Sable's Arc

Chapter 8 of 18

Gemma was gone down the ledge with the Mirrorstone. Sable should have felt lighter. Instead a thin cry cut through the wind. It came from the cave behind the roost. The hatchling. Sable had heard it fuss before, but never like this. The sound climbed and did not stop. Down in Birchrot, someone would hear it too. A crying dragon meant questions, and questions meant hunters. Sable crept past the great dragon and looked into the dark. The baby lay curled in the straw, mouth open, sides heaving. It was hungry, and she had no idea what a baby dragon ate. The mother watched Sable but did not move. She had stopped hunting under the pact. Whatever she once fed her young, she no longer brought it. That was Sable's doing. Now the price came due. Sable slid down the cliff and ran. She did not go home. She went to the weeping willow past the village, where a treehouse sat in its branches and a small pond lay below. The tree sprite lived here, the one who had first taught her about the poison stone. It sat on the pond's rim, watching the koi swim under the water. "The hatchling won't eat," Sable said. "It's crying. The whole valley will hear." The sprite dipped one hand toward the fish. "Young dragons eat what the water gives. Fish. Fresh, whole, and plenty." It flicked a drop at her. "Fire eaters, all of them. But they start in the shallows." Sable looked at the koi. She would not gut a sprite's pets. But she knew where the fishing quarter kept its gear. She thanked the sprite and ran for the docks. The fishing shed still stood at the water's edge, half of it charred from the old burning. Inside, a tall wooden cabinet held poles and nets. Sable dragged a net loose. A golden owl in a striped suit sat on the top drawer, purple eyes fixed on her, a ledger clutched in one green foot. She had seen it before, perched near the crossroads where Edna kept accounts. It said nothing. It only watched, as if marking what she took. She did not care. She hauled the net to the shallows and worked until dark. Sable climbed the cliff again with a sack of fish over her shoulder. Her arms shook. She reached the cave and spilled the catch onto the straw. The hatchling lifted its head. It sniffed, then snapped up a fish, then another. The crying stopped. The mother's ears settled flat and calm. Sable sat in the quiet and breathed. She had fed the thing. But her hands smelled of fish, and she saw the truth. This hatchling would eat like this every day. The mother would not hunt. That left Sable. She had traded a weapon for peace, and now she had traded her freedom for a mouth that would never stop needing her.