Word Count: 1,296
Written: 3/5/24, 3/6/24

The baby dragon stalked toward me, one furry foot clicking against the linoleum tile, then the other. Each snick of those deadly claws sent a new shiver racing down my limbs. Racing, emulating, pulsing...

"D-Don't come any closer," I pleaded, my hands out before me. Dangly bracelets tinkled down my bare arms. I realized my poncho had fallen away from my delicate skin, unearthing all the creamy, delicious meat I had within me. A perfect unveiling for a starving monster.

The dragon's ears wiggled up at the sound of my voice, then flattened against its head like the quick pulse of a wave. Its teeth, sequestered in a long, fox-like snout, vibrated beneath its black lip. That furry white fuzz quivering over soft and delicate-looking cheeks.

"You don't like my voice," I said, louder, sidestepping until I was behind the island. At least something was between the two of us. "How about this, then?"

I started singing the most obnoxious song I could, one taken straight from elvancy.

"Tears, tears, fall away, gently down the spool. Revelry, bevelry, everly, life is but a drool."

The baby hissed, its head tipping down as if struck by a miserable blow to the eyes. Squeezing those glaring pupils from sight, the dragon tossed its head, anything to escape the warbling emanating from my throat. I made sure not to keep pitch at all. If anyone else had listened in, I would've needed to find the nearest of those twenty-five cliffs and jump from it, but here, at the scene of Aunt Rosetta's murder, it was the only tactic I had to keep myself alive.

Dragons were special because their magic was unlike any other. By that, I meant they still had some. They also had amazing reflexes and agility, two of the only traits from my ancestors I'd been able to snatch away for myself. Since I couldn't control my eyesight or hearing without the threat of spiraling into a den of madness, running and jumping was about all I could utilize.

That wouldn't be enough.

I started in on another rhyme, each word leaving my throat in a wash of acid as I forced my numb limbs back one step and then another. I didn't know where I was heading, but I knew I needed to get there. Fast.

"IIII'm picking up my baby drag-on-ling. Won't my momma be so proud of me? IIIII'm picking up my baby drag-on-ling...ouch! It bit me! IIIII'm stomping on my baby drag-on-ling..."

As I sang about crushing and splattering and licking my baby dragonling, I couldn't help but feel as if I was inciting said dragonling to more violence. Upon further inspection, however, as my shoulder blades brushed up against a wall that I hoped led straight to an exit, I realized the baby dragon had stopped growling. The more I sang in dissonant chords, the more the creature sank into itself. A tiny ball on the ground, fluffy, fuzzy wings splayed outward. Quivering.

My voice stopped right as I got to the part where I cleaned up the scene of my baby dragonling's murder. In that moment, I felt as if I was a gigantic being, an utterly monstrous creature standing over a helpless little baby as it trembled in discomfort.

A little itch tickled the back of my mind. Aunt Rosetta loved the dragons she worked with. Maybe...it wasn't because she liked working with dangerous creatures. How was it that robbers had killed her and not the oversized lizards she'd spent decades patching up and medicating?

Maybe...this little thing...wasn't a harbinger of death. Or an agent of darkness.

My heartbeat slowed until it was a thready thumping, a steady staccato.

With my voice no longer working as a deterrent, the dragon unfurled those fox-like ears. Blinking up at me with the soft blue irises of a newborn babe, it did not immediately start growling again. Instead, we continued to blink at one another, neither knowing the proper next step in this meeting.

This was entirely too much for me to handle. Not only were pieces of my Aunt's gruesome murder splattered all around the kitchen for me to see, but I hadn't the faintest idea of how to go about navigating that same murder scene with a baby dragon of all things.

Why was it even here? Was it hurt? Had it been abandoned? How long did baby dragons need their mother? I knew the answers to none of these questions.

I slowly felt my lungs exhale, and with it, my heartbeat pulsed a racing rhythm in my ears. I could feel each droplet of blood coursing through my veins, just like I could when my senses were about to go all out of whack. But it felt different this time.

I thought maybe I could stave it off. For a while, at least.

"Okay, little guy," I said, pushing myself off the wall with just my fingertips, the bare minimum momentum I needed to break the awkward energy around us. "My name is Beckett. I'm Aunt—Dr. Rosetta's niece. We're family. Were. Are. Um..."

The words released from my throat, stilted. My voice sounded haunted, sounded as if I'd been screaming. Had I? I couldn't remember. It felt raw, though, and tired. So unbearably tired.

"I'm just gonna come around to the side here, okay?" I placed one hand on the blood-free top of the kitchen island, making sure to take wide steps away from the white stuff bunked on the lower corners. The dance was awkward and slow as I navigated the blood splatter on the floor, knowing I was probably stepping right on it. The floor was dark, so single droplets would be easy to miss.

I took my eyes off of the baby dragon for one moment, just to see the bare state of Aunt Rosetta's kitchen. The sight of empty bread bowls and half-opened cabinets made my blood boil a familiar, cloying emotion. One I knew almost too well. A rich pooling of indignation started in my veins and puddled in my gut.

This kitchen had been ransacked. By robbers or by the Dark Elves, I didn't know. But based on the lack of broken objects, I could only point blame at Resinee. She had walked this kitchen on those tiny little feet of hers, probably sashaying past the blood spatter while wearing that dress of the same color.

She had walked around, taking food and valuables, opening cupboards and closing drawers until she'd found everything she desired. Then she'd left the mess on the floor. The island. The walls.

I knew what it was to be unwanted. To have disdain dripping from the rafters and pooling on the floorboards. I was used to fake smiles, edged up too far in the corners while their arc remained flat. I was used to elves being unable to look me in the eyes.

But the sheer brutality and cold efficiency that surrounded me in this single room was a feeling I was not used to. Dark Elves were not the same as High Elves, after all. Or maybe it was because they lived in the Western Sector, where less regulation and more dangerous creatures had carved a cruelty deep into their marrow.

I was in enemy territory. No one was coming to help me. I'd walked here on my own two feet, following the sun pattern of a mysterious messenger child. I'd not known what to expect from the Western Sector, Dark Elves, or my aunt's estate.

Now I was stuck in a mess I didn't expect to inherit. Would I be killed, too, if I questioned something I shouldn't? How will I know where the trap spells are if I'm abandoned in this oasis, all by myself?