Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there was a town called Rosalith. It was a prosperous town, with many scholars and artists and artisans who called it home, and traders coming from far and wide to offer their wares in lively markets. The Lord who ruled over the town was beloved by the people; a man strong and kind, compassionate and just. But his life was taken by great tragedy, as was that of his son who should have followed in his footsteps.
It was his younger brother who took up his mantle instead. Once jolly and adventurous but now stricken by terrible grief he yearned for the family he had lost, even once joy slowly returned to the mourning town and his own soul. And he laughed and made merry as he had before, save for the quiet times when all eyes were averted. He never had children of his own, and he never knew a family again like the one that had been taken from him. But he took the townspeople to his heart as his kin, and he protected them fiercely. Byron Rosfield was his name, and under his leadership the town of Rosalith prospered just as it had in the days of his brother’s rule, a thriving hub of commerce and culture even though it lay closer to the wild northern lands with its rumours of beasts and dragons than any other settlement.
Until one day, the rumours were proven true. And the town’s peace and happiness was shadowed by a threat unlike any the people had faced before.
It began on a calm morning in spring. The banners above the town were flying proudly in the wind and the streets were filled with the voices of children, the calls of birds and the music of the bards that stood at every street corner. The sounds carried all the way to Byron's palace and filled the halls with life; a familiar, uplifting tune to start the day. One that was quickly drowned out by thundering footsteps and the bang of a door being thrown open. The Lord Commander of the guard entered his liege’s chambers with his face pale and sweat beading on his brow, and his breath was heaving from how fast he had run.
‘A dragon, my Lord!’, he exclaimed before he had even come to a halt. ‘A dragon at the gates!’
‘Calm yourself, my good man’, Byron said. ‘A dragon? Is this true?’
‘It landed on the hill near the city gates. A beast as big as three houses!’
Byron paled upon hearing these words. ‘By the Flames! Is it attacking the city? Are the outer farms in peril?’
‘No, my Lord. It is just… sitting there. And -’
‘What is it? Out with it!’
‘It demanded to speak with you.’
An unexpected request, and all the more dangerous for it - Byron knew dragons to be fiercely intelligent creatures, but they seldom deigned to use words when fang and claw spoke much louder. But time was short if the beast sat waiting, and Byron was as protective of his own as any dragon.
‘Well’, he said, and only his tightly clasped hands were belying the way his heart beat in fear. Not fear for himself, but for his people, his kin - though he had to admit that being devoured by a dragon was a prospect to be avoided, if at all possible. ‘It is not every day a man has the opportunity to converse with a dragon. I shall be on my way.’
Before he stepped through the doors of his chambers, he turned around to the Lord Commander once more.
‘Oh, and Sir Wade? See to it that a bard is present at the gates. If I were to fall to a dragon, I would at least have the story of it sung for generations to come.’
********
The dragon was sitting on the hill near the city gates, just as Sir Wade had reported. It was indeed as big as three houses; covered in silver scale from nose to tail, wearing slender horns upon its head like a crown of swords. Its wings stirred up winds with every rustle, even resting against the massive body as they were. In its face, three eyes of molten gold gleamed with an otherworldly light.
Byron bowed before the beast, as seemed proper.
‘Oh Mighty One!’, he called up to the dragon’s head. ‘I am Byron Rosfield, Lord and protector of this town. You honour us with your presence. We never had quarrel with your kind - so please, tell us your desire.’
The dragon lowered its head, a single breath from its nostrils enough to nearly blow Byron off the hill. Its voice was so deep that it resonated in the bones, a growl like a splintering mountain.
‘I demand you gather every young man from your town, and bring them before me. Every one, as long as they are not bound to another soul.’
Byron felt his heart sink. The stories about dragons with a taste for human flesh were plenty, though apparently most seemed to prefer fair maidens as their meal. Many a town of legend had bowed to the beasts’ hunger and sought to appease it with sacrifices. The thought of doing so himself was far from Byron’s mind - the people of Rosalith were his, and he would not suffer a single loss. And so, being a man both crafty and well-spoken, speak he did; hoping that his quick mind would present him with a plan in due time.
‘You see’, he said politely, ‘I am advanced in years. To me, a great many people appear young. Might I ask you to be more specific about your requirements?’
‘Uhm’, the dragon said. Three golden eyes blinked as it sat back on its haunches. The tremor its backside caused when hitting the ground shook the very earth.
It thought about Byron’s question for a good long while, then it said: ‘Bring me any man who has seen more than twenty summers, but not much more than thirty.’
‘A very reasonable choice’, Byron praised. ‘Now onto your second condition… Many tales speak of how virgins are preferable to your kind, but I am afraid that in this day and age, they might be harder to come by. The youth has become quite open-minded about these things, if I may say so.’
The dragon huffed and coughed, motes of white light escaping its mouth and dancing through the air like fireflies.
‘I do not care if they are -’ It coughed again. ‘It is of no importance, as long as they are not currently claimed through marriage or dalliance or any other bond of the heart.’
‘Ah.’ Byron bowed again to hide his puzzlement over the dragon’s curious demands. ‘I see. Of course. Are there any other requirements that you would have fulfilled?’
‘Yes’, the dragon said. ‘They should enjoy the -’ It coughed again, and more motes of light rained down on Byron’s head. ‘The intimate company of other men.’
‘Truly?’, Byron asked with no small measure of bewilderment. ‘Does that… make a difference?’
The dragon pulled back its mighty head to look down on Byron from an even greater height.
‘Of course it does’, it said, seeming a little miffed.
‘Of course’, Byron quickly agreed. He did not see how any of this should make a meal more or less enjoyable, but it seemed unwise to argue with a dragon. ‘But these are very specific requirements, and Rosalith is big. It might take a good long while to find all who fit your description. Weeks, months mayhap. If you would return at a later time… might I suggest summer’s end, or even -’
The dragon growled, a sound that shook the entire hill and made Byron’s teeth rattle.
‘I will give you one month’, it hissed.
‘A most generous offer!’, Byron exclaimed. ‘I thank you for your kindness, oh Mighty One.’
Satisfied, the dragon turned around and spread its silver wings. ‘I shall meet you here, in exactly one month’s time’, it said over its shoulder. And then it leapt into the air and flew away, the storm its wings conjured lifting Byron from his feet and sending him tumbling down the hill. He rose on unsteady legs under the anxious gazes of the guardsmen and their Lord Commander who came hasting to his aid, and the requested bard who seemed to be unsure why he was present at all.
‘Gather all the brightest minds of this town and send them to my palace’, Byron ordered the Lord Commander. ‘And bring the bard. Our task will be worthy of a ballad, nay - a play! A grand saga! On your feet now, quickly. We have much to do.’
********
There was a great gathering in Byron’s palace that day, with all the foremost scholars and artisans and inventors and all the sharp minds the town had to offer, and all warriors and rangers and bounty hunters of renown. The unfortunate bard attended as well, watching the debate unfold from a corner of the room. There was much bickering and disputing and proposals being brought forth about how the dragon might be fought or appeased or negotiated with, and all of them were dismissed right away. Until one of the men, a scout well versed in dealing with creatures big and small, threw his hands in the air in exasperation.
‘To hell with the beast’, he cried. ‘Just take a few barrels of poison and dress them up in fancy clothes. Let the dragon swallow its own doom if it is so very hungry.’
Byron thought about this, for though said mostly in jest the idea was not much worse than any they had produced thus far.
‘Would that work?’, he asked Harpocrates, the wisest of the scholars they had gathered, but the old man shook his head.
‘It would take more than a few barrels of poison to kill a beast like that’, he said. ‘And more than fancy clothes to outwit it.’
‘But the idea is quite ingenious’, Byron said. ‘Let us present the dragon with the sacrifice it desires. We need but find something that is deadly even to a creature like this if swallowed carelessly.’
‘And something to disguise it’, a young engineer added. ‘It would have to look like a man, and move like a man, and speak like a man, too. A tall order, if I ever heard one.’
‘Then this shall be your task’, Byron said to the engineer, for she was a brilliant mind and learned in the ways of magitek, creating things both beautiful and wondrous. ‘Build us a man, and we shall fill it with the dragon’s death.’
‘Now hold on -’, she protested, but Byron had already raised his hands to address all those gathered.
‘In one month’s time, we shall be called dragon slayers. Heroes of this land! But first, all must do their part. To work, to work!’
And so they went to work.
********
On the first day after the dragon had made its demands Byron visited the young engineer, Mid. But she did not notice him setting foot in her workshop, for she was deep in thought over a pile of papers almost half as tall as she was. She wrote and sketched and pondered, then she swiped it all off her table.
‘Impossible!’, she cried. Then she gathered all the papers from the floor and began anew. The state of the papers suggested she had done so a good many times before.
Byron left her to her devices.
On the third day Byron visited the smithy, from which a great clamour was sounding and had done so since the early hours of morning. He found the blacksmith hammering and grinding and polishing away, forming the most delicate contraption Byron had ever seen. There were rods and springs, hinges and gears, a great number of them in a great variety. The blacksmith muttered to himself as he worked, and he seemed greatly irritated but intrigued even more.
Knowing the man to have no fondness for idle conversation or cheerful words, Byron did not disturb him any further.
On the fifth day Byron went to see Harpocrates who had been tasked with finding the dragon’s doom, the heart of their endeavour.
‘I found a hint that might lead me to our answer’, the old man said and showed Byron the book he had been reading. ‘This tells of a dragon’s single weakness. The legends it pertains to are written in curious tongues, but I am certain that I can find the solution in time.’
Filled with hope and giddiness upon hearing this, Byron kissed Harpocrates on the cheek and rushed out of the study with a new spring in his step, leaving the scholar behind both puzzled and amused.
On the seventh day the smithy fell silent, and Byron came rushing from his palace to gaze upon an intricate clockwork contraption. Mid and the blacksmith both had built it from countless parts both big and small, and now it was finished and beautiful and without a doubt the shape of a man.
‘Look!’, Mid cried in excitement. ‘Is it not a thing of beauty?’
It was indeed most marvelous to behold, human ingenuity trapped in a metal cage so elegant and delicate it seemed more like a vessel fit for royalty than a prison at all. Byron felt that it was a shame a creation so grand would end up between a dragon’s teeth.
‘Now help me carry this to my workshop’, Mid said, and Byron could not deny her.
On the eighth day Byron visited Mid once more. To his surprise, his treasurer was present as well, reading through lists of materials so long they coiled on the floor like snakes and looking quite disgruntled while doing so. He interrupted his work as his liege entered, and together they watched as Mid enclosed the clockwork contraption in artificial muscle and sinew. A leg was given shape by her deft hands, and Byron frowned as he saw it.
‘Should it not have a touch more meat on the bones, so to speak?’, he asked. ‘The dragon should not think it will still go hungry after its meal.’
‘The town’s coffers are being emptied by this toy of yours as it is’, the treasurer replied gruffly. ‘The materials are rare and worth their weight in gold. If the dragon wants more of them, it is welcome to pay for them.’
Byron did not know an answer to that, and so he watched in silence as a second leg, long and slender and cost-efficient, came into being.
On the tenth day Byron went to visit the seamstress who had been tasked with making garments befitting their saviour. Though when he saw what she had created, he raised a puzzled eyebrow.
‘That is quite the… hullabaloo’, he commented politely.
‘I figured that if it is to appear human, it would do well to have some personality, my Lord’, the seamstress answered. ‘And once they heard of what you are attempting, many of the townspeople brought a little of their own to add to my work. I did not have the heart to turn anything away, keen as they were on doing their part.’
Byron considered the pile of fabric in red and black, the frayed edges of many a piece of cloth, worn but given with a true heart’s wish woven into its threads. He considered the beads twinkling merrily in the sun, and entirely too many leather straps. He lifted a piece of white fabric from the pile.
‘Is this a dish rag?’
‘I believe it is, my Lord.’
‘Hm. Well. I suppose it has a roguish kind of charm. Let us hope that the dragon is of the same opinion.’
Thus satisfied, he left her to her work.
On the thirteenth day Byron found a man standing in Mid’s workshop. He was pale and motionless and did not have a face, but it was undoubtedly a man.
‘The seamstress finished her work, I believe’, Byron remarked with his back turned towards the marvel of engineering at the centre of the room. ‘It seems prudent to use the new garments, given how much work went into them.’
‘I am still working on the body. Clothes would be a right hassle’, Mid responded, lost in thought as she pored over her papers.
‘Was there truly a need for it to be quite so, well… complete?’, Byron asked, his eyes still politely averted.
‘You asked me to build a man, and so I did’, Mid said. ‘Besides - what if our dragon demands its sacrifice be stripped bare before devouring it? What then? What if it does not appreciate the feeling of fabric between its teeth? And if it is not complete, what then?’
Byron raised his hands to calm her fiery spirit, cautious not to catch another involuntary glance of the sacrifice in question. Though he had to admit Mid’s arguments had merit, it seemed undignified for her creation to stand around unclothed for all to see. And there was truly no reason for it to be quite so well proportioned.
‘I see’, he said. ‘Excellent work, truly. But do give the young man some privacy as soon as you can? For all our sake.’
On the sixteenth day Byron was called to the study. Mid was there as well, and together with Harpocrates, she presented Byron with a heavy tome of creaking leather and yellowed paper.
‘We found our puppet’s face’, she said.
‘And more importantly, its heart’, Harpocrates added.
Byron inspected the page they showed him, and found the portrait of a young man looking back at him. His beauty was befitting a prince, a face as flawless as a marble statue. It was surrounded by soft locks and crowned with eyes sparkling like precious gems, their expression noble and kind and fierce.
‘This man is said to be the only one to ever have vanquished a dragon without army or forbidden spell’, Harpocrates said. ‘Though the tongue it is written in is quite obscure. Vanquished might also mean subjugated or tamed, or even -’
‘It will serve our purpose’, Byron said, being most pleased with this discovery. ‘It would certainly be a face befitting our endeavour. A dragon slayer! Who better to save us from this creature?’
‘He is said to have wielded the dragon’s single weakness, a warrior and great sorcerer blessed with exceptional power’, Harpocrates continued.
‘And what would that power be?’, Byron asked eagerly.
‘The flame of a phoenix. A single feather should be sufficient for our cause - they are said to hold the entirety of a firebird’s power within. A rare artefact, but not impossible to come by.’
‘This is excellent news indeed!’, Byron cried. ‘I shall send out my soldiers at once to find us such a feather. Rosalith will be saved, mark my words!’
And he hurried out of the study and towards the guard’s barracks without dawdling.
On the nineteenth day Mid had sculpted a face noble and fair, and added fiery tresses as soft and feathery as the artefact her creation would carry in its chest. The eyes in that face were deep blue like the mysterious depths of the ocean, and sightless as they stared at her.
Beautiful it was, but that face was without life. Mid had crafted the planes and angles without flaw, but she was no artist; breathing life into a sculpture was not one of her many skills. And so she called upon another, to perfect the puppet’s features.
The establishment the Dame called her own might have been of ill repute, but she herself was not. Well respected she was, and well versed in the arts of beauty and seduction. And so she got to work, and she gave those waxen cheeks the dusting of life, warm and rosy. She made those unseeing eyes sparkle in their elegant frame of dark lashes, and those sealed lips shine until they looked as plush and delicate as a young maiden’s.
When she was done, Mid gazed upon her creation, the labour of her and the entire town’s heart, and she was proud. It was an achievement beyond any dreams, a true magnum opus. She laid a hand on the puppet’s shoulder that was stiff and cold but shaped perfectly true to life.
‘A real shame it is’, she said. ‘I would have very much liked to know you better before giving you up to a dragon.’
‘Careful’, the Dame warned as she saw this. ‘The heart has the habit of attaching itself to things it should not.’
She knew this well, as she had had her fair share of broken hearts, both her own and those of others.
‘It is but a machine’, Mid said, though she sounded sad. ‘As much as I resent the thought of having it destroyed - a machine can be rebuilt if I so wish.’
She looked at the puppet and sighed.
‘Though it is much harder when it has a face to remember it by.’
On the twentieth day Byron found Mid in her workshop, hunched over the puppet that lay before her on the table. With much relief Byron noted that it was now wearing trousers, though its chest was bare. The artificial skin was opened at the seams across and the clockwork frame at its core was exposed, and Mid adjusted the delicate gears with a deep frown on her brow. She was none too gentle about it, though the puppet’s face of course betrayed no discomfort.
‘Goodness, I almost pity it’, Byron said. ‘Whatever seems to be the matter?’
‘It feels no pain’, she said without interrupting her work, dismissing his concern. ‘It is not alive. Which is, in fact, the problem. I can make it move and walk and talk but it is not alive. It is not human, and none will believe it to be.’
She beckoned Byron closer.
‘Stand up’, she commanded.
To Byron’s startled surprise, the exposed gears began to whirr and the puppet sat up on the table. Its face was lifeless and its eyes were blind as it set its feet on the floor and righted itself with sharp motions until it stood before them.
‘Walk there’, Mid commanded.
The puppet started to walk stiffly in the direction she had pointed. But its blind eyes did not seem to perceive or care about the many things strewn about on the floor, and it kept stumbling and swaying as it marched on single-mindedly. It was a pitiful display, and when it passed Byron and faltered again, he steadied it with a gentle hand. It stirred a memory within him, a memory of the times long ago when he had watched over his nephew as the child practiced his steps, only that the puppet did not laugh and run into his arms. It simply walked on, until it had reached the wall and it had nowhere left to go. It turned around and then it stood there, waiting to be commanded once more.
‘I see’, Byron said. And upon seeing the dejected look on Mid’s face, he continued: ‘However, I believe you will find a solution. You have made it this far, which is an achievement I could have expected of no other. I have faith in you.’
He looked at the puppet that stood motionlessly. The way it stared at them might almost be mistaken for curiosity.
‘In both of you’, Byron added.
Mid made no notable progress the next day, or any day thereafter. She tinkered and cursed and adjusted and tried once more, but the puppet remained stubbornly devoid of any semblance of life.
Until on the twenty fifth day, one of the men who had been sent out to retrieve the last missing part of their scheme returned. It was the scout who had sparked the idea of fooling the dragon in the first place, and he brought back with him a single feather no larger than his own hand. It was red and glowed like the fire that was trapped within, a pulsing heart of brilliant blue at its centre. It was softer than the softest down and warm to the touch, almost too warm to hold with bare hands.
Byron watched in awe as Mid placed the feather into the hollow of the puppet’s chest. It lay there, pulsing as if with a heartbeat of its own, and its warmth could be felt even after Mid had closed the puppet’s body up once more.
She stepped back, and with trepidation in her voice she commanded: ‘Stand up.’
The puppet rose with movements both fluid and graceful. Its feet hit the ground softly and once it was standing, it returned its creator’s gaze with eyes clear and bright. The Dame’s hand had given its face all the colours of life, but now there was movement; now its features, once so still and dead, were astir.
‘Yes!’, Mid cried with joy, and she took the puppet by the arms and kissed it on the cheek. ‘Yes! Oh my beauty, I knew you would work! I knew you would be wonderful!’
Once released, the puppet raised a hand to brush the tips of its fingers over the spot Mid’s lips had touched. It leaned its head to the side as if in thought.
‘That is a miracle if I have ever seen one’, Byron said. He leaned forward to study the puppet’s eyes that were now watching him calmly but with intent.
‘Can you speak?’, Byron asked.
‘I can’, the puppet answered, its voice smooth and soft and lovely to hear. Then it leaned its head to the other side, and the light set its copper hair ablaze and made its eyes sparkle. ‘Who am I?’, it asked thoughtfully.
‘Your name is Joshua’, Mid said. And when she caught Byron’s questioning gaze, she explained: ‘It is the name of the dragon slayer from the old tales. It seemed appropriate.'
‘A noble name’, Byron said. ‘It suits you well.’
‘Joshua’, the puppet repeated. ‘That is my name.’
‘How is this possible?’, Byron asked the young engineer full of wonder. ‘How can a single feather accomplish so much?’
‘I wish I knew’, she answered. ‘But this might just be enough to play a dragon for a fool.’
The puppet stood and watched, curiously.
********
Only a few days remained until the dragon’s promised return. And the puppet moved and spoke like a human, but it did not yet know how to behave like one. And so it was decided that it would spend these last remaining days among those it was made to protect, to better learn how to fool even the most wary eye.
When it first stepped out of Mid’s workshop, clad in the garments that had been made for it, frayed scarves draped around its neck and the dish rag slung daringly around its hips, it looked just like any young man to Byron’s eyes. And it followed him with what might have been taken for eagerness as he led it to his palace. It watched as he wrote missives and read reports, it ate with him as he did, because Mid had explained that the fire inside of it needed fuel to keep burning hot. It walked by his side when he took a stroll in the gardens and when he returned, it sat down with him over a chess board that had been gathering dust for many years. It lost the first game and won all that followed, and Byron soon bid it good night - not because he was sore from losing, but because he was all too painfully reminded of a boy who should have been a young man now, sitting where the puppet now sat.
The puppet spent the next day in Harpocrates’ study. There it learned to read in but a few short hours, and then it did not stop reading until the moon was high in the sky and the old man had fallen asleep at his desk. As he sat there, sunken in his chair, the puppet watched him silently. It gathered the books that had been left on his desk and returned them to their proper places. And then it sat down and read some more, until morning came and with it Mid who lead it away.
Lady Hannah had been a friend to Byron for many years; first a friend of his family and then, once they both had suffered terrible loss in the same fateful night, a companion in grief. Like him she had never been blessed with children, but she had spent many a day watching the late Lord’s son as he grew. She took in the puppet for a day, and it watched as she cooked and cleaned and did needlework in the sun behind her house. It stoked the fire in her hearth and let its fingers dance along the flickering bodies of the flames, its skin never charring. With her instructions it swept the floors and mended a window frame that had been rotting away for months. It stood silent and curious when she called it a fine young man. She grew sad then, and quickly sent it away to tend to the herbs in her garden. It did so with gentle hands and as she watched from the mended window, she felt sadder still.
For the last day, the puppet followed Mid as she worked on her inventions. Soon it handed her every tool she needed before she could ask for it, and gave clever suggestions she had not thought of before. She was eager to engage in learned debate, but after hours had passed like this she sat down with a sigh.
‘What is there left to invent if my own invention is as clever as I am? I shall never build anything of your like again, and tomorrow, you will be gone.’ She looked down at the schematics they had pored over together, and the fresh ideas that had been added to them. She had enjoyed herself greatly, as it was not often another could keep up with the swiftness of her thoughts. ‘A right shame’, she said sadly.
She did not entertain the puppet any longer, and instead sent for the Dame once more to do so in her stead.
‘I warned you’, the Dame said as she took the puppet away.
The remainder of the day, the Dame taught the puppet how to laugh and dance and speak like a person of high birth and culture. It was graceful and delicate in its movements, and no hint was left of the mechanical stiffness that had once gripped its limbs. And when it danced in the sunlight with feet fleet and swift, the newly learned smile on its face almost looked like it might have been fueled by a beating heart.
********
Finally the day had come, and Byron brought the puppet to the hill where they would await the dragon’s return. The wind tousled the puppet’s fiery hair and tugged at the many layers of its clothes and for a moment, it looked very alive. Byron turned away quickly and marched on, until he noticed that the puppet was not following. It was watching the birds that were circling each other in the air high above its head, performing a dance so swift and merry that it was easy to forget all the woes of the world if one only watched long enough.
‘What are they doing?’, the puppet asked.
‘I believe they are searching for a mate, so they might build a nest and raise their young’, Byron answered.
‘Why would they do that?’, the puppet asked.
‘Because it is their purpose.’
‘What is my purpose?’, the puppet asked.
Byron faltered, for the puppet looked very alive and its eyes were just as blue as his darling nephew’s had been.
‘Your purpose is to save us’, he said.
‘Is this a good purpose?’, the puppet asked.
‘The very best, my boy’, Byron said, but his voice was barely heard over the soft sounds of the wind, for it was strangled by something he did not care to name.
And so they continued up the hill, until they had arrived at its crest. Once they stood there it was not long until from far away a mighty thunder sounded, and soon the dragon appeared in the cloudless sky. Its wings caused the thunder, and its scales shone in the sun like a thousand silver coins. It dove down and settled on the hilltop, as mighty and fearsome as Byron remembered.
‘Oh Mighty One!’, Byron called as soon as the winds from the dragon’s wings had calmed to a breeze. ‘I fulfilled your demand. I hope you are pleased with my offering.’
The dragon’s eyes narrowed as it inspected Byron and his companion.
‘Just one?’, it growled, and its voice was deafening.
‘Your demands were very specific, but I assure you we were thorough in our search. I am certain this one will please you.’
The dragon huffed and then lowered its head to better gaze upon that which Byron had brought before it. The puppet stood still as the dragon eyed it from all sides, returning the gaze from three golden eyes with a calm one of its own.
The dragon drew back its head, eyes blinking.
‘Most… satisfactory’, it said. ‘Yes, indeed.’
And before Byron could even think to give an answer, it had carefully closed its claws around the puppet’s body and leapt up into the air, sending Byron tumbling down the hill once more. When he had finally righted himself again, the dragon with its prize in its claw was nothing more than a shadow on the horizon.