Walking With Dragons
The tale of a novice who mistook a straight line for a battle cry.
He’d walked all night under the canopy of whispering trees, guided only by the thrum in his chest—a magnetic pull he couldn’t explain. Prayer gave no clear instructions, only a direction and a feeling. The abbot had said the villagers were in danger, but not what kind. And as a novice story mage, this was his first real mission. His first chance to turn the ink of imagination into reality.
He stumbled out of the woods just as the first light cut across the hills.
Ahead lay a humble cluster of wooden huts, no more than five, encircled by a crooked palisade. A rough path of sand led to a wooden cross at the village center. Beyond that, hills rolled off into a hazy horizon.
He blinked, disappointed.
This? This was his moment of glory?
The air was peaceful. Too peaceful. Birds chirped, smoke curled from chimneys, and goats nibbled weeds at the edge of the palisade. Nothing screamed “story-worthy threat.”
Until the ground trembled.
The Stampede
Dust bloomed on the far horizon. A low rumble shook the soil. Something was coming.
Villagers spilled from their homes, cradling children, screaming toward the forest.
“Get out! Go back! Into the woods! They’re coming!”
He froze. Feet rooted. Stomach turning somersaults.
Then he ran.
Tangled roots slapped his sandals as he followed the fleeing families into the shadow of pine and ash. They huddled for hours in the thickets, breath held, hearts pounding, while the tremors subsided like a storm spent.
Nothing followed.
Later, they returned to ruins. Two cottages flattened. The rest untouched. The cross still stood. Miraculously.
The village leader—a broad-shouldered farmer with soot on his tunic and a baby on his hip—stood beside the rubble, eyes blazing.
“They always come,” the man snapped, voice rising as he gestured to the crushed cottages. “Every season. We grab our kids and run like animals into the woods while everything we built gets torn apart. And for what? We’ve never seen them, never touched them. We don’t even know what they are. But they come. They destroy. And we’re left picking up the pieces, again and again. You think that’s an accident? You think that’s some kind of… coincidence? No. They’re coming for us. They always have.”
The Story Spell
That night, under firelight, the monk unslung his satchel. He drew out a scrap of dried hide, his inkpot, and his quill. The parchment drank the ink as words poured out—not from his mind, but from somewhere deeper, beyond reason. Silver and gold threads of magic curled into the air, circling the villagers, humming softly.
The world blinked.
When his eyes opened again, they stood in a mountain valley dusted with snow. The villagers were dressed like royalty, swords at their sides, eyes bright with wonder. Even the children had weapons—tiny shields, jeweled hilts, bronze helmets too big for their brows.
Then the mountain roared.
A silver-scaled dragon broke free of the snowy peak, wings wide, black membranes trailing glistening liquid. Blood? Oil? It leapt skyward, then dove with terrifying precision toward the valley.
The villagers panicked. The monk had no sword. No plan.
“Run!” he shouted, and they did—diving into a pine forest at the valley’s edge.
They watched from the rocks.
The dragon didn’t pursue.
Instead, it landed, sniffed, then kept walking. A straight line again. Toward the far side of the valley.
And there—on a distant crag—waited another dragon.
Smaller. Golden. With a feathery crown that shimmered in the light.
The silver one reached it. Their necks curled together in quiet communion. Not battle. Not conquest. Reunion.
The Revelation
The story spell faded in a cyclone of glitter. The villagers gasped. They were back around the fire. Night had fallen.
The monk’s hands trembled. Had it worked? Nothing seemed different.
But a girl stepped forward, eyes shining. “I don’t think they were trying to hurt us. I think they were in love. They were on their way to meet.”
A silence settled.
The monk felt it then—click—like a story slotting into place. The creatures hadn’t been attacking. They were traveling. The village simply stood in their path.
The farmer stared at the cross. His shoulders sank.
“We’ve been rebuilding in the same spot every time,” he muttered. “Like fools.”
The girl nodded. “We need to move.”
“Away from the path,” said the monk, smiling at last.
The Goodbye
By morning, plans were underway to relocate. The villagers buzzed with purpose, not fear.
The monk packed his satchel, his quill now dry. “If the beasts return, gather by the cross,” he said. “Pray. I’ll hear.”
“Will you come back?” the girl asked.
“Only if I’m needed.”
She nodded. “You helped us see.”
He hadn’t slayed a dragon. He hadn’t cast fire from his fingers or summoned holy thunder. But he’d created a story—and it had changed everything.
And that, he thought, is what real magic does.
THE END
Good Morning, Father. You're on a roll. This is two for two. I can't wait to see the novel you write, or put together a hundred or so of these and have an anthology.
Well done. A story to reveal truth and better, to show the people their, in hindsight, obvious solution.