By H. L. Davis

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. The very earth trembles with fear. Satisfied, I clear my throat and close my eyes, ready to savor each fiery word of my centenary speech.

“I, Crispus the Tenth, Dragon Lord of the Smoldering Sands, do hereby demand, oh puny king—”

“He isn’t here.”

My jaws snap shut. Someone dares to interrupt me? My eyes slit open and find a slim young woman in pearly silk, glasses perched on her nose and a thick tome in her hands.

“What?”

“I said, His Majesty is not here. He’s in a neighboring kingdom on important business. But, having studied well our land’s history and the previous… visits of your kind, I’ve been expecting your arrival.” She sweeps an arm to her left. “Observe. Twenty-five chests of treasure for your hoard, as gold is always desired by dragons in the chronicles. And”—she sweeps an arm to the right—“fifty cows, all plump and prepared for consumption.” She nods toward the rows of men behind her, all armor-clad but bearing no weapons. “At your word, these soldiers are prepared to deliver these goods to your domain.”

Smoke slithers up my throat at this confounding scenario. Am I no longer deemed worthy of combat? Of glory?

“I’m sure you’ll agree this is a more desirable solution than to attempt wreaking havoc on our realm. Especially at your advanced age.”

My nostrils flare. The insolence!

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my rea—” She clears her throat. “To royal matters.” After a quick curtsy, she moves toward the castle gates.

I huff, sparks flitting from my lips. “Who are you?”

The spectacled creature turns back to me. “My apologies. I’m Princess Maren, and it was a pleasure to meet such a… formidable foe. I do hope you enjoy your treasure.”

“Princess, I have come for treasure, but cattle and coin are not what you prize.”

She hugs her book close, color fleeing her cheeks. As she stammers, the flame in my belly warms.

A weakness.

“I demand you show me where your treasure lies, or I’ll burn your city to a—”

“Crispus?” Maren rolls her eyes. “Very well, beast. For the sake of our subjects, I will take you to my treasure. But”—she raises stern brows—“you must promise to take care. It is quite flammable.”

***

“How convenient—you’re shorter than I expected.”

Maren tosses the comment over her shoulder as she primly descends another staircase, and I consider scorching the hem of her spotless gown. Having to hunch low, to hear the sound of my rasping breaths as I follow her down the steps…

Humiliating.

“Are we almost there?” I grouse.

“Just around this corner.” She places her torch in a sconce. “Here we are!”

I survey the space, which is illuminated by a crackling fire and various candles in iron stands. Wooden shelves tower along the walls, each holding hundreds of volumes bound in leather and vellum. Their sweet, ancient smell makes my nose twitch.

“This is your treasure?” I slump to my haunches. “Books?”

“My library. Stored below ground for protection.” Maren points toward the hearth. “We built that specially to drive away the damp.”

“And of what possible value are all these books?” Glowering at the countless rows of kindling, I am torn between the desire to burn them to ash and the vexing suspicion that I’m missing something.

The princess studies me for a moment. Then with a nod, she retrieves a crimson volume and sits near a patch of candlelight. After flipping through the book, she clears her throat and begins. “‘The first attack of Crispus the Tenth came during the reign of King Calvin the Courageous.’”

“You mean Calvin the Bald?” I snort. “I could see his head shining like a beacon from miles away when—”

Her glare cuts my reminiscence like a knife.

I rest my chin on the stone floor with a chuckle and meet her stare. “If you’re going to tell my stories, Princess, you must tell them rightly. Or I may just decide to have you for an appetizer.”

I await her swift retreat up the stairs, but she merely sighs. I sullenly flick my tail.

“Perhaps we’ll go further back,” she murmurs. Maren sets the book down, stands tiptoe in her chair, and takes an amber tome in her hands. After brushing away the dust, she tenderly opens the cover.

I listen rapt as the princess reads dozens of draconic tales, recounting the valiant speeches and thrilling victories of my forefathers. Of course, there were a few failures over the centuries. Some dragons were idiotic about damsels in distress or were struck down by knights with godlike strength. Yet that doesn’t stop the swell of pride in my chest at hearing their stories—or the ache deep in my bones knowing that I will soon join them in the dust.

But glory can outlast the grave. In marks of ink on ivory pages.

And with that, my final battle plan is formed.

Maren closes the book in her lap, peering at me over her glasses. “I hope you see now all the benefits of my offer. For both of us.”

Smoke curls from my nostrils. “I’ll break tradition and accept your ludicrous offer, Princess. On one condition.”

She raises her brows.

“Once a year, while you live, you must leave your lair and visit mine. Bring paper and pen. It’s time to record the Chronicles of Crispus the Tenth exactly as they occurred.” I smirk and extend a single claw. “More treasure for your hoard.”

Maren smiles, grasping my claw with slender fingers. “Deal.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

H. L. Davis is a Christian, wife, and homeschool mom who calls the South home. She first discovered the joys of writing at ten years of age, and it is a craft she is delighted to pursue once again. She is particularly fond of fairy tales, whether it’s retelling old favorites or weaving magical stories of her own. You can follow her author journey on Substack and Instagram.

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