Advent of Dragons - Chapter 2: The Lost Spark

Brought to you by Sarah Lindamood

🇳🇱 Lees hier de Nederlandse versie

This chapter of Advent of Dragons is brought to you thanks to the generous support of Sarah Lindamood.
Each chapter of this story is written in support of fantasy author

Cato Frederiks

, who urgently needs surgery for a rare condition. You can sponsor an upcoming chapter by donating to her GoFundMe and letting me know. Each chapter you sponsor helps carry Cato closer to care.

Previously on Advent of Dragons

Katie Thorne returned to the village of Elderglen, not to stay, but to recover. Once a proud Dragon Patrol rider, she’s now grounded—her strength fading and her future uncertain. But something strange awaits her: a tiny, smoke-breathing dragon curled up in a farmer’s henhouse. Injured, shivering, and far from dangerous, it mirrors Katie in more ways than she dares admit. She takes it in.

And for the first time in a long while, she feels a spark.

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Katie Thorne lingered by the hearth a moment longer, cradling a chipped mug between her hands. The fire had burned low, its golden light spilling lazily over the flagstones. On the braided rug, nestled in a knitted shawl folded into a nest, the baby dragon dozed with its belly toward the warmth, emitting soft, wheezy snores.

The house had settled into silence. Grandma had retired hours ago, leaving behind the usual signs of care—an extra blanket folded neatly at the armchair, a fresh pot of chamomile steaming gently on the hob. The scent mingled with hints of toasted oats and beeswax polish, wrapping the small stone cottage in something tender and timeless.

Katie sipped the cooling tea and let her eyes wander over the room. Wooden beams darkened by decades of hearth smoke, faded embroidery in twisted hoops, old iron pans lined up like soldiers above the range. Everything looked just as she remembered—and utterly unfamiliar.

She rubbed a thumb along the rim of her mug, thinking back on the day. The same village. The same streets. The same people, peering at her like she’d dragged the storm in with her. Their stares hadn’t changed. Only she had.

All day, she’d felt like a stranger walking through a memory.

“I don’t belong here,” she murmured to herself. “Not then. Not now.”

The dragon shifted, snorting a tiny curl of smoke. Its scales glittered in the firelight, more green than gold now, though a soft shimmer played along the edges like candlelight on old armor.

Katie leaned forward and extended her hands. “All right, you. Let’s not roast the rug, yeah?” She carefully scooped the creature into her arms. It blinked once, sleepily, then burrowed into her chest with a faint trill, pressing its warm body close like a living hearthstone.

Her heart clenched at the feeling. How could something so small, so injured, feel so important?

She climbed the creaking stairs slowly, mindful not to jostle the little creature too much. The weight of it was hardly noticeable, but its warmth radiated into her bones. Halfway up, she paused to catch her breath, shoulders aching in ways they hadn’t before the crash. Or maybe they had, and she’d just ignored them back then.

Her old bedroom door stuck in the frame, as it always had. She leaned into it with her hip, and it opened with a soft whoosh of lavender and dust. The scent struck her like a memory—childhood nights under patchwork quilts, hiding with a book and a biscuit long after lights-out.

The moon filtered through the window, laying silver across the faded wood floor. Her bed was smaller than she remembered, the ceiling lower, but the shelves were still packed with carvings of dragons and gryphons, unicorns and storm-beasts. Tiny relics of imagination, worn smooth by young fingers.

She set the dragon on the quilt and watched as it turned in a circle, then curled up, broken wing tucked tight. Its eyes cracked open—just a glimmer—then closed again with trust.

Katie hesitated, then sat beside it, easing herself down onto the narrow mattress. Her joints protested. She reached beneath the bed and pulled out a second quilt—still there, still smelling of cedar and mint—and drew it over them both.

For a while, she just sat there in the dark, her hand resting gently on the dragon’s back. Its scales were rough but warm, like river stones left in the sun. It let out a breathy trill and nuzzled her palm, settling again.

Her gaze landed on the wall opposite the bed.

Framed, carefully matted in deep green felt, hung a drawing she’d made as a child. Nearly as tall as she was back then. The crayon lines had faded over time, but the image was unmistakable: a little girl with wild hair and determined eyes, flying high above the rooftops of a grand city, astride a glorious dragon.

The buildings were crude—uneven windows, lopsided chimneys—but the dragon glowed with detail. Every scale was drawn with care. Its wings stretched across the whole paper, sweeping through clouds dotted with stars. The girl on its back—clearly meant to be her—held a flag with a sunburst crest, triumphant.

Katie swallowed hard.

“I forgot about this,” she whispered. She moved closer. “I drew this.”

She remembered the day now—how proud she’d been, how she’d marched into the kitchen and unrolled the picture in front of her parents. Her mother had smiled politely, her father had nodded, but their eyes had darkened.

“Not very practical, is it?” they’d said. “You’ll need to focus on your studies if you want to get into the academy. Art’s fine as a hobby, but don’t let it distract you.”

She hadn’t drawn since. Not really. Not after she left for the city. The sketchbooks had stayed in boxes. Her pencil sets dried out in drawers.

But Grandma had loved that picture.

“It’s you,” Grandma had said back then, lifting the drawing with reverence. “Exactly how I see you. A girl who dreams bigger than the sky.”

And now it hung here. Opposite the bed. The last thing she’d see at night. The first thing in the morning.

“I always liked that one,” Katie murmured aloud.

The dragon in the picture was bigger than the runt asleep next to her, of course. Fiercer. But it had the same proud snout, the same curling wisp of smoke drawn from one nostril.

A memory rose, unbidden.

Renic’s voice, half a laugh, half a warning. “Thorne, you’re showboating again. Save it for the festival dives.”

The rush of wind, the sting of cold air in her lungs, the glint of sun on wings—hers and Stormwing’s, soaring in tandem. A joy so fierce it had felt like flight itself. Tibbin’s rambling theories about wind shear and trajectory, Droghan’s gravelly snort as he chewed through one of his gruff pep talks.

The bond with the others. The rhythm of the sky.

Gone. Like a light put out.

She grunted to the dark. “Village trap for broken things like us,” she muttered. “No skies, no squad. Just porridge and pity.”

The dragon gave a soft, sleepy chirp and pressed closer. Its breath was warm and steady against her wrist.

She let her fingers brush across its spine, down to the swollen wing joint. The heat was still there, a tenderness under the scales. Grounded, she thought. Like me.

She glanced back at the framed picture. Once, she’d believed in that future so fiercely it felt like a promise written in stars.

Katie’s eyes prickled. She blinked hard and lay back against the pillow.

The ceiling above looked the same as it always had, firelight flickering across the old wood beams. If there were stars out there, she couldn’t see them.

Sleep began its slow pull beneath the quilt’s weight, wind howling faint beyond the walls. The quiet of night folded into a dream.

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Katie found herself in a sturdy stone shelter, hearth glowing warmly, surrounded by creatures of all kinds—rocky pups pawing for food, pixies fluttering with hopeful eyes, a small frost wyrm whimpering quietly with injured coils.

They all needed her, each in their own way.

She reached out with trembling hands, attempting to tend to their needs, but her hands betrayed her. The food slipped, bowls crashed, and she stumbled, falling hard onto the cold stone floor.

The creatures pressed in from all sides, pleading, shoving their small bodies against her, needing attention she could not give. Panic swelled inside, her arms and legs refusing to obey, until—

A gentle snout nudged her hand in waking.

The baby dragon’s soft, smoky breath and warm eyes locked on hers, its trill vibrating comfort into her pounding heart.

Morning light peeked through the curtains, painting long stripes across the room. Frost etched the corners of the glass, delicate as lace.

Katie sighed. Just a nightmare. Or… was it trying to tell her something? If so… what?

Downstairs, the kettle hissed and the scent of cinnamon drifted upward.

Katie sat up slowly, stretching one arm and then the other. The dragon yawned—a tiny flicker of smoke escaping its nostrils—then clambered awkwardly onto her lap. She scratched behind its ears. It chirped in approval.

In the kitchen, Grandma was already bustling, apron dusted in flour, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The oak table was set for two, and the fire crackled merrily in the hearth.

“Up with the sparrows, are we?” Grandma said, not turning. “Porridge’ll set you straight. Honey from the hill hives, thick as cream.”

Katie slid into a chair with a soft grunt. The dragon hopped lightly into her lap again and curled up, tail flicking. Its warmth eased the stiffness in her knees.

“I didn’t sleep much,” Katie admitted.

“Sleep’s a stubborn guest,” Grandma said, pouring tea. “Comes when you stop looking.”

Katie stirred her porridge, thick with raisins and cinnamon. The dragon sniffed curiously and pawed the edge of the bowl.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, but she slipped it a spoonful anyway.

“I found something that belongs to you,” Grandma said.

She carried something in her other hand—a bundle tied in twine, worn pages peeking from the sides. She set it gently on the table.

“Found this in the attic. Thought you might want it.”

Katie untied the string. Inside were dozens of drawings. Some on crumpled parchment, others on bright colored paper. All hers.

Dragons of every shape and size. Lightning foxes. Trees with mouths. A river made of glass. Laughing cloud-sheep. A mouse in a knight’s helmet.

She chuckled, thumbing through them. “I had a strange imagination.”

“You always did,” Grandma said proudly. “Your parents never quite knew what to do with it. But I did.”

Then Katie froze.

Halfway through the stack, she found it. A smaller drawing, smudged at the corners, clearly older. A little green dragon, gold-flecked, with a crooked wing.

Exactly like the one curled beside her now.

Her breath caught. “Grandma… I drew this. Years ago.”

“I remember,” Grandma said softly. “You said it came to you in a dream. You called it ‘The Lost Spark.’ Said one day, you’d find it.”

Katie stared at the paper, then down at the real dragon. It opened one eye, flicked its tongue, and nestled deeper into the quilt.

“This can’t be real,” she whispered.

“Sometimes,” Grandma said, “dreams take the long road.”

Katie ran a hand through her hair, stunned. The ache in her chest had shifted into something else—something warmer. The tiniest flicker of belief.

The dragon stirred again, nudging her hand. She reached down, touching its snout gently.

“I guess you always knew where to find me.”

She looked again at the drawing. At the name scribbled below.

Spark.

She smiled.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” she murmured.

The dragon gave a soft trill of agreement.

Outside, the wind picked up, and snow began to fall.
Inside, the hearth glowed.
And in Katie’s chest, something stirred.

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Come back tomorrow for the next chapter and donate to Cato’s GoFundMe to sponsor it! (Send me a message to let me know)

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