Chapter Text
Three weeks shy of summer solstice, the Brothers Lynch lost everything.
Their mother Aurora, mild-mannered and fair; their father Niall, bright-eyed and charming; their home the Barns, whimsical and wonderful — all of it, eaten up in flames.
It was the first dragon attack of the season.
It was not the last.
In the aftermath, the brothers adopted different methods to manage their grief. The youngest, Matthew, sought comfort in community. New friends, new hobbies, new challenges in new faraway lands. You had to learn to take the hits smiling.
The eldest, Declan, found safety in security. Inheritance invested in a fireproof home in the safest corner of Singer’s Falls. Dreams dashed, ambitions cast aside in lieu of a middling role at court. You had to make some sacrifices to dispel the risks.
The middle child, Ronan, cared for neither safety nor comfort, and so he rejected both his brothers’ paths for the most troubling approach of all: courting danger at every turn. He sought out fights and threw the first punch, raced devils down dusty fields in the valley, drowned his sorrows in liquor and chased adrenaline wherever he could find it. It didn’t get rid of the nightmares, but that was all right. Sometimes the best you could hope for was escape.
Like all poor coping methods, this didn’t last. The final nail in the coffin arrived the following year, when one drink too many sent Ronan careening off his horse mid-race and hitting the dirt head-first, both self-preservation and consciousness lost to the wind.
“Mary Mother of God, so help us both,” Declan said, after the doctors deemed Ronan fit for bed-rest and left. Ronan turned his gaze to the window, watching the spring hailstones ricochet off the glass. He hadn’t spoken to his brother in half a year and saw no reason to make nice now.
But Declan was nothing if not persistent. “Ronan. Tell me you’re listening.”
“Don’t you have women’s hearts to be playing with? Lives to ruin?”
“I suppose you don’t need me to ruin yours. You’re doing a stellar job of that yourself.”
The words glanced off Ronan the same way the rain hit the glass. Minimal impact, nothing he wasn’t built to withstand. Declan loved to lecture even more than he loved to lie. He’d earned the power of hindsight at the wizened age of twenty-one and believed there was always something that someone — usually Ronan — should know better than to do. It really was a wonder he hadn’t caved under the weight of his own martyr complex yet.
“What’s the end goal here, Ronan?” Declan asked the walls. “Drink yourself senseless and get yourself killed?”
“Depends. Would dying get you off my back, or would you chase me to the gates just to tell me to tuck my shirt in?”
“You are not as funny as you think you are.”
Ronan joined the rain mark dots, forming shapes in his mind. His injuries had left him too drained for a proper fight.
The floorboards creaked, signs of retreat. He counted down the seconds, four, three, two —
“You ought to grow up, at least for Matthew’s sake.” Right on time, the parting sermon. Declan was nothing if not predictable. “He cares, even if you won’t.”
Ronan waited until the door slammed shut before clenching his fist in the bedsheets. Bringing up Matthew was a low blow, a shock attack launched right at the heart of Ronan’s defences. Declan could dole out cruelty like a pro when it counted; they’d both learned from the best wordsmith on the block.
He cares, even if you won’t. But that wasn’t a fair assessment. Ronan didn’t want to die, no matter how much it looked that way. What he craved was action, excitement, something to shake up the air and bring some much-needed color to his world. Things had been gray for far too long. Weary gray. Lifeless gray. It was like he was still there in the thick of the dragon’s smoke, wading through the wreckage, longing for that vital glimpse of clear skies and oxygen.
But what else could he do? What was there to try for? Any vague ideas Ronan had ever conceived of a future for himself had been swept away along with everything else he held dear, and he had neither the skill nor the inclination to build a new plan from scratch. He’d never been good with possibilities. He lived in the moment and longed for the past.
What else was there?
Weeks later, he got his answer.
Singer’s Falls, named for the cliff-side waterfall that cut the village in two, was divided in more ways than one. On one side of the river: civilization, or the closest approximation at least. Paved roads, packed town square, grand parliament buildings in the center of it all. On the other side: acres and acres of rural farmland, the neighbors few and far between. And further out, where even the cows couldn’t reach, lay the wretched forest. Cabeswater.
No one had straight answers for what lay between the trees. Nothing good, that was for sure. Magic, menace, most certain doom. There were rumors of witches, the wicked kind that ate children and cast generational curses on anyone that did them wrong, but Ronan figured that was all folk’s tale. All he knew was that the beasts that had killed his parents were drawn to Cabeswater like moths to the flame. They swooped in over the cliffs, following the river right down to its roots and laying destruction to everything else in their paths.
The further you got from the woods, the better your odds of surviving unscathed. Hence why Declan had up and relocated the remaining Lynches to the most populated hub in the village. Hence why Ronan made a habit of crossing the bridge whenever his usual distraction methods didn’t cut it. The air was better down here, cleaner. The livestock made better company than most people, and the view was sweeter. He could think more clearly when he was alone like this, wandering down valley dips, surrounded by the farm life and vivid green plains he’d once called home.
This was where Ronan stood when it happened. When the bell began to ring.
The bell. A warning toll. Dragons on the horizon.
He cares, even if you won’t.
Ronan sure as hell cared right now.
There was no time. Ronan drew to a stop, shock frozen, as the warning echoed across the valley. There was no time. He was unprepared, unprotected. There was no time. He broke into a run.
Back up hill, towards town, heart pounding in double time. Adrenaline shot through his body, spurred him on as the minutes ticked down. He was miles out from civilization. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, but still he pushed himself. It was a race with deadly consequences, but that had never stopped him before.
Wind struck his back. The flapping of wings thundered in his ears. Ronan dropped to his knees, ducked for cover, like it would do him any good. But the tall grass offered no protection. You couldn’t hide from fire. It would get you or it wouldn’t.
The flapping got louder, louder, until it was right above him, around him, eclipsing every other sound, every other thought. He smelled it before he saw it, that thick cloying stench that seeped into his lungs and burned. He doubled over coughing. Tears swam in his eyes. Through them, he could just make out a red barn up ahead, magnificently ablaze.
Ronan, go! Take Matthew—!
A wail shot through the air, piercing and apocalyptic. Ronan covered his ears, closed his eyes, made himself small in the grass and sent out one last desperate prayer for life. Seconds, hours, minutes passed. He couldn’t say. It felt like an age. It felt like a heartbeat. It felt like hanging in suspension, a soul in purgatory waiting for judgement. Was this how has father had died? Huddled in the dirt, cowed and pathetic?
The wailing cut short. What about Mom? Declan, where’s—?
Something heavy dropped to the earth, shockwaves reverberating beneath Ronan’s feet. Just go! You need to go!
The silence that followed was the scariest part of all. Ronan opened his eyes to the end of the world.
The burning red barn was nothing but ash and splinters now. All around him, the grass was ravaged — edges sizzled, color seeped away. He’d been right in the eye of the storm. It was a miracle he’d escaped unscathed.
The familiar clinking of hooves alerted Ronan he wasn’t alone anymore. He rubbed away the last of the moisture from his eyes, blinking until the burning faded, and then looked up. There, gathered at the top of the hill, were a line of shadows on horseback. He watched as the group descended downhill as one, taking in the reflective suits of armor and golden bows in their hands. It was the Guard, here on time to save the day. Which meant—
Ronan turned around and there it was, a dead weight laying belly down in the weeds. The dragon. The beast. It was at least three times the size of his beloved horse Bones, with scarlet scales that shimmered in the waning light. A golden arrow protruded from its side, but Ronan couldn’t tell the blood from the violent red of the rest of it. There was a grandness to the creature that made its vulnerability here seem distinctly wrong, an impressiveness that called to Ronan’s soul and commanded him to take action.
But there was nothing more to be done. As Ronan watched, the dragon’s front leg muscles gave one last feeble twitch before falling still, succumbing to the whims of mankind.
They’d slayed it.
Point to humanity.
The Guard closed in on the wreckage site and set about gathering up the beast’s corpse in methodical manner. Ronan watched as reinforcements arrived towing some kind of giant wheeled contraption — a pulley, by the looks of things.
“Ties the legs first!” one of them yelled.
Morbid curiosity gripped Ronan by the neck. He tried to inch closer, but one of the Guard turned on him and held him back.
“Christ, lad, have you got a death wish?” she said. “This is no time for gallivanting around.”
“What are you gonna do with them?”
“Roast it on a skewer.” When Ronan continued staring at her blankly, she sighed and added, “Stock inspection. Greenmantle’s orders.”
Greenmantle. He knew that name. It was one of the noble bastards Declan spent his work days schmoozing with, some somethings or others with fancy titles and too much wealth. They took something to do with the Guard, although Ronan didn’t know the details.
“Inspect them for what?” he asked. “They’re already dead.”
Clearly the woman’s patience with civilian talk had run out. She ushered him away with a, “Get on back home before you wind up on the skewer,” and really, Ronan had no death wish. He took one last lingering look at the dragon, now tied and netted, before retreating.
It took hours for the adrenaline to wear off. He couldn’t stop picturing it, the conquered beast, the monster slain, one wild breathing branch of the woods tamed. He’d been easy prey, but technical advances ensured humanity remained the apex predator.
Ronan shuddered long after the sweat cooled off. For a second back there, he’d been sure he was going to die. Weeping in the tall grass, what a way to go.
But there’d been something else too, something parallel to fear. Split by the thinnest knife’s edge of margins, like the winding river cutting through home: exhilaration.
What else is there, Ronan Lynch?
Just like that, he had his answer.
-
Joining the Guard took less work than Ronan anticipated. Having a brother who lived and breathed politics could be a benefit every once in a blue moon. A favor called upon here, a promise given there, and Declan was able to shuffle Ronan through the doors and into the Greenmantles’ training school by the end of the season — but not without making his displeasure known.
“You almost get killed by those beasts and now you decide to chase after them for fun? Have some sense, Ronan!”
Ronan could’ve pointed out it wasn’t about fun, or even about duty. It was about everything he’d been running from since that fateful day their world shrunk down to three. Loss couldn’t be conquered but fear surely could. He wouldn’t spend his last moments cowering in the dirt, not when he could revel in action instead.
But what did any of that matter? Declan wouldn’t listen, anyway. He never did.
“Someone’s got to do it,” Ronan said, because at least that was true.
By fall, Ronan was a full-fledged student of the Guard. This meant long days with early starts, following a strict regime of eat-study-train. This meant moving into dorms full-time, cohabiting with a cohort of young men and women who were just as fit and tough and ballsy as the ‘dragon slayer’ title would suggest. It meant horse riding and archery, weights training and fencing, classes on dragon anatomy and dragon slaying simulations and goddamn fucking politics 101, because that mattered.
It meant school. It meant paying to live at school.
Ronan had never cared for school.
But Declan already considered this a mistake. Ronan couldn’t let him win. So he endured it best he could and found joy in the little things, like besting Joseph Kavinsky on horseback and wiping the smug grin off his face.
“Lynch! Kavinsky!” their trainer Ferguson hollered. “For the last time, this isn’t a race!”
Okay, so Ronan had never exactly been a model student. At least this time he showed up.
For all that joining the Guard revolved around dragons, there was a serious lack of real life dragons in the course material. This couldn’t be blamed on incompetent teachers, though. Dragons were creatures of habit. They lived somewhere in the cliffs that shadowed the valley, they favored the woods, they arrived in the spring and were gone by the fall. That meant months of training while the guests of honor slept through hibernation season.
It meant, when they did arrive, Ronan and his peers had had months to train. But Ronan had faced off against the impossible before, and he knew no amount of simulations could prepare you for the real thing.
That spring, life became one endless game of shambling from one sanctioned post to another, waiting out the inevitable. His class of thirty-five had been broken up into teams of seven, and together with the nine Guard members assigned to them, they made up one trainee-fleet. It was up to chance which fleet would get their first experience on the ground fighting a flesh-and-blood beast, entirely dependent on which way the wind blew.
Bringing down a real dragon was a whole different ball game from bringing down the models they trained with, so this served as an official test of mettle. Who had it in them to graduate through the gates, who was destined to crumble at the last hurdle, who would earn fancy dinners at the Greenmantle estate and who would ruin their brother’s fledgling career.
On the plus side: Ronan’s group included Jordan Hennessy, one of the rare classmates he could stand.
On the downside: they also had Kavinsky. The months could not pass quickly enough.
So when the day finally arrived, Ronan was grateful. Grateful, and terrified.
“Lynch! Hennessy! Move!”
Ronan followed Hennessy down the stairs of the fort, heart pounding as the familiar warning bell tolled out into the night. They’d practiced this many times, knew how to make each second count. Armor on, shields and weapons adjusted, horses mounted, go — towards the danger rather than away.
As one, the group dropped into position. Their current post was as close to the woods as one dared to get. The fallback fleet, Ferguson called it. They were a last-ditch effort if all other fleets failed to contain the beast. They were the poor bastards tasked to hold up the wall, keep the monsters contained. Beyond them lay freedom.
The beast that had killed his parents had been unstoppable. No amount of fallback fleets could’ve brought that one down.
“What do you bet it’s another false alarm?” Hennessy said.
Ronan shrugged. Odds were high. They’d had two of those since they set up camp out here, and that had only been five nights ago.
“The fucker better go down quick, that’s all I’m saying. If I lose anymore sleep, I’m going to be hell to deal with tomorrow.”
“You’re already hell to deal with now.”
Hennessy cackled, and then clammed up when Ferguson chewed her out. They shared a chummy look, eyes rolling, but no one had the guts to get on the wrong side of Ferguson. He was a grade-A pain in the ass, sleep or no sleep.
As the group settled down, Ronan waited for action. He waited, and waited, but they were met with no flap of wings, no blur of movement in the night time sky. So it was a false alarm then. Either that, or the dragon had been on the small side and dealt with further afield.
“All clear,” Ferguson yelled eventually. The group slowly dispersed.
“Well, that was as anticlimactic as always,” Hennessy said. “Bit like life, isn’t it? You spend every minute of your childhood counting down for it to start, and then you finally get there and you find out it’s all just one long slog to the grave.”
“Do you have an off switch?” Ronan said.
“Yes, it’s called ‘buy my silence, Ronan Lynch.’”
As the rest of the group started heading back to the campsite, Ronan fell behind with Hennessy. Better her company than the rest, better drawing out this time beneath the stars than succumbing to imprisonment. It’d been too long since he could roam freely, away from people and places and responsibility. He missed this. He missed home.
Even here among his own savage kind, Ronan was still the outsider.
But there was Hennessy at least, and she was still monologuing. He tuned back in.
“The real question is, does Ronan Lynch have an off switch? Or is he nothing but grunts and glowers all day long? You know, you’d fit right in among our furry friends with that attitude. I’m surprised you didn’t pop out the womb breathing fire.”
“Did you sleep through those anatomy lessons? They don’t have fur, you madwoman.”
“Scaly friends then. Doesn’t have as good a ring to it, does it? Ronan Lynch, the Snake. You couldn’t sneak past shite.”
“Man, I’m being serious. There’s this called giving it a rest.”
“And there’s this thing called making conversation. Some even say it’s polite.”
“Nothing about you is ever polite. You’ll be a shithead on your death bed.”
Hennessy raised her free hand to flip him off. Ronan approved of that immensely. He considered saying something scathing to show his appreciation, but then a distant star caught his eye. A distant star…that was getting closer and closer with each second.
Wait.
“Hey, do you see that?”
“See what?” Hennessy followed the path of Ronan’s outstretched pointer finger, squinting into the horizon. “Fucking hell. Is that—?”
“Shit.”
Another dragon. Heading straight towards them.
The bell hadn’t rung. Why hadn’t the bell rung? Why hadn’t anyone else noticed? There was no time. He yelled out a warning to the rest of the team and then fell back into position, confident that they’d follow. At least Hennessy would follow.
“I don’t know what I’m doing!” Hennessy shouted from somewhere beside him.
“And you think I do?”
“Someone’s got to! Laws of probability and all that!”
Ronan pulled out a new golden arrow with practiced fingers and placed it in his bow. Pulled it back, ready to draw. His hand was shaking. Why was his hand shaking? Why were the rest of the fleet so far behind?
Didn’t matter. Sometimes life didn’t go according to plan. Sometimes the plan went sideways. Screw the plan.
“If I die it’s on you, Ronan Lynch!”
“Save the theatrics,” Ronan replied, as the thundering flap of wings got louder. He adjusted his shield and readied for the onslaught that would follow: the smoke, the stench, the heat. The trick was to aim for the sore spots — the underside of the belly, the wings — but getting close enough for that meant weathering the storm first. Him and his horse were kitted out in armor that reflected rather than absorbed the flames, but knowing this in your head and knowing it in your gut was a different story.
Ronan set his sights on the target, watched its heat map blaze through the sky. He steeled himself for trouble and aimed the arrow. Hesitated.
Just go! You need to go!
Ronan —
“Lynch, you pussy!”
Ronan blinked just in time to catch the golden arrow arcing through the night sky. It hit its target right on, slicing right through the beast’s wing. The beast roared. Plumes of smoke enveloped the atmosphere. Ronan’s horse whinnied in response. He raised his shield against the damage, closing his eyes as the monster went down right at the edge of the woods.
“Did you see that? Did you sorry ass bastards see that? Money shot, baby!”
Kavinsky. It had to be Kavinsky.
Ronan willed his body to stop shaking. It was over, it was fine, except it wasn’t at all. The dragon might’ve been slayed but Ronan’s fears remained unconquered. Maybe escape was the best he’d ever be able to hope for.
“Lynch!” hollered Ferguson. “What in Christ’s name was that about?”
“I—”
“Don’t be so tough on him, boss,” Kavinsky snickered, “Lynch just got hit with the ole performance anxiety! Poor sod just couldn’t get it up in time!”
Laughter spread through the group. Ronan dismounted from his horse, crossed the field and grabbed Kavinsky by the lapels.
“You wanna say that to my face?”
“That’s enough!” Ferguson said. “Kavinsky, I want your field report on my desk before dawn. Lynch, since you missed the damn shot, you’re heading clean up duty.”
“What?”
“I said, you’re heading clean up duty! I want all of you splitting up and securing the perimeter. That beast might look lost to us now, but that doesn’t mean it won’t strike back out.”
“I killed it,” Kavinsky protested. “I got that baby hook, line and sinker. You saw me.”
“I saw a beast go down in Cabeswater. You wanna hand off fate to Cabeswater, be my guest!”
Ronan swore as the reality of the situation hit him. They’d lost the monster to those wretched woods, and now it was on him to track its body down.
“I’m setting a timer for fifteen minutes. If you see nothing, you come straight back out,” O’Malley, another one of their trainers, warned him. “That’s an order, Lynch. Those woods are a force you don’t wanna be messing with.”
“You don’t say,” Ronan muttered. He steeled himself before heading inside.
It was pitch black, not a single living thing showing up in the heat goggles. The darkness obscured whatever horrors might’ve been lying in wait, at least, but that didn’t mean he was up for taking chances. Ronan pressed on without lingering.
He checked his timer periodically. Three minutes, five minutes, six. After seven minutes, he considered back tracking and telling everyone the dragon had clearly escaped. After eight minutes, he drew to a standstill.
Because it was there.
And it sure as hell wasn’t dead.
Ronan held his breath. The dragon paid no notice to him. It continued crawling along the forest floor, dragging its body weight like a beached sea mammal. Ronan stalked it along the beaten path, both awed and terrified and incapable of pulling away.
It was pitch black. Iridescent. Beautiful.
Female, he suspected, although he could be wrong. He’d only absorbed enough anatomy knowledge to get a passing grade.
They reached a looming cave mouth built into the side of the cliffs and the dragon stalled — or rather, faltered. Her legs gave out and she collapsed belly-down, breathing heavily. Ronan’s timer vibrated as fifteen minutes approached. He had to go, he had to tell the others where to find her or bring her to them.
Realistically, he had to kill he first. Ronan gripped his sword with sweaty hands, poised to strike.
The dragon looked up then, as though sensing the danger. She peered at Ronan through slitted eyes that held more warmth that should’ve been possible. She made no move to advance. She wasn’t going to fight him, he realized. Too badly hurt. To exhausted. She’d spent her energy crawling to safety, unaware of the danger that lingered at her heels.
Ronan took a step forward. His heart hammered. The dragon let out a pitiful whine and then lowered her head.
It’s a beast, he told himself. It killed your parents.
But no matter how many times he turned this fact over, he couldn’t bring himself to act on it. She was hurt. She was so much smaller than Ronan had imagined. She was a frightened animal huddled on the ground, cowed and pathetic.
He couldn’t kill her. He couldn’t kill her.
He turned and ran.
Half the fleet had retreated inside by the time Ronan made it back to their post. Kavinsky, O’Malley and Ferguson all remained though, and they each looked at Ronan with expectation.
“Well?” Ferguson wanted to know. “Did you find it?”
And Ronan shook his head. He couldn’t lead the team all the way out there to finish the job, couldn’t watch them slaughter a creature he’d just looked in the eye. It was a reckless choice to make, one that could potentially get him expelled from the Guard — or better yet, killed. But Ronan had always had a knack for courting danger. It was an easy choice, too.
“Money shot, my ass,” he said, and spat in Kavinsky’s direction. “The thing got away.”
-
Later, when the rest of the team was safely dead to the world, Ronan crept back into the woods.
This, too, was dangerous, even more so than battling dragons. At least those who faced the fire often lived to tell the tale. There were no such survivors of the trees.
If the dragon wasn’t where Ronan left her, he’d go back. He wasn’t a moron. He didn’t actually have a death wish. But the further in he ventured, the hazier his conviction became. If he couldn’t find her within two minutes…no, another two minutes…no, wait…
Maybe that was how the trees got you. They lured you in like the fae.
But there, up ahead, like a beacon in the gloom lay the cave’s mouth. And there, predictably, lay the dragon. Relief settled on Ronan’s shoulders. He edged closer.
The dragon’s eyes were shut but she was still breathing. He could just make out the rise and fall of her chest, remarkably constant. At least Kavinsky hadn’t killed her. No one deserved to die by that poser’s hand, not even fire-breathing monsters.
Her right wing was bent at an awkward angle, golden arrow still protruding from its tip. If only Ronan could remove it. But how did he go about getting close enough to do it? How did he fix this? Was it even worth trying?
Stupid question. He was already here, already betraying the cause he stood for. His gut knew the right answer even if the rest of him was still torn.
“All right,” he said. He patted his hands down on his trousers. “Let’s do this, big guy.”
He stepped closer—
Then immediately reared back as the dragon growled something fierce.
No, wait, that wasn’t a growl. Her eyes were still shut, body still slumped in the same position as before. She was snoring. Snoring like a revving chainsaw, sure, but snoring all the same.
Ronan let out a sudden laugh.
The snoring stopped.
The dragon — Chainsaw, he decided, she had to be a Chainsaw — opened her large eyes and took Ronan in. All things considered, she wasn’t very threatening. She held a softness to her that contradicted her deadly nature. Maybe she was a special case, a rare dragon without a taste for meat. A vegetarian predator.
She whined again when Ronan inched closer, but this time he got the message. It hurts.
“I know,” he said, apologetic, “but I’ll fix it.”
Chainsaw’s eyes narrowed. Nice try, pal. I’m not taking your word so easily.
“Look, I’m risking a lot just being here,” he said. “You think I’d do all that for nothing.”
No response. Probably, Ronan wasn’t deserving of one. He’d have to prove himself first.
Ronan held his palm out for inspection, held still as Chainsaw sniffed at him like he was food. Held still, still, still, until Chainsaw lowered her head. And Ronan knew what that meant. He’d grown up on a farm, known his fair share of flighty strays. This here was the universal code for I’m trusting you, don’t mess it up.
“Get back.”
And that was the universal code for you’re in deep trouble now, pal.
Chainsaw’s ears perked up, slitted eyes zeroing in on a spot beyond Ronan’s head. Ronan reached for the hilt of his sword—
“I said get back!” Dirt surged up from the ground between man and monster in a swirling arc, as if propelled by an invisible hand. Ronan stumbled out of its path, unsheathed his sword and spun around.
But he wasn’t fast enough.
One move, and the earth jerked under his feet and sent him careening to the ground. Another, and his dropped sword sank deep into the dirt and didn’t resurface. Terrible. Impossible. Except these wretched woods were home to magic and menace and most certain doom. Home to the wicked. What had he been thinking, dropping his guard so readily?
Ronan sunk his palms into the dirt and pulled himself up into a sitting position. He raised his gaze to the intruder’s. He wasn’t dressed like a threat, that was for sure. He wore a frayed coat the color of sunrise and looked more man than myth, fair-haired and fine-boned and faded like the earth. But there was an uncanniness to him too. When he looked upon Ronan, his eyes reflected back light and gave nothing away in turn.
Behind him, his dragon grunted out either a warning or a greeting. And just like that, Ronan knew.
“Witch,” he said.
“Slayer,” the witch replied.
It took a second for Ronan to get it. His clothes, the flame-retardant armor of the Guard. His sword, dipped in gold. There was no denying where he came from.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” said the witch. “Haven’t you heard the stories? The trees aren’t kind to men of your kin. You wander in here, you don’t get to leave.”
“I’d like to see you stop me.”
“You’re defenceless on the ground and I’m all the way over here. Be careful what you wish for, Ronan Lynch.”
Ronan tried not to let his unease show. So what if the wicked witch of the woods knew his name? He’d faced off against much worse. This guy couldn’t have been any older than Ronan himself. He was a poser, and far too smug for his own good.
“You’re all the way over there in my dragon’s firing line, you mean. Don’t tempt fate, you bastard.”
The witch glowered, but the ground didn’t split open and swallow Ronan whole, so that had to count for something. He said, “She’s not yours.”
“She’s more mine than she is yours.”
“You poisoned her with an arrow and you think she’s still on your side?”
“If you were the all-seeing magic man you’re claiming to be, you’d know that stunt wasn’t on me.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re still here when you shouldn’t be. You’re still one of them.”
“I’m here to help her.”
The witch stared Ronan down, and Ronan stared back. Seconds, minutes it lasted, stubborn forces colliding. Ronan’s skin itched but he didn’t react, didn’t move, wouldn’t be moved until death or triumph — whichever came first.
Eventually, the witch lowered his gaze. Unlike with Chainsaw, this didn’t feel symbolic of growing trust.
“It doesn’t matter what you want,” he said. “You don’t belong here. You need to leave.”
“Don’t belong here, my ass. What are you, the goddamn gatekeeper of the trees?”
“Something like that.”
Ronan shook his head. He had no time for cryptic nonsense. There were more important matters to deal with, like Chainsaw’s broken wing. He climbed to his feet, dusting himself off, gleeful when the witch made no move to stop him. Maybe he couldn’t stop him. Maybe the magic from before was just that, parlor tricks. Maybe he was all bark, no bite.
Maybe, maybe. Ronan wasn’t going to bank on that.
“What did you mean when you said it’s poisoned?” he asked.
“What, the arrows? You didn’t know?”
“Do I look like I know?”
The witch looked at him witheringly. “Gold is poisonous to dragons. In small enough dozes, it tranquilizes them. In larger dozes…well, you get the idea.”
It was the sort of fact Ronan’s education should’ve taught him. It bothered him that it didn’t. “Yeah, sure, and I’m part tree. Dragons love that shit. They horde it like crazy.”
“Do you believe every tall tale you hear?”
Ronan rolled his eyes. This witch might not have been threatening but he sure was exceeding at being annoying. “What’s the alternative? Some old wife learned the monster’s weakness and spun a fancy tale to keep it secret?”
“We love the things that hurt us and sometimes the damage doesn’t land. What could be more mythical than that?”
Ronan frowned. He didn’t like the matter-of-fact way the witch phrased it.
“Can it be fixed?”
“Not by you.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ronan said. “Same time tomorrow?”
“If you show up here again—”
“You’ll gut me and feed my insides to the trees. I got it.”
“I mean it—”
“And I meant it too. I’m fixing this mess whether you like it or not. So if I was you, I’d take a hint and move on.”
The witch crossed his arms. “I’m not letting you anywhere near her.”
“Try me,” Ronan said. “See how far you get.”