By Benjamin D. Stewart
Therrus never meant to fall into Drovenveil.
HQ had calibrated the portal for Earth—Rio de Janeiro—to be exact. Instead, his body tore through an alien sky, a streak of green cloaked in the illusion of human flesh.
The impact cratered the hillside. Bones snapped, then reset with the efficiency of his reptilian heritage. His healing powers kicked in more quickly than he’d expected. Shrugging off the odd observation, he staggered up, grinning despite the pain.
A new world. Mountains, grasslands, even a shimmer of desert on the horizon. His favorite kind of accident.
His grin died. No blinking lights. No hum of stabilizers. His watch-shaped portal hopper clasped, dysfunctional, to his wrist. Without it, the projection of his human form disappeared, and worse, he might never return home. He flipped it over, found the compartment of nanobots, and cursed. They could mend organic matter, not synthetic.
This was not how Therrus’s human form and alter ego, Luke James, had planned on starting his mission.
“Helpless,” he muttered. The word tasted strange. Scientists from his order didn’t get stranded. They observed. They recorded. They left.
A shadow passed over him. He looked up.
A dragon. Black-scaled, wings outstretched wider than a house, diving like judgment.
“I’m not feeling optimistic about this anymore!” he screamed.
Green fire burst from Therrus’s mouth, and the blast engulfed the dragon’s chest.
Both froze—one in disbelief, the other in obvious outrage.
Sorcerer, a voice, louder than the rumbling of the dragon’s landing, thundered inside his skull. You dare strike me?
Therrus blinked. “Sorcerer? No! I’m a researcher. A scientist.”
The dragon approached Therrus, arching its back, eyes like burning coals. You wear false flesh. You wield forbidden flame. What else should I call you?
“My skin is a projection,” Therrus said quickly. “It broke when I fell. The flame—I didn’t know I could do that. I don’t even know what is happening! Is this why I healed so quickly? How can I hear you inside my head? Please. I study life. I come in peace!”
The dragon’s gaze narrowed. Then explain your presence in Drovenveil.
“I don’t even know what Drovenveil is. My portal device failed. I can’t leave unless I rebuild it. But it needs materials with… excellent conductive properties and compatibility with carbon-based life-forms.” His voice softened. “Your world has that. Doesn’t it?”
The dragon’s wings beat once, sending grass rippling like water. Silence stretched. Finally, it spoke, low and dangerous. I am Blair. I protect the orchards here. The orchards of the Twelve Villages hold much power. Bark that repels flame. Sap that heals. Branches that hum with storms. If you are a friend to our lands, you will use them only to depart.
With renewed confidence, Therrus answered Blair. “I swear it. I never lie. My task is to learn, not to conquer.”
The dragon lowered its head until hot breath curled around Therrus. If you betray this oath, I will unmake you.
Therrus swallowed, then placed a trembling hand on Blair’s scales. Heat radiated through him, not hostile but immense. His terror twisted into exhilaration. He had dreamed of humanity his whole career, yet here was something just as fascinating: a world where dragons spoke. A world where Therrus’s genetics seemed awakened with new, unheard-of power.
I shall carry you to the village of the Silverweave Willow first.
Blair’s wings surged, and talons grasped Therrus by the arms.
The ground fell away. Wind whipped around him faster than when he fell from the heavens. Below spread a land covered in lush orchards and snowcapped mountains.
They landed beside trees whose silver-threaded bark and leaves crackled faintly with lightning.
The dragon tore a branch free with delicate precision. Silverweave Willow. This sacred tree extracts metals from the ground. It also harvests energy from lightning storms.
At the next orchard, blossoms of pale blue shone in the sun. Therrus pressed a vial against a tree to collect sap that glowed like ice in the sunlight.
Frostbloom cherry, the dragon said. Its life runs cold, stabilizing fire.
One by one, they gathered what he needed: bark that hummed with energy, leaves that stitched themselves back together when torn. Each piece seemed to carry a kind of reverence. Therrus felt uneasy, as if he were trespassing on something the creatures of Drovenveil held sacred.
On a rocky ledge, Therrus knelt with trembling hands and rebuilt the hopper. Living bark in place of shattered housing; crystal sap fusing broken circuits; branches forming a lattice that pulsed with strange magic.
The watch came alive in a faint glow as his nanobots fine-tuned the new hardware.
He slipped it onto his wrist. His projection stabilized, his scales smoothing again into the soft human mask. Relief filled him. He could finally get back to his original mission as Luke James.
Yet unease crept into his mind as well.
The dragon watched in silence. You have your way home. What is next?
Therrus stared at the device. If the Galactic Council knew what this world contained—trees that healed, metals that lived, and sap that burned like stars—they would come.
And they would not come as researchers.
He whispered, “When HQ hears about this, they’ll want more than my report.”
The dragon’s eyes narrowed. Then your choice decides the fate of Drovenveil.
The hopper hummed, portal coordinates waiting. Therrus felt the pull of two worlds—one of duty, one of wonder.
He fastened the device and looked out over the orchards, their branches whispering in the wind. For now, at least, he had repaired his way home. But in repairing it, he might have doomed this place.
The dragon’s voice rumbled: We shall see what kind of man you are, researcher.
Therrus said nothing. The thrill of discovery still coursed through him, but so did his unease. His people would never resist the temptation of Drovenveil’s power.
Entering the portal, he thought, “Discovery doesn’t mean conquest. It means appreciation.”
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Great story-it makes me want to learn more about this world and characters.
Therrus thinks to himself as he writes his report: “I have to make this planet sound boring, so boring that the Galactic Council would risk dying of boredom if they visited even for a single minute. hmmmm… I know! I’ll say the planet is full of baseball!”