(Part 1)

Something clanked in the depths of the prison, some squeal of rusty hinges, but she ignored it. There were many things here that went clank and squeal.

Instead, she turned her attention upwards, to the short strip of stones on the ceiling actually illuminated in the dim torchlight. She’d started naming them after she’d grown bored of counting. But now, after cementing the last little pebble in the corner as Granite Jr., working her way through the list several times, and giving each of the rocks a backstory, she’d tired of that as well. So now watching the warm-toned chill of the stones was really just an excuse to let her mind wander anywhere she liked.

Well, anywhere except dragons.

The clanks turned to sharp thonks. That was also pretty common, she mused. The prison guard must be making his rounds. She didn’t even look down when they stopped in front of her cell door.

“Writer,” the familiar voice of the jailor greeted.

She hummed. “Captain.”

“I’ve told you,” the jailor growled. “I’m not a Captain.”

“I’ve told you,” she replied mildly. “I’m not a Writer.”

He grunted. “Still not fessing up? You could get out, you know, if you admitted it. Writers are useful. The bigshots would give you a nice cushy bed, and tasty food that the bugs haven’t been crawling over. All you gotta do is tell my superiors when they come tomorrow that ‘Yes, sir, I am a Writer. Yes, sir, I’ll be good and do what you tell me.’”

She scoffed. “Ah, yes, the joys of a comfy prison. What a shame I’m not a Writer.”

The jailor shook his head sadly. “Miss, you ain’t fooling anyone with that. Just think on it.”

He kept talking, but she ignored him, filling her mind with how Rockdrick had fended off the Great Termite Invasion from the Petrified Forest when he was but a wee mineral. Eventually, the thonks clunked away again. She let her mind wander again.

She’d barely dropped herself into the flow of time when the prison squealed again. It was close this time, filling her ears with its harsh shrieks.

She finally tore her eyes away from the ceiling.

A shadow stood at her door, silhouetted by torchlight. Former door, actually. It lay on the ground, torn from its hinges, a crumpled shadow of its former self.

Her lips pressed together. Strange. She hadn’t heard them approach.

The shadow turned its head to the side, revealing part of its—his—face. “All right, we’ve got it open, Nae’ali. What next?” The strange man was suddenly pushed aside by a sinuous form beside him. It wormed its head into the opening, the dim glittering off its jagged outline.

She rose to her feet, staring. She knew what that silhouette belonged to.

“Dragon,” she whispered.

The man jumped, swore. “Can’t you warn me next time you want to break open an occupied jail cell?” he complained. A low rumble. Her lips quirked up. Dragon laughter. Finally the man recovered his wits. He glanced towards where her voice had come from. She obligingly stepped into the light. The man offered a hand inwards. He grinned. “I know this is sudden, but Nae’ali was super insistent about breaking into this exact prison and this exact cell, so I imagine she means to get you out. She’s not led me astray yet. I’m Ozzy, want a ride out of this junk heap?”

She chuckled darkly, grasped the hand firmly, pulled herself out into the light. “I’m Yrth. And gladly.”

They’d made good time that afternoon, and now, as the sun set over the forest they now found themselves inside, they were already more than a day’s travel on foot away from the prison.

As they slid off the dragon’s back, the man stretched. “You know how to make camp?”

Yrth nodded. “Mhm.”

“Then I’ll track down some water, maybe some food.” He passed his knapsack to her. “Go ahead and set up the tent.”

As the man—Ozzy, she corrected herself—wandered deeper into the woods, she started digging through the bag, but her eyes inevitably fell on the dragon. Nae’ali, she remembered. She hadn’t gotten a good chance to look earlier, so now her eyes greedily slid over every inch of the hide, as she reveled in Nae’ali’s uniqueness, in the fact that every dragon Written by the hands of humans was new and different.

Nae’ali was a lady dragon, she realized. She had something of an eastern dragon around her whiskers, around the serpentine, feathery tail; something of a western wyrm around the scales and rounded spines that ran down her back. She met Nae’ali’s eyes. They glittered back at her. She blinked. Ah. Nae’ali was one of the intelligent ones.

Yrth turned back to the pack. “Does he know?”

Leaves rustled as the dragon settled down. “That I can talk? No.”

Finally she found the tent. “How’d you pull that one over on him?”

Nae’ali scoffed. “Please. Ozzy’s sweet, but about as perceptive as an ear of corn. I practically served up your identity to him on a platter, and he still thinks you’re just a normal, yet unjustly imprisoned woman we’ve rescued from a dungeon. Do you think he’d realize his dragon is smarter than he is?” She puffed smoke from her nostrils, whiskers twitching. “Besides, most of the big dragons nowadays are just slapdash efforts, and only really draconic in the fact they’re scaly and vaguely reptilian. He’s managed to pick up that I’m smarter than those idiots, but you can’t blame him for not knowing I’m a genius when your average housecat is smarter than your average dragon.”

“So you know what I am.” It wasn’t a question.

Nae’ali only smiled. “I need someone of your capabilities, M’thor. Of course I’m only going to search for the best.”

Yrth raised her head, let her eyes rove over the dragon again, this time letting a critical eye slide over the masterpiece of scales. Nae’ali arched her neck proudly.

“You’re incomplete,” she realized. “And now you’re unraveling.”

Nae’ali nodded, her eyes grew distant. “My author… he was a brilliant man. All of the dragons he Wrote were masterpieces. However, one by one, they all fell in the war. I was to be his final work. His greatest masterpiece. It took him a long time to Write me. Everything had to be perfect. He was still Writing on his deathbed. To anyone else, I already looked whole. But there was one last sheet of paper left. His apprentice woke up to find him dead, lying over the final piece of paper that should have completed me.” She exhaled softly. “And then the apprentice threw it in the fire and burned it.”

Yrth blinked. She frowned as she sparked a tiny campfire into life. “Did he have a reason?”

The dragon’s side glided upwards in a smooth shrug. “I know not. All I know is that there is something missing from my bones. I can feel the traces of what should be there, but I am not a Writer. I do not know what I am missing. And now, after years and years, that missing piece is tearing me apart from the inside. I need you to find my missing piece. I need you to complete me.”

“I haven’t Written in years,” she warned. “Not since the country started looking for Writers and forcing them into Writing for the king.”

“But I’ve met one of your dragonets,” Nae’ali murmured, angling her nose so that she could meet Yrth’s eyes. “He was small, but there was just as much care in his making as mine. You are the only one qualified for this task.”

Yrth stiffened. “Jaundice… How, how is he?”

Nae’ali chuckled. “You’ll have to come with us to find out, won’t you?”

“Scheming dragon,” she growled.

Another laugh, louder. “So it is set that you shall return with us. As we travel, I will let you listen to the song in my bones, and perhaps by our journey’s end I will be complete.”