CHAPTER 1 - The hatchlings leaves the nest

It was autumn, the trees had already swapped their lush green for a golden yellow and the nights were already getting considerably chillier. Migratory birds could be seen flying south in the sky, while the local birds were slowly preparing for winter.

He had always liked autumn, even if the others disliked it because of the implications of old age and approaching death that had always been associated with it. He loved the changing colors and to him death was not a bad thing, it was just another part of life, and after winter came spring again, and with it rebirth.

He had been commissioned by his liege lord to look after the forests around his hunting lodge and ensure that there was always enough prey to hunt. The lord was a passionate hunter and his hunts were more often than not the talk of the taverns in the surrounding villages. The feasts he held after his hunts, where his successes were not only celebrated but also eaten at the same time, were just as legendary. He was popular with the people, but his extravagant lifestyle demanded high taxes, which occasionally led to him being criticized by his subordinates.

This year's hunting season promised to be another bountiful one. There had been no bad weather all year and the game had been able to raise its offspring in abundance. The hunting grounds were richly filled with red deer, wild boar and even the fox population had recovered after the last few years of excessive hunting. His lord would be pleased.

It was already late afternoon on a rainy day when he trudged through the forest to check on things as usual. He did this every day, for the woods on his lord's estates were extensive and he could not possibly walk it all in one day. It was easier to divide the forest into individual sections and walk through them on different days, as he had learned early on from his predecessor. The hidden paths through the undergrowth had become so firmly anchored in his memory over the years that he could probably walk them at night with his eyes closed.

In years like this, when there had been no storms and no other major disasters, there hadn't been so much for him to do. No fallen trees, no new beaver dams that flooded parts of the hunting grounds, no forest fires after which the forest had to be painstakingly reforested.

Just a young dragon that had apparently crashed...

“Wait a minute...”

he said to himself and took the three steps back that he had already taken. Eyes wide open, he looked at the winged reptile lying there among broken branches and fallen bushes. He had never seen a dragon himself, he had only heard descriptions and seen the pictures in the church. There were several images in the large stained glass windows. They showed large, winged monsters that caused all kinds of calamities. There were warnings about them everywhere, but there hadn't been any dragons in this area for a very long time; and now, there was one in front of him.

The dragon was clearly unconscious, but it was breathing. The gamekeeper struggled with himself as his instincts screamed at him to escape while he still could and get the lord and his henchmen. They would surely put an end to the dragon. They had weapons, they were mercenaries, they were battle-hardened.

At the same time, however, a heart beat in his chest that felt compassion for all living creatures, and what harm could a dragon, obviously still young, not much bigger than one of the larger hunting dogs the lord used for boar hunting, do?

He looked around, listening to the sounds of the forest, which were usually a very good indication of danger, but all was quiet. The birds were chirping serenely and the atmosphere was completely relaxed. He trusted his gut feeling, even though his knees felt very weak. He stayed where he was, at least for the moment.

He looked at the unconscious reptile with growing interest.

It corresponded to the descriptions and illustrations he knew. Four legs, two wings, a long tail, a long neck and a relatively small head. It was covered with scales from head to tail, the color of which did not match the pictures. The pictures in the church windows usually showed large, red monsters, sometimes set in yellow or orange, but this dragon here was a rich green color, except for the broad black stripe running down its back.

He dismissed it as a variant, or perhaps a different species. He was quite familiar with all sorts of animals and knew that not all lizards looked the same, even if they were technically in the same family. It was probably the same with dragons.

He blinked, as something didn't seem quite right. Upon closer inspection, the gamekeeper realized that one of the wings was bent at a rather unnatural angle. He didn't really know anything about dragons, but a wing shouldn't look like that. Basically, the structure of the wings reminded him of bats, and he knew enough about bats to know that this wing was broken.

He swallowed, knowing that if an animal that relied on its ability to fly couldn't fly, it was pretty much screwed.

“How did this happen?”

he asked himself aloud and immediately held his breath. He didn't want to wake the dragon now. Injured animals tended to be aggressive, and a confrontation with a wild animal the size of a large hunting dog that could breathe fire if necessary was not on his wish list for today. However, his worries seemed to be unfounded as the reptile continued to lie still and breathe calmly.

Since no one would answer his question, he tried to deduce the course of events himself.

“The way it's lying there, it must have fallen from there.”

he whispered, turning in the direction the dragon must have come from, and sure enough, in the treetops you could see the swath the dragon had left behind when it crash-landed.

“Well, that's settled... but why?”

the gamekeeper pondered, trying to make sense of what could have forced a dragon to make such a landing. He couldn't think of any bird of prey big enough to be a danger to such a reptile, nor had there been a storm in the last few days that might have been responsible for such an accident. It remained a mystery, and so he shook his head.

“What am I going to do now?”

he asked again, louder than he had planned. His irrationality was rewarded with a grumble from the reptile. His eyes widened and he quickly retreated behind one of the surrounding trees, seeking cover.

*Oh no...*

Fear welled up inside him, but curiosity and the desire to see what was happening on the other side of the tree trunk quickly took over again, and when he heard nothing more, he slid back out from behind the tree trunk and looked over at the downed dragon, whose breathing had quickened a little as he tried to move.

Both the wings and the legs of the flying lizard were trembling slightly, and every now and then soft sounds of pain could be heard. Only now did he realize that at least one of the front legs must have been broken, as he didn't know of any animal whose legs had a joint at this point. He shook his head.

“I should get help...”

he muttered, venturing further out from behind the tree.

“... But for what? To kill this creature? No one will help me save it...”

he continued, running a hand through his hair, something the gamekeeper always did when he was thinking hard.

His lord would simply kill the dragon and hand it over to his Kirschner to be stuffed. Just another trophy he could brag about and show what a great pike he was. The villagers would probably even appreciate it. A dragon, even if its kind hadn't been seen here for many, many years, was too great a danger to be left alive, no matter what.

“But what if I splint the wing and the leg, nurse him up and then release him back into the wild. Won't he probably just fly on then? Away from here?”

He looked around as if there was someone there who could agree with him. But there was no one, just a dragon looking at him out of one half-open eye.

...

She had left her father's hoard, as tradition and her instincts demanded. From an early age, Fafnir, her father, had meticulously explained to her the ancient traditions of her kind; taught her the rules and laws by which dragons lived and survived. He had been a strict but loving teacher, and had repeated again and again that only if she followed these rules would she become a great, strong dragoness and live as long as he did.

One of these rules was that as soon as she heard the call, she had to leave her parents' lair and go in search of a lair of her own. She would leave behind the cave that had been her home up to that point, the safest place in this world, without turning around once more.

Fafnir had told her that this was the only thing he was afraid of now. Her father, a mighty dragon, over five hundred years old, survivor of countless battles and wars, the ruin of countless kingdoms and nightmare of all dragon slayers, had stood trembling before her when he had confessed this to her. He had confessed to her that it would be the same for him as when Emmy, her mother and his companion, had died.

Died was the wrong word.

The humans had taken her from him in their vindictiveness and greed. He hadn't told her how it had happened for a long time, but as she grew older, and he was sure it wouldn't be long before she heard the call, he had taken her to the top of the mountain one more time, where he waited every night to see her star. He had taken her between his front paws, wrapped his wings around them both, as he always did, and stared melancholically at the night sky. She had always enjoyed sitting there with him. It was strange that she felt more connected to her father in his grief for a mother she had never met than at any other time.

But that night had been different, she had felt the tension in him, had sensed that something was on his mind, more than usual, and an unidentifiable fear had taken hold of her. She remembered how she had looked up at him, how she had noticed that his lips were trembling and how he had drawn his wings tighter and tighter around them both. She remembered how he had quietly begun to tell her about her mother, as he often did, but this time his voice had not been filled with love, but with pain and fear. She had clung tightly to his front paw, hoping to give him support, confidence for the future, but it hadn't helped. In the end, he had lifted her up and pressed her tightly against his chest. His voice had been a hoarse whisper as his grief and pain took over and turned to pure hatred as he told her how he had flown out to hunt, leaving her mother behind with her and her siblings. How he had heard her cry for help and had rushed back to their den, where he had found her mother already on the ground. The humans had taken her from him, taken her from her.

He had told her how cold-hearted the humans had been to kill a mother who had defended her clutch and put their future at risk. He had then told her how he had raged for a month, sacrificing the entire kingdom to the flames and losing his own will to live, earning him the name Black Demon.

“You will hear the call soon Tyria, and then you too will leave me.”

he had said and she had tried to contradict him, but her father had denied it. Every dragon heard the call at some point. It was something that was as inevitable as the sunset. He knew it and she knew it too. It was an instinct that every dragon had. An internal clock whose alarm would sound at some point and draw a dragon into the distance.

It was a tradition so old that it was already imprinted as an instinct in every dragon's consciousness, and she wouldn't be able to resist it either.

And she had not resisted it.

When she had woken up one morning, she had felt this irrepressible urge to spread her wings and simply fly away. Where to? Who cared! Just somewhere far away!

She remembered how she had carefully and tearfully woken her father, who, like every night, had still placed his massive body around her like a fortress wall. She also remembered how the look in his eyes had changed when she confessed to him that she felt the call. It had been as if something had broken inside him. He had remained calm, held her close and nodded gently. They had gone into the treasury together.

“Tradition dictates that you take something from this hoard so that you can start your own.”

The words had almost stuck in her father's throat at the time. He had told her to take her time and find the piece of jewelry that spoke to her. She hadn't known exactly what he had meant at the time and had wandered aimlessly around the cave. Everything that was stored there was valuable, desirable and spoke to her in a way that probably only dragons could understand, but none of it “spoke” to her. In the end, she had stood before her father with empty paws and he had nodded. Wordlessly, he had led her into a small cave behind her treasure chamber.

There were treasures in this small room, but they were different from the ones in the large treasure chamber. They were not “simply” piled up in a heap, but neatly presented. Each individual object had its own little pedestal, its own place. They weren't necessarily more beautiful or glamorous than all the gold and jewels in the main chamber, but there was something special about them.

Tyria's eyes had widened. She had entered this cave before and had wondered about the jewels, but now everything was different.

“These are the gifts I brought Emmy from my travels. I chose every single one of them especially for your mother.”

Her father had murmured, his voice almost choked. The little dragoness had walked past the pedestals and looked closely at each individual gem. Each of them had exerted a special attraction on her. She hadn't known why, or how this could be, as they were basically just inanimate objects. Of course, each had its own value, they were still pieces of jewelry, made of precious metals and valuable stones, but how could an inanimate object trigger such emotions in her?

In the end, she had stopped at a rather inconspicuous hoop and looked at it closely. It was made of a metal that shone, but it wasn't gold; its silvery sheen had the warmth of gold, but the color wasn't right. It was simply shaped, had no scrollwork or other embellishments.

She had hesitated, but something inside her had urged her to reach out her paw for it. Tyria had been so completely absorbed by this piece of jewelry that she hadn't noticed how Fafnir had come to her and wrapped his wing around her.

“This was my first gift to your mother. Nothing special in itself, but there are a lot of emotions attached to this hoop.”

He had whispered and released the little dragoness from her spell. She had flinched and mewled slightly before finally snuggling up to his flank. She had looked up at him and gazed into his red eyes.

“Then... then I can't take it with me... it would be wrong to take it from you.”

She had stated, only to be nudged by his nose. Tenderly, he had rubbed the tip of his nose against her head, grumbling affectionately.

“It's all right, my little angel. If this is the trinket that speaks to you, then it's the trinket you'll take with you. Tradition demands it and I have enough other trinkets to remind me of Emmy. Besides, I want it to remind you of home, and what better way to do that than with this gift?”

His voice had been quiet, almost toneless, but she had felt the love and warmth in it that she loved so much about her father. She had continued to snuggle up to him, enjoying the contact, knowing that once she left the hoard, she wouldn't be going back any time soon.

While it was not uncommon for dragons to revisit their birthplaces later in life, it was never a given that they would still be welcome there. Dragons were very territorial, and even if they were family members, it was not uncommon for them to be chased away later if they approached again. It was also never impossible for a dragon to have died in the meantime or to have been driven away itself. At best by fellow dragons, at worst by hated humans.

It would be goodbye for an indefinite period of time, perhaps forever, even if she didn't want to admit it to herself.

She had taken a deep breath and leaned against her father, who offered her the support she had needed.

“Take it with you, I want you to have it; then I'll know something of your mother is with you.”

Fafnir had finally said, settling the matter.

She remembered how she had reached reverently for the hoop and had immediately felt a connection with the simple piece of jewelry. Afterwards, her father had escorted her through the hoard to their dining area, where they had eaten one last meal together.

“When you leave this hoard and go in search of your own, you must never forget that the humans are not well-disposed towards us, nor are the elves. Find an area where only a few of them are present. You can fly long distances to hunt or find treasure, but the humans must not find you.”

The big black dragon had advised her, reminding her once again that it had been the humans who had killed her mother. She had assured him to be careful, to always stay hidden, at least until she was a little bigger, and to stay away from those horrible two-legged creatures that only brought death and destruction.

When the time had come to say goodbye, a heavy burden had been on her heart. They had both stood on the small plateau outside their home cave; her father, Fafnir, infinitely older, more experienced, bigger and stronger; and she, Tyria, young, inexperienced, small and weak. They had stared into the sunrise, the symbol of birth, beginning, hope and life; and in many ways that was true for her. When she left home, her real life would begin. She would be independent from now on, the birth, the beginning of a new phase of life, full of hope for the future and full of new adventures. A whole, long life lay ahead of her.

At the same time, the gloom of the night still lay in the long shadows that the rising sun cast in the valleys between the mountain peaks; this darkness was like the burden that lay on her soul, her heart. She would leave her home, if not forever, then at least for a long time. She would not see her father again for an equally long time.

Even though he had assured her over and over again that she was a strong dragoness, that she had inherited her mother's intelligence and her father's resilience; even though he had promised her, time and time again, that he had taught her everything a dragoness needed to know and could do to survive out there; she still didn't feel ready to go out into the world alone.

In a world that seemed to hate her kind, where dragons were seen as the root of all evil, and where she could expect a fight at first contact.

She had snuggled up to her father one last time and he had wrapped his large wings around her to shield her from the world. He had talked to her incessantly, encouraging her and reassuring her that everything would be all right. She had known then that this was a compensation mechanism to help him cope with the parting rather than to help her.

They had taken off from the plateau together hundreds of times, going hunting or exploring. They had flown during the day and at night, in good and bad weather, so that she had the chance to find her way in all weather conditions. This time, however, Tyria had taken off alone, for tradition demanded that the young dragon should not be helped on his departure. Fafnir had stayed behind alone on the plateau and watched as his daughter, the hoop between her front paws, set off on her journey into the unknown.

She had remained strong, had not cried, even though it had been infinitely difficult, for her father, who had shed bitter tears as he handed his only daughter over to a cruel world, not sure if he would ever see her again.

She had flown all day, always heading east. She had had a feeling that this was the right direction for her. She had followed the mountains, flying over vast fields of ice, seeing nothing and no one the whole time. She had known that so high up in the mountains the likelihood of encountering a human or elf was nil, but equally she could find little to no food there. She was able to fly like this for a few days, but in the end she had to fly into one of the valleys to hunt for something.

She had repeated this cycle several times, flying as long as she could, getting food and then flying again. She had slept on the high peaks, burrowed into the snow and waited for daybreak to fly on.

Soon she had reached the end of the mighty mountain range where her former home was located. The mountain peaks were no longer above the clouds and there was less snow on the slopes. The air was warmer and Tyria found that she could see more life in the mountains. She had decided to fly a little further and look around. It would have been foolish to just settle anywhere. After all, a dragon needed a cave or something similar in which to set up a lair. If possible, this place should be difficult to access so that no one could simply get there and prey on the dragon's property. Most dragons therefore chose caves in the mountains, which made it more difficult for humans and elves.

At the same time, however, a lair should still be close to a food source; she didn't want to have to fly forever just to get something to eat.

She had flown around for days in search of a suitable cave, but also to see if another dragon had already settled here. It would have been a great affront to simply settle in another dragon's territory. Fafnir had told her that some dragons were very sensitive, even if you were just passing through. She had looked for the usual signs, but had not found any. If there had once been a dragon here, it hadn't been here for a very long time.

What Tyria had found, however, were traces of human civilization. Everywhere she had looked, she had found signs that there were humans in this area. She had decided to move on. She didn't want to set up her first hoard in an area where she was in direct danger of flying into the arms of humans.

The further she had flown, however, the more the signs had increased that there were people there. She had flown over small villages that she had only noticed too late, seen neatly laid out fields and the odd castle, but she had flown as far out of the way as possible.

She was pretty sure that no one had seen her directly, as she hadn't heard any screams or bells, as her father had told her. People would raise the alarm if they saw a dragon. The little dragoness had been afraid to settle down here anywhere for the night. Against all better judgment, she had decided to fly through the night and not stop anywhere.

She had fought against her exhaustion and had flown on in the hope of perhaps finding an area where there were fewer people. Several times she had caught herself losing the fight for a moment and her eyes just wouldn't open again, but each time she had been high enough to catch herself before she crashed.

Every time, except for the last. Nyx, the god of dreams, had ensnared her and she had closed her eyes, wings gliding, and then it had happened. The moment she had broken through the canopy of the first tree, Tyria had opened her eyes again, but it was already too little too late. She had lost too much height and speed and had been unable to avoid the next tree.

With a scream, she had smashed into the nearest treetop, breaking through the thinner branches and getting caught in the thicker ones. Her delicate wings had been unable to cope with the strain and the pain as the bones in her left wing snapped had almost made her lose her mind. Unable even to break her fall, she had hit the ground with full force, breaking one of her front legs in the process, and she hadn't been sure if anything else had been affected in the crash landing.

She had tried to move, tried to hide, but the pain had been overwhelming. In the end, she had been too exhausted and had resigned herself to her fate.

When she regained consciousness, she had heard his voice. He spoke in a dialect she didn't recognize, but she knew very well that he spoke the language of humans.

She didn't understand everything he said, the words made no sense. It was as if he only spoke half sentences, but she recognized the fear in his voice.

She had been wide awake in an instant, but the little dragon had not dared to open her eyes. She had listened to him, followed his movements, and only when she had been sure that there was no immediate danger from this human, at least for that moment, had she opened her eyes.

...

She stared at him standing there in front of her. He was wearing strange clothes, the likes of which she didn't recognize from the humans in her area. When Fafnir had taken her hunting, she had sometimes seen the remains of humans who had tried to settle in her territory. Her father had driven them away every time.

This human wore a costume of green and brown cloth, wore light boots and carried an axe and a light bow. He was frightened, that much was certain, so he was not a warrior like those humans her father had driven out of their cave.

When he realized she was looking at him, he startled and took a few steps back until his back was against a tree.

“Damn...”

he muttered as he continued to try and increase the distance between himself and her. Tyria sighed and lowered her head. This human wasn't a danger, but he could become one if he called for reinforcements. She tried to move again, but instantly pain shot through her whole body.

The whimper she let out before she could hold it back left no doubt that she herself posed no danger. Even if she had wanted to, she could not have killed this human.

All she could do was close her eyes and wait. She tried to breathe calmly and find out what had been affected by her crash. Both wings simply ached, while she already knew that one was completely immobilized; at least two of the sturdy but nonetheless delicate bones were broken. She was also unable to move her forelegs. Whether they were broken, too, she could not determine exactly, but what she could determine was that her right hind leg was definitely broken. She would not even be able to flee, there was no question of fighting. She would die here, she was sure of it.

She pressed her lips together. What would her father think? She hadn't even made it to her own hoard yet.

Tyria, daughter of Fafnir, descendant of the Black Demon, of the Ruin of Kingdoms, and she hadn't even managed to find her own lair. What a disgrace!

Anger rose up in her, anger and shame. Anger at her own incompetence and arrogance and shame at the way it would end with her. Bitter tears gathered in her eyes.

Only now did she realize that she no longer held her mother's hoop in her claws.

*Oh no. No, no, no, no! This must not be. Where...?*

Her anger turned to panic. She couldn't lose it. It was the foundation of her hoard, the memory of her home, of her father and the mother she had never met.

“Where is it?”

she gasped before she could stop herself as she opened her eyes. The human, who was now standing behind the tree, was looking at her with wide, frightened eyes. It was as if he had heard his own language for the very first time and was completely terrified. Tyria bared her teeth and fought against the pain as she tried to lift her head one more time.

“Where is it?”

Her otherwise soft, quiet voice took on a raspy, harsh tone as she barely managed to turn her head in his direction before the pain overwhelmed her and she had to drop her head to the forest floor. The pain-filled whimper that escaped her throat afterwards was a testament to the effort that even this simple movement had demanded of her. The human continued to look at her with wide eyes, while the young dragoness almost despaired.

“It must not be gone...”

she whispered. It didn't matter if he understood her or not, it didn't matter anymore. She had lost the one thing that still connected her to her home. With a sigh that expressed her pain and despair, she closed her eyes again. She wanted so much to pull her wings around her and shut out the world, but she couldn't even do that.

“What... what are you looking for?”

The question caught her completely off guard and for a moment Tyria was unable to react. It was only when she heard the human move towards her again and repeat his question that she opened her eyes again. He was still standing a few steps away from her and the fear was still written all over his face, but he seemed genuinely interested in her problem. She pulled her lips back and bared her teeth, knowing that she probably wasn't much of a threat at the moment. Of course she could use her fire and kill the human, but then what? Perish in her own fire? No, that was not an option.

The human was still standing in front of her, slowly raising his hands and holding them in front of him.

“I don't want to hurt you...”

he whispered slowly, nodding.

“I... I want to help you...”

he added and swallowed. Tyria looked at him for a long time, scrutinizing the man who didn't move. What choice did she have?

“Where is it?”

She asked him, her voice almost toneless as the tension drained from her face, giving way to more despair.

“Where's my hoop?”

she continued, looking at him pleadingly, but the human in front of her just shook his head.

“What hoop?”

He asked, looking around. He looked like he was really trying to find something, the effort was written on his forehead and he moved carefully back and forth.

“My hoop, my memory of home... the only thing left...”

Tyria added and tried to move, but the pain was too strong; she didn't want to show the human how helpless she was, but the pain-filled moan escaped her lips before she could do anything about it. The man stopped immediately and looked at her with wide eyes. Cautiously, he came closer and something stirred inside him.

Had she revealed too much? Had she shown him too much that she was helpless?

“Don't move too much, your wing is broken, and probably your leg too...”

the man said carefully and took another step closer.

“... we'll have to splint it if it's ever going to heal.”

His voice sounded calm and gentle, but Tyria showed him her teeth.

“Stay away... don't touch me...”

she hissed, and even as she tensed her muscles to lift her head, pain shot through her body like white-hot iron.

“Arrnnnn...”

she gasped involuntarily and her muscle tension collapsed. The young dragoness began to sob, there was nothing she could do, she would surrender to her fate.

...

The gamekeeper saw the heap of misery lying in front of him and could empathize with the pain. He approached cautiously, the temptation to touch a dragon was very great. His curiosity and an almost childlike urge to explore battled with his reason, which literally screamed at him that the dragon in front of him was a dangerous predator and that he should get help.

When he was really only an arm's length away from the winged reptile, he could no longer hold back.

He took a deep breath and gently placed his hand on the dragon's torso. The scales were smooth, surprisingly hard, and they were cold, horribly cold.

Of course they're cold, it's basically a lizard, an oversized, fire-breathing lizard.

He explained to himself, but that was as far as he got, because as soon as his hand rested on the dragon's skin, it flinched. Gathering all his courage, he ignored the growl and left his hand where it was, if the dragon had wanted to or been able to, it would have attacked him already.

“Don't touch me...”

the dragon hissed, but it lacked the strength behind it to make it sound believable. He shook his head.

“I have to touch you though, if you want me to help you.”

he said calmly, letting the warmth of his hand seep into the scales very slowly. The dragon continued to growl, but there was no further reaction.

He cautiously approached further until he was standing very close to it and could place his second hand next to the other. The reptile flinched again, accompanied by a pain-filled hiss.

“Sshhh... calm down. I'm not going to hurt you.”

he whispered softly, trying to empathize with the dragon. But he himself was so agitated that it was difficult to calm an injured, frightened animal. The dragon shivered as it breathed, either the cold was getting to it by now, or the pain, or something else.

“Do you have a name?”

He asked calmly, hoping to distract himself and the dragon a little.

“T-Tyria... my father called me Tyria...”

The dragon's voice was low, hoarse and feeble. The gamekeeper hummed his agreement, even though he was sure the dragon could see him.

“A very fine name for a mighty dragon, but isn't Tyria a female name?”

He kept his voice calm and put as much warmth and affection into it as he could. The dragon nodded slightly.

So it was a female dragon, a dragoness so to speak. Carefully, he stroked her shoulder. Slowly, he could feel her relax at least a little under his hands.

“You can call me Artem.”

he whispered and let his hands circle a little more. Tyria growled softly and tried to turn her head a little. The slow movement was accompanied by growls and hisses until she left it halfway.

“Artem? I've never heard that name before...”

she admitted, looking at him from the side. The gamekeeper smiled slightly and turned to her head. He crouched slightly and reached out a hand for her to smell it, like a dog.

“That name is quite common in these parts. Where are you from?”

he asked and waited patiently until the little dragoness had finished sniffing. Her breath was surprisingly warm and her eyes remained fixed on him the whole time.

“From where the sun sets. I've always flown towards the sun...”

she explained softly and sighed.

“I should be looking for my own hoard, staking out my own territory, now I haven't even gotten that far...”

Tyria added in a whisper and Artem nodded. She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. The gamekeeper couldn't hold back and gently stroked her nose with his hand and from there over her head. The dragoness under his hand tensed briefly, but then gave in to his caress and he could literally feel her pressing her head against his hand.

“We will fix your wing and splint your legs, and once they are healed, you will be able to continue your search for a lair of your own.”

He said softly, feeling a slight vibration under his hand. Was she purring? Or was it a quiver?

“But first we have to get you to my house, and we have to do it in a way that no one can see you.”

he added. She couldn't be all that heavy, after all, she had to be able to fly. He knew that most flying animals were quite light, otherwise their wings wouldn't be able to carry their weight and their muscles wouldn't be able to move them. But still, she was about the size of one of his liege's large hunting dogs, and they tended to weigh around seventy kilos. He wouldn't be able to carry that to his house. But perhaps he wouldn't have to carry Tyria that far. Not far from where he was now was one of the handcarts he used to transport wood when he had to cut down one of the trees. If he brought the cart as close as possible to this spot, he might just have to lift the little dragoness onto the cart.

While he thought about it and scratched his chin in a self-conscious way, Tyria kept looking at him.

She wasn't quite sure what the human was up to, but he seemed sincere, at least at first glance. It wasn't as if she had a choice, either. She watched him take a few steps away from her again and again, only to turn around and come back to her.

Again and again he started to make a move, only to change his mind. She tried to take another deep breath, but her chest prevented her from doing so. She only managed a half-hearted growl and groaned.

“W...whatever you want to do, Artem, do it, but do it fast...”

The young dragoness growled, looking at him with pleading eyes.

“I can't and won't lie here for much longer...”

She added and closed her eyes. She heard the gamekeeper come closer and then she felt his warm hand on her head.

"You're right. I'll get a wagon quickly so we can bring you to me before someone else finds you. Then I'll take care of your injuries..."

His voice sounded so calm, so warm. She wanted to lose herself in it, just for a moment. He sounded very different from her father, less volume, softer, and yet the same warmth and affection resonated within his voice. She wanted to let go of herself and just listen for a while, hear his voice, feel his hand stroking her head. But Artem took it away again quite quickly, much to the little dragoness's displeasure.

The gamekeeper looked around and seemed to be searching for something before orienting himself in a direction unknown to Tyria.

“You wait here.”

He said softly, and when Tyria heard that, she rolled her eyes slightly, as if she could run off somewhere at the moment, but Artem didn't seem to notice. He pointed into the distance.

"There's one of my carts back there. I'll get it quickly."

He added and turned his back to her. Without waiting for another word or a reaction from the little dragoness, he stomped off. Tyria watched after him as he moved through the forest with surprising speed and agility. He moved away from her so quickly that within a very short time his figure disappeared behind the trees and shortly afterwards she could no longer hear him either.

Now she was alone again.

Alone with herself and her failure.

She groaned as she tried to get her battered body into at least a slightly more comfortable position.

“By the elders...”

The little dragon growled as the pain flared up again in her limbs, especially her wing.

"... aaarnnn... hmmmmrrrrr... father would scold me again now. 'Tyria, didn't I tell you a hundred times not to sleep AND fly.'"

She muttered, focusing on her father's stern but loving voice in her memory, hoping to block out at least some of the pain.

Her father, Fafnir, had been a strict teacher. He had always emphasized that a dragon, regardless of breed or gender, had to be able to survive on its own.

"'Dragons have no allies. Dragons are the absolute pinnacle of evolution."

She mimicked her father's tone as he recited his favorite lesson.

“‘No...no one hrnnnnn-helps a draaarrrrrrgon, because we arrr rg the fff-foe.’”

She continued with a groan, bringing at least one of her forelegs out from under her body. It looked horribly deformed. Not necessarily broken, but swollen, and in some places, she realized, the impacts had splintered parts of her scales or even torn them off completely.

“Hhnnnn...damn...”

Tyria cursed and tried to move her clawed fingers. She did not succeed.

All she managed was to feel her jaw tighten.

“That's not good...”

she realized grimly, but at least the limb was now free. She concentrated on her breathing and tried to relax her jaw again. It took a little while for the pain to slowly dull back down to a numb throb. She didn't want to rely completely on the human, but wanted to see if she couldn't free at least another limb or two. She gritted her teeth and tried to lean on the hind leg and foreleg she already had free to pull another limb out from under her battered body.

“Aarrrrrrnnnnnnn...”

the little dragoness growled, biting through the pain that shot through her body like electricity. She managed to prop herself up a little, but it wasn't enough to pull another leg out from under her. Her muscles began to tremble and then she collapsed.

“Uuuurnnnng...”

Tyria gasped, surrendering to her pain. She wanted to scream, to make her anger and despair known to the world, but she knew that this was a bad idea on the one hand, and on the other that she probably couldn't breathe deeply enough to really scream. She had no choice but to lie still.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She felt so weak, so vulnerable and completely helpless. She could feel the anger rising inside her and she had to suppress the urge to give free rein to her rage. Burning down the forest now would not help her, quite the opposite, but her unruly, wild nature, common to all dragons, lurked behind the gossamer veil of reason and whispered to her to surrender to her rage and let the sacred, purifying fire consume everything, to do what dragons were created to do.

She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself, but the fire burned deep. She pressed her lips together and her features contorted into a serious expression. The young dragoness's breathing came in short, shaky puffs, accompanied by soft moans and sighs.

She didn't know how long she lay there, it seemed like a small eternity, counting her breaths and heartbeats as she could do nothing else.

Tyria didn't even notice Artem approaching her again, only when he spoke to her softly did she open her eyes again and look at him desperately.

...

“Tyria?... Tyria? Are you still there?”

Artem whispered and was rewarded with a low grumble. The little dragoness opened her eyes and looked at him. He could clearly see her pain and despair. He had pulled the handcart as close to her as possible, but it was still about a dozen meters to go. He would have to lift her up and carry her, at least the short distance to his transportation. Carefully, he came closer and placed his hand on her head again. She felt noticeably warmer, he didn't know exactly why, but he thought it was probably because she was more alert and active again. He gently stroked her smooth scales and took another closer look at her body.

“I'm going to have to carry you.”

he whispered and felt her nod slowly under his hand.

“If I lift you, it will probably hurt a lot, at least for a little while.”

he added and again the little dragon nodded.

“I... I know. I tried to get up...”

she replied in an almost toneless voice and closed her eyes again.

“... I couldn't...”

Now it was Artem who nodded.

“Mmmhmmm, I can vividly imagine that. Are we going to be able to do this without you biting me?”

he asked quietly, sliding his hand slowly down her neck. Tyria didn't react immediately, it was as if she had to think about it.

“I don't want to bite you, but it could happen if the pain gets too much.”

she admitted ashamedly, but Artem just nodded. Like a dog, or a cat, that bites even its master when the pain gets too strong.

He knelt down next to the little dragoness and tried to figure out the best way to lift the reptile so that he could not only carry Tyria safely, but also not cause any more pain than absolutely necessary. She groaned as she tried to turn her head further towards him to get a better look at what he was doing.

“Wha...hrnnnnssss...what are you doing?”

She asked, the curiosity clear in her voice despite the pain. Artem turned his head towards her, smiling tightly.

“I'm trying to figure out the best way to lift you without hurting you more than necessary.”

He replied, pointing to her chest and pelvis.

“Normally I would take an animal your size here and here, either in front or behind the legs, but I'm afraid your wing is in the way.”

He explained and before he could add anything, he saw Tyria trying to move her broken wing. Of course she failed and hissed her pain and frustration into the cold air of the forest. Artem closed his eyes and waited a moment to at least give Tyria a chance to catch her breath.

“I...it's okay...”

the young dragoness gasped and the gamekeeper nodded grimly.

“L...le...let's just do it...”

she stuttered, narrowing her eyes. Artem hated himself for it, but he could only agree with her. It wouldn't help to wait any longer, it wouldn't get better, not like this and especially not here. Carefully and with bated breath, he slid his hands under her body. She was hot, literally glowing on her underside. As he pushed his hands further, the dragoness inhaled sharply and held her breath as well.

“Grrrrrrnnnniii...”

she mouthed between clenched teeth as he finally slid his arms all the way under her and lifted her carefully. She was lighter than he'd feared, which was a positive, but her growled cry of pain almost caused him to drop her. He hurried, not wanting to have to carry her for too long, who knew when she would lose to her instincts and bite him, or worse, burn him.

He turned in the direction of his cart and trudged off. It only took him a moment to cover the distance, and it wasn't until he placed Tyria on the cart as carefully as he could that he realized he was still holding his breath.

Tyria was still holding her breath too, the growls and hisses were evidence of her pain and it was only when he put her back down that another cry of pain escaped her, forcing her to breathe again. She couldn't be angry with him, he had really gone out of his way to lay her down as gently as possible and make sure all her limbs were positioned so that she didn't accidentally lie on one, but it still hurt like hell.

Her vision was blurred and her tears were running down her cheeks in little rivulets. Her breathing was in short shaky gasps and she felt unable to move her head. Artem stood in front of her, breathing heavily. The brief exertion seemed to have taken everything out of him. He looked at her and struggled to catch his breath.

“Are... are you all right?”

He asked, searching her body with his eyes. Tyria managed a short, stiff nod.

“Fine would be bragging...”

she pressed out, but she didn't manage to get the joke across, Artem nodded anyway. He pointed once more to the place where she had crashed.

“I'm going to go back over there for a moment, maybe I can still find your hoop.”

he gasped and turned around. As he trudged off, Tyria watched him go. She couldn't make out much as her eyes were still overflowing with tears and the pain was almost making her lose her mind. She decided it was better to try and just relax. She let her head rest on the planks of the carriage and closed her eyes. There was nothing for her to do, for the moment she was at the mercy and help of the human.

After a while, she heard Artem approaching again. His footsteps sounded a little frantic, but it was his voice that really startled her.

“I think I've found what you've lost...”

He called out to her while he was still a few steps away. Partly out of shock, partly out of joy, but mostly out of impatience, Tyria wanted to lift her head and look around for him, but she didn't even get that far because her muscles prevented quick and careless movements.

So she just opened her eyes and looked at the gamekeeper, who was waving what looked like silver in his hand. She couldn't quite make it out and had to wait until he was with her, but when Artem finally stood in front of the carts and proudly presented her with his find, her heart skipped a beat.

She gasped as she realized what he was holding in his hands.

“This... by the Ancients... this is my hoop...”

Tyria gasped, looking at the bent silver hoop in Artem's hands.

“...But... what happened to it?”

she asked, although she could well imagine what had happened to the fragile piece of jewelry when she crashed. Artem turned and turned the hoop in his hands. The scratches, dents and dings, as well as the completely bent shape, indicated that the hoop had collided with her several times against solid obstacles. He looked up at her and pressed his lips together.

“Well, I think your crash did more damage than I thought. If you want, I can have the hoop mended by one of the blacksmiths... but I don't know if they can fix it completely.”

the gamekeeper offered, holding the piece of jewelry out to her. Tyria tilted her head slightly to one side and closed her eyes again.

“No.”

she replied and sighed softly.

“I can't expect that from you. You're already doing too much for me and putting yourself in danger for my well-being.”

she added carefully and opened her eyes again. She looked calmly into his brown eyes and saw him begin to smile. He placed the hoop on the cart and began to stroke her head tenderly with both hands.

“It's all right, little Tyria, as long as we're a little careful, nothing will happen, and after all, it's my job to look after the animals in these woods, and for a while at least, that includes you.”

His voice sounded calm and loving as he stroked her smooth scales and scratched her under her chin. The little dragoness closed her eyes again and enjoyed the caresses. She murmured her approval softly and leaned her head against his hands.

How could his touch feel so good? It felt almost as good as when her father showed her affection, but it wasn't just the touch, it was the connection that made it feel even better. However, she had no connection with Artem, at least not yet, and yet the feeling she was experiencing was almost as strong. The warmth that his hands radiated was so completely different from the warmth she knew from her father or even herself.

The warmth that dragons generated came from their fire, a primal, raw, destructive heat. Not necessarily unpleasant and quite suitable for emphasizing a dragon's love for another, but still something completely different from the warmth Artem carried within himself.

Humans had no fire of their own, her father had taught her that. Humans relied on artificially creating their fire. So it couldn't be fire that warmed his hands so pleasantly.

Tyria lost herself in the thought and enjoyed the attention until Artem removed his hands again. She couldn't help but grumble and express her displeasure at the end of the caresses, but Artem denied it.

“How should I see to it that I get you home before the Lord sees us after all.”

he said and took the hoop back.

“Don't worry, I'm just keeping it since you can't hold onto it right now.”

he added when she looked at him a little distraught. He turned around and took the handles of the cart. Carefully, he began to push the cart through the forest. The oversized wooden wheels, designed to roll better over the uneven forest path, unfortunately offered no additional comfort, and every bump, every root that Artem had to maneuver the cart over, was passed on to Tyria undamped and caused another painful sensation. The little dragoness groaned softly and squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to distract herself from the pain.

...

She didn't know how long she had been traveling, at some point during the bumpy ride, she had lost consciousness. All the pain and exhaustion had taken their toll and her body had simply shut down.

All she could remember was the steady stream of apologies that Artem had muttered over and over again when the car had bumped over another rock or root.

Concept and Idea by

El Poyo Diabolo

Characters by

El Poyo Diabolo

Written by

El Poyo Diabolo

Edited by

El Poyo Diabolo

Published by

El Poyo Diabolo