An Unexpected Dragon

For Spooktober 2024, word "predator"

They’d walked through a long stretch of forest, dense with old trees that creaked in the wind and whispered ancient secrets, and Galen was beginning to understand where frightening legends of spirits in the dark came from, when at last the trees began to thin and they could see clear meadow ahead. As they stepped into the light, however, Lisveth swore and jerked back, and Galen found himself ducking and stumbling back with her without quite knowing why. “What was that?”

Lisveth put a hand over her eyes and blew out her breath in an irritated snort, flapping her lips like a horse. “We just ran away from a dragon.”

“A dragon?” Galen made a face. Even in the Heel, they knew dragons were either extinct or practically so, certainly no longer in Sayinia.

But when he followed Lisveth’s gaze, he saw the dragon. It hung in the sky, wings spread to catch the wind, and its long tail swam snakelike, stabilizing it. It was mostly red, with a darker underbelly, and its head tipped down toward the earth as it hovered.

Dragons weren’t supposed to hover.

Galen blinked, and the dragon resolved into a kite, all cloth and paper and cord. A cluster of people stood below, watching in awe.

“Stupid,” Lisveth muttered, but he didn’t think it was for the kite or the audience. He followed her out of the sheltering trees. He also felt foolish for ducking back—but it was astounding, really, how instinct had taken over, prompting him to hide before he’d even identified the ostensible danger.

The kite was enormous—probably not quite the size of an actual dragon, if the legends were to be believed, but impressive. It was hard to guess, suspended midair, but Galen supposed three men could have laid head to toe across the wingspan.

A team of men and women were working the lines which bound the kite to earth. Their faces shone with pride and delight, as Galen and Lisveth drew near enough to see them.

“You scared us half to death with that thing,” Lisveth called by way of greeting, her tone making it a compliment.

“Apologies,” called a young woman, and her tone made it a friendly joke. “She gets frisky at times.”