, in the snow-capped bushes, Sanguine’s footsteps reverberated through the trees and the whining ceased with a gasp, and something—

Sanguine pulled the shrubbery aside and there it was.

A child.

Sanguine had never seen a human child up close before.

The child had probably never seen a dragon, either. It stared up at them, brown eyes wide with—not the awe or fear Sanguine was used to, but… curiosity. It had been weeping only moments before, but now it just looked up at Sanguine with incredible calmness.

It was bundled in heavy winter clothes. Little books, a thick jacket made of rabbit hide, a knit hat pulled down over their ears, and the smallest gloves Sanguine had ever seen on its tiny hands.

The child reached out, as if to touch Sanguine’s nose. The dragon pulled away and whipped their head around, looking for the progenitors.

But there was nobody. The remains of the village had long since packed up and left.

The child babbled. It was still looking up at Sanguine with those big eyes.

Sanguine, for the first time in their long life, felt uncertain.

They could have taken it to General Dornic. Other humans would know how to care for their young. But the child was Zotonian. Dornic might just as soon abandon it. Or worse.

Sanguine, just as curious as the child, reached out and picked it up. The child babbled incoherently, reaching up towards the dragon’s face.

It weighed hardly anything.

It was impossibly small and delicate and new, and Sanguine was now responsible for it.

"Why me?" Sanguine asked it.

The child responded by pulling off its boots and dropping them to the ground.

"No, your toes will freeze off."

The child did not listen. It pulled its socks off as well. It seemed to be studying the idea that some things disappear from sight when you release them from a great height.

"Stop that," the dragon said uselessly.

The child pulled one of its gloves off.

"You obstinate little–"

With their other paw, Sanguine grabbed the child's wrist to keep it from dropping the glove. The child smacked Sanguine's paw with its little hand. Sanguine froze.

The child's palm was red. A rich, ruby red.

Slowly, the dragon hooked a claw into the cuff of the other glove and pulled it off.

Red.

Saint Blood-hands.

But the prophecy—from back when magic had first blossomed into the world, not quite a hundred years ago, told by an aspiring seer who later melted her own eyeballs when her magic backfired—had told of an indomitable warrior and mage, not someone fresh out of infancy who refused to wear socks.

Everyone must start somewhere.

This little thing would one day vanquish the world and claim it under the flag of Zotone.

It stuck the fingers of the glove in its mouth and started sucking.

Sanguine had to sit down.

And I, I am the one who found it.

The responsible thing would be to kill it.

Sanguine had joined the Azerlian army under Chancellor Grynwin and subjected themselves to the command of humans in order to prevent Zotone from fulfilling the prophecy and conquering all with the unmitigated fury of Saint Blood-hands. Killing this child was Sanguine’s moral duty. It was a matter of justice. Destroying one to prevent the slaughter of thousands.

But there was no glory in killing a child.

“I don’t think I shall,” Sanguine whispered to the little thing. “I don’t think I shall kill you at all. I could bring you to Zotone… betray Azerly… become a Zotonian hero… but I would not be a hero who betrayed the rest of the world.”

The dragon touched the child’s stomach with the tip of its claw. The child grabbed onto the claw with a little hand. And its palms were still that alarming red. Like Sanguine’s paws. Pure coincidence.

How had the parents missed this?

Maybe they had never heard of Saint Blood-hands. Possible, but highly unlikely.

Perhaps they were Zotonian separatists who disagreed with their state’s goal of domination. But if that was the case, why not kill the child? Or send it far away?

Or maybe, they had meant to hide it. Shelter it from the people who would try to sway it one way or the other, and make sure it grew up knowing who it was and what it wanted.

That was noble.

A thought occurred. A dangerous thought. It would mean abandoning everything—the army, the state of Azerly, the company of other dragons, the principles they adopted upon arriving in this world… and if they weren’t careful, they could be killed. The risk was astronomical. But the rewards…

They lifted the child up to eye level.

“Suppose I keep you?”

“Babababa,” the child said.

“Yes, it would be fitting for a dragon, not a human, to train the mightiest warrior and mage of all time… and you would not be Zotone’s war machine. Nor any other state’s. You will be a hero of mythic proportions, not aligned to anyone or anything but justice and what is right. You will defy fate itself. You will be a legend. How does that sound?”

“Ghszyababa,” the child gargled.

...

“Again.”

Moirai scrunched her eyes shut and balled her fists.

“Relax,” Sanguine told her. “Forcing it will lead to backfire. Be a conduit, not a conductor.”

Moirai took a deep, shaky breath and unclenched her hands.

“Not good enough. Actually relax.”

The crease between her eyebrows disappeared, and Sanguine felt Moirai ease herself into a state of calm readiness.

“Now.”

The room crackled. Then it shimmered. Colors melted into being, strange shapes that vacillated liquidly and sparked and dripped and fizzed. The homunculus sat in front of her, unimpressed.

This place was rich with magic. Some fifty years ago, an aspiring sorcerer had cast a spell here to bring the Original Wizard back to life. The spell backfired, exploding in a reality-bending prism of magic and rendering the tower uninhabitable to most. Now it served as training wheels for Moirai.

The colors and shapes spun and twisted into her hands. She screamed and jerked away. Sanguine’s heart clenched at the sound.

“No!” they growled. “Let it come! It will not hurt you if you accept it.”

Sniffling, she held her hands out. The magic returned to her hands, pulsing and shifting rapidly.

“It’s hot,” she said.

“It’s pure energy, of course it’s hot,” Sanguine said. “Be still.”

Moirai squared her shoulders.

“Remember, this world is not used to magic,” they told her. “This is not its homeland. It is a stranger, and it is as scared as you are. It likes the familiar—the dragons—and those who do not look too closely or clench it too tight.”

The magic slowly grew, dripping upwards out of her hands and falling back towards the mass.

The goal was to take charge of the chemical materials that made up the unfeeling creation before her and shift them in some way to obliterate it. This homunculus—which came at no small cost—was, for all alchemic purposes, entirely like a human, except it was not alive nor had ever been alive. It represented enemy.

“A mage of your purported might could easily quash an army by adjusting a tiny piece of the universe” Sanguine said. “An army. This is a mere doll.”

“I know.”

“This is how you become a vanquisher of armies.”

“I know.”

“They will try to quash you, quench you, control you.”

“I know.”

“The world is hard, Moirai. You must be harder.”

“I KNOW!”

The rising tide of magic in her hand went pop! And then it fizzled and spilled over the edges of her palms, melting back into the tower it knew and loved. The homunculus was, as ever, untouched and unimpressed.

Moirai was shaking.

Sanguine stalked over to her.

“What is stopping you?”

“I don’t know!” she snapped. Her voice was raw, choked, heavy. “I don’t know! I can’t do it!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know!”

Sanguine looked at her tiny, clenched fists and the tears spilling down her cheeks. Then at the homunculus.

“You are too gentle,” they said. “You don’t want to hurt something that looks like you. Is that it?”

She shrugged and pulled her knees into her chest, refusing to look at Sanguine.

“Being merciful, being kind, those are noble qualities, but there are many who would not extend to you those same sentiments. If you cannot attack this mere construct, what would happen if a Zotonian general tried to capture you and use you for political power? What if a chancellor of Azerly or Motho or Sada sent an army to kill you? What if they sent a dragon?”

“I. DON’T. KNOW.”

Sanguine bristled. Moirai’s eyes went wide, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry! I just can’t do it.”

“That is unacceptable.”

“Couldn’t you protect me?” she asked, reaching out for them. “Couldn’t you keep me safe?”

“Only for so long.” Sanguine pulled themself out of arm’s reach. They quashed the nagging instinct to let her embrace them. “I am not invulnerable. And you were meant for greater things than cowering behind my wings. You are Saint Blood-hands. You will be more powerful, more magnificent, more legendary than anyone this world has known. But you need to survive first. You have yet to prove to me that you can achieve even that.”

They turned and stalked away.

...

A knock at the tower door.

Sanguine cracked it open just enough to see that the skinny old man on the other side looked like he’d never known the comforts of warm water and clean clothes.

“What do you want?”

“Uh, the flier said you were hiring a magician?”

“... My apologies. You were not what I expected.”

Sanguine opened the door. The old man stepped in and made an awkward, crooked bow under the dragon’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Upon closer inspection, it does seem you wear a magician’s garb,” Sanguine remarked. The robes, traditionally spangled in stars and moons, were heavily modified, tattered, and dirtied. “Well, I am not one to measure by appearances. I need you to instruct a child in my care in the ways of the arcane. My abilities are purely instinctual, so a human tutor would be helpful. She needs to be able to defend herself against any number of soldiers and then begin editing the fabric of the cosmos when she’s a bit older. What type of magic do you specialize in?”

The magician hemmed and hawed a bit, playing with his own fingers.

“Uh, the most wondrous and dazzling magic of them all, the magic that preceded all this other newfangled magic that’s so popular today. An older and truer magic than the sort that the Original Wizard summoned to this world. The tremendous magic of, well, sleight-of-hand.”

Sanguine blinked.

“Sleight-of-hand?”

“Okay, so, the flier didn’t say anything about fighting armies single-handedly or editing the fabric of the cosmos or anything,” the magician said, pointing a shaky finger at Sanguine. “You just said you needed a magician. And that’s what I am. Limerick Honeycomb the Spectacular, uh, at your service.”

Sanguine, for only the second time in their life, had no idea what to do.

“Uh, so, I’m getting the impression I’m not what you were looking for,” Limerick said, “but… well, I can still teach your kid a few tricks. You’d be surprised how far a swift hand can take you. And, you see, sleight-of-hand is an art. Magic is a dangerous toy. It’s a thousand tiny bombs that actively don’t wanna do what we want them to do. Hands? Misdirection? Charisma? You control that. You practice it. It’s sacred.”

“I am… terribly sorry, mister Honeycomb,” Sanguine said, carefully picking each word. “But I don’t believe this will work out.”

“I have references! You haven’t even read my C.V.!”

“No, I’m sorry, I’m looking for a magician attuned to, well, magic,” Sanguine said, ushering Limerick towards the door.

“Who’s that?”

Sanguine looked up. A few turns up the spiral staircase that wound up the walls of the tower—Morai.

“Go back upstairs,” Sanguine hissed. “He was about to leave.”

“I wanna see his sleightofand,” she said.

“No. He was just on his way out.”

“It’s sleight-of-hand,” Limerick corrected.

“Please?”

Sanguine paused.

Well. It wouldn’t do to quash her curiosity.

“Very well. Show us what you’ve got, mister Honeycomb.”

Limerick drew himself up to his full height, spread his arms wide, and launched into his show.

“Do you know how magic came to this world?”

“The Original Wizard summoned it a hundred years ago, and with it, the dragons,” Moirai recited.

“Ah, but it was not a summoning. You see, the Original Wizard began as a charlatan. A man of swift hands and clever tongue. He was a street magician, like myself.” Limerick produced a silver coin and passed it between his hands. It vanished. “One day, he was practicing his new act, and he just so happened to accidentally stumble on the right combination of movements, the right combination of sounds, to cast the first so-called-real spell. This world was not one built for spells, and so it burst at the seams, and the world of magic spilled into ours!”

An explosion of colored powder erupted from Limerick’s hands, painting his face a spray of hues. Laughter sprang from Moirai’s chest–a shrieking display of delight that Sanguine had never heard from her before.

“The dragons became curious about our world, and so they crossed over to visit.” Limerick was pulling a string of colored handkerchiefs from thin air to represent the vivid hues of the dragons. “Our world has been quite fantastical ever since, but never forget that it all began with a simple magic trick.”

He turned Moirai, palm up.

“My coin, please?”

“What?”

He took her hand and pulled it flat, revealing his silver coin, sitting in the middle of her blood-red palm. Moirai shrieked in amazement.

“Hooooly crap,” Limerick whispered, taking her wrist in his hand. “Is that…?”

Sanguine pounced and knocked Limerick away and pinned him to the floor. The breath left the old man’s chest with an oomph!

“Listen,” they snarled, “you will not breathe a word of this as long as you live. I will gut you like a fish if you ever even think too hard about what you saw here. You hear me?”

“Yes! I didn’t see anything! Certainly not Saint Blood-hands!”

Sanguine growled.

Moirai ran up to them, wrapped her arms around their neck.

“Please, let him go,” she whispered. “He won’t tell.”

“You’re supposed to wear gloves when we have visitors,” they replied, not looking away from Limerick.

“I forgot. I’m sorry. Will you let him go?”

“This is exactly what I was talking about,” Sanguine said. “You’re too gentle. Too kind. This… this man has the power to destroy you. The wrong word to the wrong person, and it’s all over. You can’t afford to be lenient. You can’t afford to be anything but fierce. You need to survive.”

Limerick made a stifled noise.

“What?!” Sanguine snapped at him. “Does our dear guest have something to add?”

“I… well, how old is she? How old are you, kiddo?” he asked Moirai.

“Don’t talk to her. You haven’t earned that right,” Sanguine said, putting their face close to his and making him squirm. “She’s nine.”

“Nine?! Nine! Great Gray Gods above, she’s nine…” Limerick put his free hand on his face. “She… do you have any idea how young that is?”

Sanguine’s spines stood on end.

“You have no idea what she’s capable of,” they informed the stupid magician. “She is Saint Blood-hands. Even now, with her… self-imposed limitations, she can shape magic in ways the likes of you could never comprehend.”

“I’ve been practicing really hard,” Moirai added. “For hours every day!”

“I’m not saying she’s not capable!” Limerick said. “But she’s… she’s nine! She should be running around in the mud with other kids! She should be playing with dolls and wooden swords and discovering herself in the world!”

Something went twang in Sanguine’s chest. They pushed it away.

“She is not like any other human child.”

“Then at least, she should be learning kindness!” Limerick said, with more confidence than Sanguine had heard from him yet.

“The world will show her no such kindness,” Sanguine snarled. “They will squash it out of her.”

“Not if you do it first!” Limerick snarled back.

“Shut up! Stop it!”

Limerick and Sanguine looked at Moirai, her little fists clenched.

She looked at Limerick.

“Sanguine is good to me,” she told him. “They’re teaching me to take care of myself.”

Limerick looked back up at her, unable to respond.

Moirai put her hand on Sanguine’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” she whispered.

Then she turned and went back upstairs.

Sanguine’s hindquarters hit the ground. That twang in their chest became impossible to ignore. They stared after Moirai.

“Listen.”

“I am not interested in hearing anything you have to say, mister Honeycomb.”

“Look, I get it.” Limerick sat down beside Sanguine. “It’s not easy. They’re small and fragile and precious and you know the world’s gonna devour them. So you want to toughen them up. Make sure they’re ready for it.”

“Do you have children?”

“Three of them. All grown-up by now. And they survived. What’s more, they’re all half-decent people. I mean, that’s not all my fault. But I like to think I helped.” Limerick looked down at his hands. “I know that it’s not the same, considering the whole Saint Blood-hands thing, but… well. You care about her, right?”

“... yes,” Sanguine breathed.

“Yeah. And you want her to survive everything they’ll throw at her. But that’s all she’ll do. Survive. No laughter, no joy, no kindness, no tears, just… and you don’t know what that’ll make her into.”

“They’ll break her,” Sanguine said. “Body and spirit.”

“Yeah,” Limerick sighed, “yeah, I know. But there won’t be anything to break if… all I’m saying is, you can be a home for her.”

...

The morning before Moirai’s tenth birthday, Limerick stumbled in, shielding his eyes from the dawn.

“Late night?” Sanguine asked.

Limerick grumbled and waved them away.

“Do you want some coffee?” Moirai asked.

“Nnh. I got it,” Limerick grumbled, fumbling over to the makeshift kitchen and rummaging in the cupboards.

Moirai and Sanguine looked at each other. Limerick often liked to go down to the city and try to impress people with his magic act, but he usually didn’t drink.

“Is everything alright, mister Honeycomb?” Sanguine asked.

“Shush, s’all fine,” Limerick said. He gave up on the coffee and ambled over to the section of the tower that he’d curtained off as his own room, where he promptly collapsed.

“Is he okay?” Moirai whispered. “Will he be ready for tomorrow?”

“I imagine so, don’t you worry,” Sanguine said. “If not, we could leave him here.”

“Aw, no, I don’t want him to miss the beach.”

“Then I shall bundle him up in a blanket and drag him along.”

They finished their breakfast in a companionable quiet, and then Moirai went upstairs to practice her little guitar.

Sanguine went over to Limerick’s nest and looked down at him.

“You’d better sober up fast,” they said.

Limerick only grunted.

“You were supposed to be getting her a present.”

Limerick flapped his hand around and produced a clumsily-wrapped package, which he brandished in Sanguine’s face.

“Good. Don’t do this again.”

Sanguine swept the crumbs of breakfast off the table. They would need to go food shopping soon. They didn’t particularly enjoy going out anymore, but neither Limerick nor Moirai (who only went to town in gloves) could carry a dragon’s share of meat. But that could wait. There was enough for a special birthday dinner, at least.

A knock at the door.

A delivery, perhaps?

Sanguine went over and opened it.

Two hundred humans from at least four different states stood outside. Zotonians in green, Azerlians in blue, Mothos in brown, Sadans in silver, and several unaffiliated people milling about. They were all shifting uneasily—they had not come here in peace. In their midst stood a dragon—Tempest, a fearsome stormy-blue dragon who had fought alongside Sanguine in many battles. At the front of the group stood Fiel Fifendrum, general of the Zotonian armies, and Dornic the Stoic, general of the Azerlians and Sanguine’s former commander. The uneasy shifting ceased when Sanguine stepped out of the tower.

“Ah, you must be Sanguine,” Fiel said with an easy grin. Hers was the only smiling face in the crowd. “I imagine you’ve heard of me. How are you on this fine morning?”

“General Fifendrum,” Sanguine replied, dipping their head respectfully. “I am well. I must say, I was not expecting… such a visit.”

“Oh, yes, my apologies for the sudden intrusion,” she said affably. “Really, I only meant to bring my own army. These others just tagged along when they heard the news. So rude.”

Dornic grimaced, but said nothing.

“News?” Sanguine asked.

“Mm-hmm. You see, word’s been going around that you’ve got something rather important in your tower. The key to ending all war on the planet.”

“Do I?” Sanguine asked. “How strange.”

“They’re saying Saint Blood-hands is in there, Sanguine.”

“I think I’d know if they were,” Sanguine replied.

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to take a look,” Fiel said, grin never ceasing.

“Ah. Well, I imagine all of you want to look. Who should I allow in first?”

“I’d be happy to–”

“I’ll do it,” Dornic said, cutting Fiel off.

The armies began to shift once more as a hundred separate arguments began.

“Yes, well, once you sort that out, let me know,” Sanguine said, and then turned and shut the door behind them. They grabbed all the furniture in the room and shoved it against the door, and then they leapt onto Limerick’s nest.

“What in the—” Limerick groaned.

“What did you do?” Sanguine snarled, wrapping a talon around his neck and lifting him off the ground.

“What did I do?” Limerick repeated blearily. “Sanguine, what the hell?”

“There’s two hundred human soldiers and a dragon on my front porch,” Sanguine said. “They’re looking for Saint Blood-Hands. You wouldn’t know why they decided to show up here, would you?”

“What? Crap! We gotta get Moirai out of here!” Limerick said, wiggling around uselessly. “Let’s go!”

“Who did you tell?!”

“I didn’t—I would never—I… oh. Oh no.” Limerick fell still. “Last night. At the pub. I…”

“What. Happened.”

“There was this guy… he was, uh, genuinely interested in my sleight-of-hand act. Actually interested. That never happens to me. I usually get pity money, if anything. But he was just so nice… I let him buy me a drink. I didn’t mean to tell him anything, I swear! But maybe it slipped out, or he pieced things together…”

Sanguine dropped Limerick to the ground.

“Leave,” they said.

“I’m sorry!”

“Leave.”

“Yes! Yes. Sorry. Leaving now.” Limerick scrambled to get his stuff together and ran for the back door. He paused. “Would you say goodbye to her for me?”

Sanguine just glared.

“Right.”

When the door shut, Sanguine felt terribly alone.

“Sanguine?”

They looked up at Moirai, who had come partway down the stairs at the sound of the commotion.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

“I—”

The front door came off its hinges.

Tempest poked their spiny head in.

“Hello, Sanguine,” they rumbled. “They decided I would be the best fit to search the tower.” They looked up at Moirai. “Ah, this must be her. A lot smaller than I expected.”

“Moirai,” Sanguine said in a careful tone, “go back upstairs.”

“Will you be okay?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ll take care of this.”

Moirai ran up the stairs two at a time.

Sanguine prowled over to Tempest.

“I’m not thrilled that you broke my door,” Sanguine said.

“My sincerest apologies,” Tempest said. They were unnaturally still, always moving only slightly and with great deliberation. That stillness belied a terrible fury. A frenzy. The eye of the storm. “Sanguine, what are you doing?”

“I was having breakfast,” Sanguine said. “And now I’m dealing with a home intruder.”

“Sanguine. You know why I am here.”

“I know. But listen, she is only a child—”

“The Zotonian chancellor will see that she is well cared for.”

“Zotone?” Sanguine asked. “We once fought under the Azerlian flag. I thought we agreed that Zotone—or any state—could not be allowed the power to conquer the world.”

“You’ve been away so long,” Tempest said. “Things change. Alliances shift. But I don’t need to explain myself to you. I’m just here for Saint Blood-hands.”

“Please, I ask that you reconsider,” Sanguine implored. They began to pace, unsettled by Tempest’s stillness. “It’s too much pressure to put on one person.”

“Her destiny is inevitable. What do you gain by prolonging it?”

“... I don’t know.”

“You know it’s just you, right? You against all the armies and dragons in the world,” Tempest said. “It’ll all go smoother if you just acquiesce. At least if you give her to me, you can be sure that Zotone won’t harm her. If you fight us… well, she might fall into Dornic’s hands, or those of any other general who does not wish Saint Blood-hands to live. Really, Sanguine, you should be grateful I’m even asking,” Tempest added with an attempt at a friendly smile. “It would be so easy to just take her. You’ve lost your ferocity, my friend. Stuck here with the humans, away from the glory of battle. I could crush you. But you can have your glory back. Be the one to fulfill the prophecy. You will be legendary.”

“...I can see I’m backed into a corner,” Sanguine sighed. “Fine. I don’t want her to be harmed. Will you please ensure that they treat her well?”

“But of course.”

“I will fetch her. She will take it better coming from me.”

“Very well.”

Sanguine began to climb the spiraling stairs, towards Moirai.

Don’t think about it. Just do it. Quickly.

At the halfway point, they dove off the stairs. They pressed their wings firmly against their body and hurtled towards the ground at top speed. Tempest looked up at the last second and Sanguine crashed into them. Tempest shrieked and clawed at Sanguine. Sanguine bit down on their neck. Tempest thrashed and writhed and spit and snarled and managed to get their jaws around Sanguine’s forefoot and tore off three of their digits. Sanguine howled.

Quick. If this goes any longer. Quick.

Sanguine threw all their weight onto Tempest and clamped their jaws around the base of their head and then Sanguine jerked their head to the side and Tempest’s spine went snap! and they didn’t even scream, they just went limp.

Humans began to flood into the tower. They cried in alarm at the sight of Tempest’s mangled body. They raised their weapons. Sanguine wasted no time. They half ran, half flew up the stairs. There was Moirai, in the room at the top.

“Sanguine!” she cried. “You’re hurt!”

“Come here, child,” they said, opening their wings.

She ran to them and wrapped her arms around their chest, and Sanguine in turn wrapped their wings around her.

“We must leave this realm for a while,” they whispered as footsteps pounded up the stairs after them. “I will take you somewhere gentler. Somewhere they won’t hunt you. Somewhere you can simply be.”

“... Okay.” She took their paw in hand and held it to her chest. “What about Limerick?”

“He will be fine. But you and I must go.”

“Okay.”

Sanguine began to cast a spell.

To the realm of magic.

Let this world forget her.

Let it forget her forever.

The first humans up the stairs—led by Fiel and Dornic—saw the dragon with their wings wrapped around the little girl, and then a brilliant burst of colors and shapes and sparks enfolded them and filled the room and spilled out the windows, and then they were gone.