What the Dragons Keep

My name is Set. All I want in this world is to be left alone. That’s why I live at the edge of the Dark Forest, a stone’s throw from old Hor’s cave — a hermit as ill-tempered and solitary as I am.

As usual, I gathered several herbs hoping to trade them for ink, paper, and a little food. The villagers never ask questions; they just take what’s offered and walk away. Today was a good day. The sun blazes on the horizon, painting the crowns of the enormous pines and eucalyptus trees in gold. I’ve got enough supplies now, and barely a handful of herbs left to trade.

This region is normally cold. The air seeps through your clothes — damp and cutting. Nothing but colossal pines and eucalyptus trees, dripping that sharp, resinous scent that clings to your skin and settles on your tongue. Everything was fine. There was silence, broken only by the dry flutter of birds bursting from the branches like startled sighs. The ground crunched under my boots, carpeted in brittle needles and frozen moss.

Then a frantic gallop punched through the quiet. A knight rode past me on a white horse, its coat flecked with foam, hooves throwing up pale dust with every stride. His armor shone like hammered silver in the fading light, his helm covering his face completely. Aldor, almost certainly. Insufferable fanatics. You can tell he’s old money: the horse is immaculately groomed, the riding gear is fine leather, and that armor — shining and without a single scratch — makes it plain he’s never been in a real fight. He’s out looking for trouble, shouting into the wind like he’s begging to be robbed. Not my problem.

I’d taken a few more steps when a piercing shriek split the air. A Karakor — a raucous bird with a red beak and jet-black feathers. Its cry announces what I already smelled: bandits. They infest this forest like mushrooms after rain.

And then I saw it. Three thugs had dragged him from his horse and were working him over with iron clubs. Hard to watch. Not my problem. I’ll keep walking. To hell with him.

— Hey, idiot. Get over here.

I pointed at myself.

— Me? — The three men grinned, showing blackened gums and rotting teeth. That’s what you get for overdoing the cheap mead. Pathetic fools.

— You. Don’t play dumb, — one of them said, jabbing his club in my direction.

— Let me go. I didn’t see anything, — I said, tucking a loose strand of my red hair behind my ear.

They grinned again.

— Better to just kill you and take your stuff.

— Listen, idiots. You really don’t want trouble with me.

Of course they wouldn’t leave it alone.

I closed my eyes and spoke a few words in Khemu, the arcane tongue. A circle of pale blue light etched itself into the air, catching the dust and the dry leaves drifting between the trees. The wind surged all at once, sweeping through the undergrowth and spinning twigs into a cold vortex.

— A mage! — one of them screamed, and they fell over each other getting out, tripping on roots as they went.

Then I approached the fallen knight. He was conscious — and had seen everything.

He removed his helmet with trembling hands. The metal released a breath of stale air, and his chestnut hair tumbled in disheveled curls across his forehead. The kind of face you’d find in an illuminated manuscript, meant to be mounted on a dragon’s back. He stared at me, eyes gone glassy with fear.

— A mage… with red hair.

— And that’s how you say thank you? — I took his hand and pulled him to his feet. The leather of his gauntlet was cold and damp. — I’m Set.

— In my culture, redheads are children of darkness… but I won’t let that diminish what you did. My name is Khen.

— You’re welcome, — I muttered, and turned to leave.

— Wait — you saved my life. I owe you a debt.

— Then repay it by staying away from me, Khen. Trouble follows men like you.

I made it home, leaving that foolish young man behind. With the supplies I’d gathered, I could have a few days of quiet. He was handsome, I’ll give him that. Still an idiot.

I had one herb left — enough to help me unwind. Rotten luck, showing my power like that. It’ll draw attention I don’t want. I hung my old iron kettle from a rusted wire hook over the fire.

I can already picture it: soldiers showing up with offers of silk, maybe a manor of my own — except I’d never be allowed to step outside to take a piss without escort, fighting endless wars against strangers I’ve never wronged, navigating the scheming of court mages who’d gladly cut my throat. Fortunately, old Hor might give them second thoughts. A surly man, yes — the kind who prefers silence and solitude, but who becomes something else entirely once pushed past a certain point. Let them come. Hor will receive them in his own way.

The water boiled. A sharp whistle cut the air as steam rose from the spout. The scent of wild mint and bitter root drifted up, thick and earthy. I poured into my old iron mug — dented, blackened with use. I sipped slowly. The liquid was just this side of scalding, leaving a cool, bitter aftertaste on the tongue. I love this ritual. Peace and quiet. In the distance, the mountain cuts against the dusk, a knuckle of stone pressing into the sky.

I slept well that night. I piled on several wool blankets — coarse fabric, but it holds the heat. I put out the fire carefully; they call it woodsmoke poisoning around here, the kind that suffocates you in the dark.

Then I heard it. A low, vibrating hum rising through the ground. What is that?

That idiot. Of course he went and disturbed old Hor. A moment later I heard hoofbeats approaching the house, hammering the wet earth.

Then the sound changed — sharp, destructive. A vast shape crossed the sky and blotted out the moon. Not a man. Dark scales, wings that tore the wind, and a breath that turned night into day made it unmistakably clear that my “neighbor” had never been a simple old man. Fire fell and embraced everything. Birds launched into the sky in an eruption of wings and shrieking. The creak of massive branches, the reek of burning eucalyptus and scorched flesh flooding the valley, thick and black. And then, right beside me, he collapsed.

I had to raise a shield around us both. I called out of my body an intense violet light that encased us in a sphere, its surface tessellated like a honeycomb. I’d never needed to summon it before. And it isn’t limitless — if Hor kept pressing, it would break. The fire struck the shield head-on, and bright points flared where the violet light wavered and pulsed with a low, resonant hum. Fortunately, Hor — a peaceful creature by nature, who had only reacted after being cornered — must have decided we’d been reduced to ash, and he banked away, leaving a trail of hot air and cinders in his wake.

Khen was shaking, with burns along his arm and neck. Gods above — who does that? He’s the only dragon on the continent, and this fool goes to antagonize him. Why didn’t he go bother someone in Meridya, where his kind come from? He had to disturb Hor’s rest and shatter what little peace I had.

Now I’ll have to nurse him through this. If he dies here, they’ll come after me. He’s obviously a noble.

— Thank you… you saved me again.

— I saved myself. You happened to be in the way, — I fixed my gaze on him. The smoke was making his eyes water.

— Your eyes, — he said, smiling through a cough, spitting soot. — They’re very expressive. You look absolutely furious.