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The dragons were simply living on the mountain that had belonged to them for centuries—until the king decided their lives were an inconvenience.
Micah presses his lips against the top of Maple’s head. “We need to put a stop to this, Lucan.”
I reach across the bed and place my hand over his. “Aye.” I squeeze his fingers. “We will.”
By twilight, the town square is packed.
Every year, the farmers of Thistle Grove gather for the pumpkin harvest contest, each hoping to claim the coveted title of Grand Pumpkin Keeper. It’s an old tradition—one that usually brings laughter, friendly competition, and far too many pumpkin pies.
Tonight, though, I can’t seem to enjoy any of it.
I stand at the edge of the cobblestone square, my hands shoved into the pockets of my coat as I survey the crowd.
Across the square, farmers have arranged their prized pumpkins in elaborate displays. Some are round and squat, while others are long and oddly shaped. A few are so enormous they tower over the people standing beside them. One of them is even taller than me.
Lanterns hang from the buildings surrounding the square, their warm golden light flickering against the deepening twilight. Strings of smaller lanterns stretch overhead, swaying gently in the evening breeze. The air smells of woodsmoke, cinnamon, and roasted squash.
Normally, I’d enjoy this.
Tonight, my mind is focused on what Micah and I are about to do. The risk we’re willing to take by standing up for creatures far more vulnerable and voiceless than us.
A small movement against my back pulls me from my thoughts.
Maple is tucked safely inside my leather backpack, her nostrils poking through the opening.
I reach into the side pocket and scratch gently between her horns.
“Easy, girl,” I murmur.
She gives a quiet chirp before settling back down.
Beside me, Micah shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
He’s still wearing his scrubs beneath his white coat, the sleeves slightly wrinkled from a long day at the clinic. Dark circles shadow his eyes behind his glasses.
He looks exhausted—and not just from work. I know our discovery weighs on him just as heavily as it does on me.
I reach for his hand. His fingers immediately curl around mine.
“You all right, Doc?”
He gives me a tired smile. “I will be.”
Across the square, the king takes his place atop the raised wooden platform. A trumpet sounds, silencing the crowd.
King Castor stands beneath an enormous autumn garland, his black cloak hanging from his shoulders. His golden crown catches the lantern light as he surveys the gathered townsfolk.
“Citizens of Thistle Grove!” he calls.
Cheers rise from the crowd.
The king smiles. “Tonight, we celebrate another bountiful harvest and the farmers who work tirelessly to provide for our kingdom.”
More applause.
The king raises one hand. “And now, it is my honor to judge this year’s Thistle Grove pumpkin competition.”
The crowd erupts into cheers.
