“I’m going to the tail, Papa!” I rush out the door, pole in hand. “I’m sure I’ll catch a star this time!”
“Wait a tick, young lady,” Papa calls after me, hustling to the porch. “Don’t go too far! Oh, Csilla, you forgot your shoes again. Te
“Oh, ho! What have we here? Off to war, squirrel?” King Oswain chuckled. The monarch, clad in a purple velvet tunic, elaborately embroidered breeches, and boots of the finest leather, slowed his stallion to a walk on the sunlight-dappled forest path. As he circled
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“Padre,” says the outlaw next to me at the bar. “I need yer help.”
Gold glints at the corners of his mouth. He reeks of trail dust, manure, sweat, and tobacco. The bartender bot drifts toward the till and a silent alarm. The conversations
Dee Dalsey was constantly surrounded by heroes. Big heroes. Little heroes. (One that could be either, depending on the need.) Heroes with super strength, super speed, or super senses. Not to mention the whole slew of heroes that could fly.
Yet none
I land in the field behind the castle, and the impact sends a jolt of pain through my joints. I yelp, then grimace.
Pathetic. I may be over a thousand years old, but I have a reputation to uphold!
Spreading my carmine wings wide, I roar.
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