The Ring

By Lacey R. Scott

The ring winked in the pale evening light, mocking me for my foolishness. Sure, I didn’t know the difference between a faceted sapphire and a chipped piece of glass, but I’d reasoned such a pretty trinket was worth at least a loaf of bread.

Unfortunately, the baker disagreed. His face was an ugly shade of red as he fired me for my incompetence.

I traced the jewel set within the band. Where would I get money for rent? It was due in three days, and even selling my beloved book collection might not bring in enough—

Blue light swirled from the jewel. I gasped and jerked back. The glow coalesced in the center of the room, coiling in on itself like a mass of writhing snakes. The streaming brilliance wove tighter, shrinking until it was only a speck. Then it exploded.

The light faded away, and my jaw slackened. There, in the middle of my dilapidated, one-room shack, stood the most strikingly beautiful man I’d ever seen. He studied his surroundings, and his lip curled in disdain.

“Well,” he drawled in an unusual accent. “I suppose you’re an upgrade from my last master…” His eyes, the same shade of blue as the ring, flicked over my person before settling back on my face. “If only barely.”

Ignoring the insult, I focused on the impossible. “You’re… You’re a wyldling.”

“Am I?” He inspected his nails. “And to think, no one ever told me.”

All the warning tales I’d assumed were only childhood stories flooded my mind. Wyldlings were shapeshifting tricksters, imprisoned in magicked vessels and forced to serve whomever owned the vessel as punishment for the mayhem they’d caused while free. A wyldling’s power was unmeasured and their cunning outmatched, and all the stories agreed that their ever-grasping desires often tainted their master’s will. It was said that to draw on their power was to draw misfortune to oneself.

“I want nothing to do with you,” I said firmly.

He snorted, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “But you haven’t even heard what I can offer you.”

“It matters not. No good can come from a being so evil, regardless of how pretty their face.”

Delight lit his features, and he swept back a lock of dark hair from his brow. “You think I’m pretty?”

My face heated. “That’s not what I—that’s beside the point!”

He sauntered closer, reaching the bed in a few strides. I scrambled back as he crawled atop it. Grinning, he stretched himself beside me like a great jungle cat.

“What are you doing?” I hissed, eyeing him warily.

“Nothing,” he replied, wide-eyed. “Just wondering why you’re so vehemently opposed to my aid when you live in such”—his eyes flitted about my room—“squalor.”

“It’s not—”

“You’re so eager to find yourself homeless, fighting for scraps with the dogs.”

“How’d you—”

“Is working with me truly as bad as running yourself ragged just so you can keep sleeping on a moldy bed?” His brows rose as he plucked a blackened strand of straw from the mattresses and rolled it between his fingers.

I groped for words.

“Instead of this roach-infested shack, you could live in a palace draped in luxury. And the food,” he said wistfully. “Think of the food! Honey-roasted quail, cranberry-stuffed duck, pastries so soft and decadent they dissolve on your tongue.”

“That does sound lovely, but—”

“Anything your heart desires.” He rolled over and looked me in the eyes, his voice like silk across my skin. “All you must do is ask, and it’s yours.”

My protests died on my tongue. Cautiously, I met his eyes, my future teetering dangerously above a precipice as I made my decision. “Anything?”

A victorious smile spread across his face. “Anything.”

The crow on my shoulder sighed. Not in a contented way, but a noise of long-suffering.

“To think, I could be dining with kings,” he cawed. He clacked his beak in irritation. “Gorging myself on wine and cheese, but no. I had to become thrall to the least ambitious woman in the realm.”

“Oh, hush,” I chided, glancing down at the shaggy goat happily trotting beside me. The wagon it pulled brimmed with all manner of books. “I think spreading literature to all corners of the kingdom is quite an ambitious task.”

While reading was a skill taught out of necessity to all classes, reading for leisure was one only afforded to the upper echelon. Or, at least, it had been, until I’d made it my mission to change that.

My wyldling sighed a second time, somehow managing to sound even more dramatic. “Perhaps if you were doing it for profit, but charity?” The word dripped with such disdain I had to cough to hide my laugh.

“I used to be worshiped,” he bemoaned. “And now look at me—reduced to prancing about the countryside with a smelly goat.”

“Goats are sure-footed,” I told him. “And unlike a horse, they can forage for food instead of us having to stop and pay for a stable at night.”

“Because staying at an inn would be such a travesty.”

“Indeed,” I teased. “Just think of all the books we’re able to purchase with the funds we’ve saved.”

He ruffled his feathers indignantly, muttering under his breath.

“But if you dislike the goat so, I could always sell him and let you return to pulling the wagon.”

“Did you hear that?” He cocked his head to the side. “I’d better fly ahead—check it out. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to the books.”

He launched into the open sky, and I bit back a smile, content to enjoy the sunshine and the blissful silence.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lacey R. Scott is an author and artist with an affinity for dragons. When not writing or making art, she spends her days taking care of her family as a full-time home maker and wrangling her menagerie of rescue pets. An introvert by heart, she loves reading, gaming, anime, and falling down true crime rabbit holes.

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