Weslyn's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Weslyn had never cast a single spell, and now Mrs. Nyserene wanted her to steal fire from a dragon. The old witch pressed a list into her hands and shooed her out the door. "Bring me a dragon's scale, wyrmwort, and river clay," Nyserene said. "Or don't bother coming home a witch." Weslyn tucked her list into her sleeve and set her jaw. Her sisters painted masterpieces. Her brother sat near a throne. She was the eldest, the plain one, the girl who had never made magic work. Today that ended, or it never began. She found the dragon in a hollow past the ridge. It was smaller than the stories, no bigger than a plow horse, with green scales and tired eyes. It did not roar. It watched her the way a cat watches rain. Weslyn crept close, one hand out, whispering the calming words Nyserene taught her. "Easy. I only need one scale." The dragon let her come within arm's reach. Then its tail swept sideways and knocked her flat in the mud. She tried again. She dug wyrmwort from the bank while the dragon dozed. She scooped river clay into her jar. When she reached for a loose scale near its foreleg, the dragon huffed a warning breath, hot enough to singe her sleeve. But it did not leave. It stayed, curious, and Weslyn understood. It was not guarding treasure. It was lonely. "You'll be needing help with that beast," a voice said behind her. Weslyn spun. A man leaned against a boulder, tall, dark hair falling over blue eyes, a grin that made her forget her list. He was the prince, Rensford, the crown heir, though he wore no crown, only muddy boots and easy confidence. She had heard of him. Everyone had. She had not expected him here, or expected her own breath to catch. "I don't need help," she said, though her burned sleeve argued otherwise. "No," he agreed, stepping closer. "But the dragon likes company. Watch." He knelt and hummed low. The dragon leaned its heavy head against his knee. Weslyn stared. Then, slowly, she knelt beside him and hummed too. The dragon shivered, calm at last, and a scale dropped loose into her waiting hand. She had it all. Scale, wyrmwort, clay. She should have run home. But the sky went orange, then dark, and rain came hard and cold. Rensford pointed to a shape on the hill, a ruined chapel wrapped in ivy and thorns. Broken stained glass still glowed faintly in the last light. They ran for it together. Inside, colored shards littered the stone floor, and the storm hammered the walls. Weslyn set her ingredients down, victorious. She had her spellwork now. But she was trapped for the night in a broken chapel, alone with a prince she barely knew and could not stop looking at. And someone would notice the crown heir was missing.