Advent of Dragons - Chapter 3: The Rock Whisperer

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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.

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👉 Previously on Advent of Dragons

Katie Thorne came home to Elderglen in defeat, her days of soaring with the Dragon Patrol long behind her. Illness clipped her wings, and duty reduced her to pest control. But in a frost-covered henhouse, she found something unexpected—a wounded baby dragon with a crooked wing and a stubborn spark.

As the creature dozed by the hearth, Katie stumbled on a forgotten childhood sketch. The dragon in the drawing matched the one at her feet. Down to the wing.

She named him Spark.
And began to wonder what else her old drawings might bring to life.

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Chapter 3: The Rock Whisperer

Table of contents | Previous Chapter

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Katie woke to the crackle of the hearth and the scent of rosemary, ash, and something faintly sweet—dried apples in the porridge pot, maybe. For a moment, she floated in that warm, drifting place between dream and morning, where the blankets felt like clouds and nothing ached yet.

Then the weight of her old wool quilt, the sound of the drafty cottage walls creaking like sleepy bones, and the soft, gravelly snore of a small dragon beside her on the bed pulled her back to the present.

Spark lay curled on top of the covers like a half-baked cinnamon roll, green-gold scales gently rising and falling with each breath. His crooked wing was tucked neatly under his side. His tiny claws twitched as he dreamed, and a soft crackle of light shimmered beneath his scales.

Katie didn’t move at first. She just watched him, arms wrapped around her knees, heart full of something that hadn’t quite settled into a word. Wonder, maybe. Or disbelief.

Yesterday, Spark had been a drawing in a folder of forgotten childhood sketches. The Lost Spark, she had titled it. Her childhood handwriting still looped at the top like frost patterns on a window. Beneath it, the dragon she had drawn at age seven—curled tail, crooked wing, and all.

Now he was here. Real. Warm. Sleeping beside her like he belonged.

She stood and reached for the low table where she’d left the sketch, its familiar edges calling her closer.

There it was. The drawing of Spark, aged and smudged, but unmistakable.

And there—half-buried beneath it—was another page.

A pumpkin patch, drawn in charcoal and crayon. And nestled among the vines, a rounded creature with stubby legs, enormous claws, and glowing crystal eyes. Its body looked like a moss-covered boulder, but its face peeked out with a kind of cautious cheerfulness.

Katie frowned.

A dotted line curved away from its feet. The trail looped between pumpkins and curved to a small pile of amber gemstones at the bottom of the page.

In blocky childhood letters, it read: NUGGET.

Something tingled in the back of her mind, just out of reach. There was something vaguely familiar about the creature.

Before she could say anything aloud, the floorboards creaked.

Grandma appeared in the doorway, apron tied loosely over her nightdress, a mug of steaming tea in hand. “You’re up early.”

Katie looked up, heart still tangled in thoughts. “Do you remember this one?”

She held out the sketch.

Her grandmother leaned over, squinting. “That looks like the old pumpkin patch behind Garrick’s farm. And that creature—good heavens, that takes me back.” She straightened. “You used to draw little beasties for every season. Called them your ‘calendar friends.’ December was always that one.”

A knock rattled the door before Katie could respond. Two quick raps. Then a pause.

Spark opened one eye, then the other, stretched, and yawned.

Another knock.

“Katie?” came the familiar voice of Farmer Garrick. “You up? Something happened to my pumpkins last night.”

Katie blinked at the drawing, then at her grandmother.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

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Katie opened the door to a blast of cold air and the hunched figure of Farmer Garrick. Snow dusted the shoulders of his patched coat, and his nose was already red with wind. Behind him, the village still slept under a layer of soft white, chimneys puffing lazily against the pale morning sky.

“Morning,” he grunted, eyes flicking toward the satchel hanging by the door. “Sorry to bother you so early, but I figured you’d want to see this before I call the Guild.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “The Guild? That bad?”

Garrick jerked his thumb toward the hill. “Come see for yourself.”

She hesitated just long enough to grab her pest control kit—old habit—and Spark, now awake and blinking curiously, hopped up onto her shoulder like a trained cat. She nestled him into the satchel with a soft cloth and pulled on her thickest gloves.

The snow crunched crisply beneath their boots as they crossed the fields. Katie let Garrick lead the way, her mind still spinning with the drawing in her hand. Nugget. Amber gemstones. Pumpkin roots. Dotted line.

Too much to be coincidence.

“I didn’t want to panic,” Garrick said gruffly. “But I’ve got a full patch of Yule pumpkins ready for market. These aren’t your garden-variety gourds. Glow-pumpkins, you know? Only grow properly in Elderglen soil. City folk pay absurd prices for ‘em this time of year—Glow pumpkin lattes are the latest fad in the capital.”

They crested the rise, and Katie drew in a breath.

Below, Garrick’s glow-pumpkin patch stretched in neat rows. Or had. Now the ground was laced with strange ridges, as though someone had dragged a plow randomly through the snow.

Cracked soil steamed in the cold air. One of the pumpkins, a lovely pale orange globe, lay cracked and deflating. Its glow sputtered like a candle nearing its end.

“Tunnels,” Garrick said grimly. “Too many. Came up overnight. Roots are getting chewed. ”

Katie crouched near a ridge, brushing away snow with her glove. The earth beneath was damp, unnaturally warm. Her fingers tingled from the contrast.

“These aren’t mole tunnels,” she said quietly. “These tracks are deliberate,” she said, rubbing her fingers together. “They’re not random digging.”

The pain in her knees was already flaring, and the cold bit sharp into her joints. She stood, hissing softly.

A sudden rustle beneath the earth startled her.

A mound near the pumpkins shifted. Soil spilled down the sides.

And then, with a small grunt, a creature emerged.

Rounded like a bread loaf, its surface mottled and clay-colored, the beast blinked two crystalline eyes in the morning light. Its enormous claws gleamed with recent work. Behind its ears—if they were ears—faint orange mineral streaks shimmered, almost like the pumpkins themselves.

It sniffed the air. First toward the nearest pumpkin. Then… toward Katie.

She recognized it instantly.

“A Gravlin,” she breathed.

Spark stirred in the satchel.

“You’ve seen one?” Garrick asked, incredulous.

“Only at the city zoo,” Katie said, memories bubbling up. “They had a small family of them in the artificial mountain exhibit. Said to live in high-altitude caves—Frostback Ranges, I think. They eat gemstones. Hibernate all summer.”

She took a step forward. The Gravlin froze.

“This one’s far from home,” she added quietly. “And starving.”

“Can you catch it?” Garrick asked, arms crossed.

“Maybe. Let me try something.”

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Katie stepped carefully across the ridged soil, kneeling beside one of the larger tunnel mouths. A shimmer of warmth rolled out from below—like standing over a bakery vent in winter. She peeled off her right glove and pressed her palm to the earth.

Still warm. Still humming.

She exhaled slowly and reached for her pest control kit, unbuckling the latches with practiced hands. Inside, nestled among the coils of string, pouches of dust, and labeled flasks, she found a small bottle marked TUNNEL REPELLENT – S2. It was old stock from her city patrol days, but reliable.

“You’re going to try that?” Garrick asked, watching with arms crossed.

“It works on subsoil tunnelers. Muckrats, rift crawlers… even the occasional coal mole.”

She popped the cork and flinched as the pungent scent hit the air—something between burnt bark and vinegar. Carefully, she dribbled a line of the dark liquid around the tunnel’s edge.

The effect was immediate.

The soil trembled. A dull grunt sounded from below.

Then the Gravlin’s snout appeared again. It sniffed the air, eyes blinking. Its broad head emerged, face scrunched. It chuffed once in protest—then backed down into the tunnel and disappeared.

Katie capped the bottle.

Garrick let out a breath. “Well, that was easy.”

But Katie was already shaking her head.

“Watch.”

A minute passed.

Then another mound shifted. The Gravlin emerged again, this time two ridges closer to the center of the patch. It sniffed, then ambled toward the nearest glow pumpkin and began scraping at the roots.

“Persistent little brute,” Garrick muttered.

“It’s too hungry,” Katie said, frowning. “Repellents work on instincts like territory or fear. But this isn’t fear. It’s desperation.”

She sat back on her heels, her knees aching. The cold had started to creep under her coat and into her bones. She could feel the slow throb setting into her joints—sharp under her kneecaps, dull behind her shoulders.

Her hands trembled slightly as she returned the bottle to her kit.

Garrick said nothing, but his eyes flicked toward her hands.

Katie ignored it.

She glanced at the pumpkin vines, the ridges, the steaming soil. Then down at her satchel.

Spark peeked out, wide-eyed and alert. His little nostrils flared.

He wriggled free and hopped onto the snow. His tiny claws barely left a mark on the crust as he padded toward a tree and, without shame or ceremony, relieved himself on the roots.

Katie let out a breath of laughter. “So that’s what all the wiggling was about.”

Spark flicked his tail, satisfied. Then he turned back toward her and trotted up, pausing in front of her with a curious look.

Katie rubbed her gloved hands together, wincing.

Spark tilted his head.

Then, slowly and with clear intent, he leaned forward and exhaled—a soft, steady stream of warm breath over her fingers.

Heat soaked into her skin. The tremble stilled.

Katie stared at him.

“You knew I was cold.”

Spark blinked, then gently nudged her wrist with his nose.

She smiled. “Thank you.”

And then—an idea took shape.

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Katie rose carefully to her feet, her joints still protesting despite the warmth now tingling through her fingers. The idea forming in her head was absurd. Playful. The sort of plan her younger self would’ve tried during one of her wild backyard “expeditions.” And yet…

She turned to Garrick.

“Do you have any lantern chips? The cheap ones. Amber, quartz… anything left over from harvest stalls?”

Garrick furrowed his brow. “Maybe a few in the shed. Why?”

“I want to try something,” she said. “No traps. Just a redirection.”

“Fine by me,” he said, tugging his hat down and trudging off. “So long as it gets the blighter away from my roots.”

Katie knelt in the snow, heart thudding softly in her chest.

The dotted trail from her childhood drawing echoed in her mind. A breadcrumb path of amber stones, curling away from the pumpkin patch to a safe place beyond. Her seven-year-old self had sketched it with such certainty—like she knew it would work.

Could it?

It felt ridiculous to trust a seven-year-old’s imagination, but everything else about the drawing had been right so far.

By the time Garrick returned, puffing slightly, she had traced the same pattern into the snow with the heel of her boot. A slow curve from one of the tunnel mouths out toward a quiet patch by the hedgerow.

“Here,” he said, handing her a small cloth pouch. “Some old chips from last Solstice market. Amber, mostly. Not bright enough for lanterns anymore.”

“They’re perfect,” Katie said, fingers tingling.

She scattered them carefully—one crystal, then another—like seeds being sown in frost. Each glinted faintly in the morning light.

But the tunnel stayed still.

The Gravlin didn’t appear.

Katie exhaled, kneeling again by the burrow. Her fingers hovered just above the soil. “Come on,” she whispered. “This is your trail.”

Nothing.

She pressed her hands closer to the tunnel mouth, trying to sense the warmth still lingering below. Her fingers, damp from snow and stiff from cold, began to tremble again.

Spark padded over silently. He watched her, his head tilting just slightly. Then, without prompting, he stepped forward and blew a soft breath over her hands.

The same gentle warmth as before. A hush of heat that soaked into her skin, eased the ache, slowed the trembling.

Katie smiled softly. “That’s it,” she whispered.

She lowered her hands, letting the heat trail downward. Then pulled them away and nodded to Spark. “Keep going.”

Spark blinked, understanding flickering behind his golden eyes. He leaned forward and exhaled again—this time into the tunnel.

A steady stream of warmth poured down into the earth. Steam curled upward. The frost along the rim began to melt. To a Gravlin, that warmth was a promise of summer, a cue to rise and curl up, not dig.

The earth shifted.

First a rumble. Then the soft crunch of movement below. A nose emerged, then crystal-bright eyes blinking against the daylight.

The Gravlin climbed out slowly, sniffing.

Then it turned.

Toward the gemstone trail.

Katie held her breath as it ambled forward, munching one chip, then the next. Its pace was clumsy but determined, like a sleepy child following the scent of breakfast.

At the end of the trail, she placed her open satchel on the ground, the interior already warmed by Spark.

The Gravlin hesitated.

Then, with a small grunt, it clambered inside and curled up.

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The walk back to the cottage was slow and quiet, with snow falling in lazy spirals that softened the path and blanketed the hedges. Katie kept one hand on the satchel, now slightly heavier with the curled shape of a sleeping Gravlin nestled inside. Spark trotted at her side, leaving tiny claw prints that filled in moments later with flurries.

Garrick had muttered something that might have been thanks. She didn’t push for more. The glow-pumpkins were safe, for now, and the Gravlin—Nugget, she thought, not knowing where the certainty came from—had found a warm place to rest.

Katie’s legs ached as she crossed the garden gate, a quiet weariness settling into her bones. Her fingers felt stiff, though the trembling had eased. Her breath came a little short, shallow with cold and effort. Yet beneath it all, a steady warmth kindled—a feeling she hadn’t known in ages. Perhaps, after everything, she might still have a place in this world.

The fire still glowed behind the cottage windows, casting flickers against the frost-laced panes. The sight made her throat tighten unexpectedly.

Home.

She pushed open the door with her hip and stepped inside, boots thudding on the mat.

Grandma was stirring something in the pot over the hearth. She turned as Katie entered, eyebrows lifting.

“Well?”

Katie didn’t answer right away. She crossed to the fire and opened the satchel.

Spark had already trotted ahead to his usual spot by the rug, curling immediately into a spiral of scales.

But the Gravlin… the Gravlin hesitated.

It blinked sleepily, then uncurled with surprising grace and stepped out onto the warm hearthstone. It sniffed the air, then the fire, and finally the small pile of amber chips Katie poured gently from her pocket—leftovers from Garrick’s pouch.

The Gravlin let out a soft rumble, like a purr from deep underground, and settled beside the fire. Its claws curled inward. Its eyes dimmed to a gentle glow.

Grandma blinked.

“Well,” she said again. “That’s new.”

Katie sat down heavily in the armchair, her knees sighing in protest.

“I think it likes us,” she said, voice soft. “And I think it’s supposed to be here.”

Grandma came over with a steaming mug and set it gently in Katie’s hands. “That’s not the only thing that’s supposed to be here.”

She nodded toward the side table. The sketchbook lay there, still open where Katie had left it. The Lost Spark on one page. Nugget on the next.

Katie reached for it with her free hand, thumb brushing the edge.

“I didn’t remember drawing this until this morning,” she said. “But everything about it was right. The pumpkins, the trail, the stones.” She looked toward the hearth. “Even the name.”

Grandma nodded at the drawings still scattered on the table. “Looks like you’ve got more work ahead of you.” She settled into her chair with a sigh. “But if you’re planning to adopt every creature you ever drew,” Grandma said, “we might need a bigger cottage”.

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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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