Young Writers Society

There was one small flaw in Fyn’s plan: there were no passenger ships currently heading upriver.

“Bad storm rolling through up north,” a spry old hamadryad told them at one of the many docks along the Taunby, the wide river that ran through the heart of Promise and emptied into the Merrow Bay.“It’s delaying everything, and of course no boat’s going to be stupid enough to head right into it. Come back in, oh, a week or so.”

“I’ll show you stupid,” Fyn hissed. “We don’t have a week! We need passage now!” His skin was prickling under his scales – Promise made his skin crawl. There were too many other godformed here. The humans knew to avert their eyes and get out of his way, but the hamadryads and the thunderbeasts and the merfolk, who each followed their own gods, didn’t seem to care about who was more favored of their god, or held the highest title. The way they talked to him, suddenly and without any postures of respect, was essentially how everyone back home always talked to him, as a hatchling. But he couldn’t possibly be lower-ranked than he was — they weren’t even drakes! Fyn sure as brimstone wasn’t going to submit himself to them, but neither could he seem to establish whether or not he was the one with authority in a conversation.

“Come back in a week,” the hamadryad repeated pleasantly, his grin showing old, yellowed teeth through a curtain of stringy green hair. He probably stank of fish, though Fyn couldn’t say for sure because this entire docks and half the fishermen pushing by him right now stank of fish.

Fyn felt the heat rise in his throat. “We’re trying—”

“—to leave town today, and thanks to that storm it looks like we’ll be walking,” Cassia cut in smoothly. “We really do appreciate the information, though.”

She pressed a small coin into his hand. “Have a silvery day.” She smiled at him, and with hardly a glance at Fyn, walked away.

Fyn sputtered sparks, the fire that had been involuntarily brewing in his stomach choking and dying. The hamadryad had already turned back to his business, repairing some of his nets, apparently under the impression their conversation was finished.

With a growl, Fyn stalked after Cassia. As he went, he updated his mental tally. Fyn: 1. Cassia: 1.

Their third battle took place at the market. Cassia wanted to buy enough provisions to last them nearly two weeks, and when Fyn asked where she was going to put it all, she frowned. “Well, can’t you carry it?”

Fyn recoiled. No self-respecting drake would consent to carry supplies like a common pack horse. “If you’re trying to insult me, just say it to my face.”

Cassia blinked. “No, it was a genuine question! I just thought it’d be easier.”

And she looked so sincerely sorry that even though she agreed not to buy the supplies after Fyn pointed out that it was only a few days’ travel and they could hunt in the forest on the way, Fyn still couldn’t quite bring himself to update his mental tally to Fyn: 2, Cassia: 1.

Between arguments about logistics, the pair made it out of Promise with only an hour or two of sunlight left to spare. By the time they approached the end of their first full day of travel after leaving Promise, Fyn’s restraint had quite evaporated. First Cassia was walking too close to him on the rutted trail, then she was too far, even taking flight and soaring ahead out of sight at times, the sort of thing that would get her killed once they crossed the border proper into Selachen. She had wanted to stop to eat around midday, even though it was wasting daylight, and he had planned to stop just after sunset, to leave enough time for him to hunt. And on and on it went, until they had settled into a sullen sort of silence that almost pretended they were merely strangers walking down the same road.

Now, as Fyn forced his way back into the clearing Cassia had found for the evening, dragging the remains of a young buck, he saw that Cassia had managed to build a fire.

“I could have done that, you know,” Fyn said as he dumped the deer carcass. He let a lick of fire play around his jaws to demonstrate.

“Right,” Cassia said absently.

She was large round stones into the fire for some reason.Fyn left her to it, and settled down with his deer, tearing into it with gusto. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had this large of a meal all to himself. Kills were usually brought back and shared among the tribes, and the hatchlings ate based on how pleased their broodfather was that day. Fyn usually wasn’t the last… but he was often one of the last. He had just found the deer’s liver and was about to rip it open when he heard Cassia gagging behind him.

“Do you have to eat that here?” She had her back to him and was covering her mouth with her hand, trying not to retch. Her wings were stuck stiff out like feathery flags.

“What do you mean? I’m a very clean eater,” Fyn asked, confused. He cleaned his jaws with a swipe of his tongue. He always ate carefully, sure to lick up every last bit of blood and tidy away the bones.

“I just… I thought you would at least cook it. You can literally breathe fire!”

Fyn bristled. “Just because we can breathe fire doesn’t mean we waste all that energy on cooking perfectly good meat.” In truth, it was common for drakes to cook their food, but it required a steady control of your fire breath to get the meat to cook evenly. Every time Fyn had tried, he had charred the outside and hardly warmed the inside. He liked raw meat more, anyway.

“Oh.” Cassia was stealing glances back at him now, wincing each time she saw the gore, but her gaze lingered for longer each time, and though she had taken several more steps back, she seemed to be more interested than repulsed now.

Maybe it was something about the way her blonde hair swayed down her back, or those curious blue eyes that looked back at him. Quite unexpectedly, Fyn found himself stepping back from the carcass the way he would to make space for another drake. “Do you want some meat to cook for yourself? I can’t possibly eat all of this.”

Her eyes widened. “Um – no – thank you – I should probably go… get some water. You eat.”

And she snatched up her collapsible cooking pot and disappeared into the undergrowth with a last glance over her shoulder.

Fyn kicked at the deer carcass, feeling heat creep up his neck to his ears. Why had he done that? She’d just been retching at the sight of the thing – of course she didn’t want any! Plus, she was an angel, and that made her an enemy. Her naiveté was probably all an act meant to put him off his guard.

He crept back to the deer and ate until he was gorged, trying to dislodge the uneasy feeling that Selach was watching him, and he was angry that Fyn had offered meat to his enemy.