Two knights loitered near the village well, half-armored and slouched like they owned the street. Their silver pauldrons caught the dying light, cloaks hanging carelessly from their shoulders. Off-duty, clearly bored, smug, and waiting for someone unfortunate enough to pass by alone.

  Imogen’s steps slowed instinctively. She lowered her gaze, fingers tightening around the basket, hoping to slip past without notice.

  No such luck.

  “Well, look at this,” one of them drawled, nudging the other with his elbow. “Pretty little thing walking all by herself.”

  She kept walking. “Just heading home,” she said quickly, not looking up. “I’m not looking for trouble.”

  The taller one stepped into her path, boots scraping against the stone. “Who said anything about trouble?” he asked, grinning. “We’re just making conversation.”

  The other circled lazily behind her, too close. “Looks like you’ve had a long day so far,” he said, eyeing the curve of her waist, the ring on her finger. “Your man let you walk home all alone?”

  She clenched her jaw. “I’m fine. Please move.”

  “Aw, we didn’t mean to upset you,” the first one said, leaning forward. His breath reeked of mead, his eyes sharp with something that made her stomach twist. “You’re awful jumpy for someone just going home.”

  She took a step back, heart hammering now, the earlier comfort she’d found unraveling in an instant. Elanor’s cottage still felt miles away.

  “Maybe we should escort you,” the shorter one said, smirking. “Can’t be too careful, yeah? Lot of bad people out here. Real dangerous types.”

  The taller knight reached out, fingers brushing her arm, not rough, but possessive.

  Imogen flinched.

  The dread was back in full force, flooding her chest, souring the back of her throat. For a brief moment, she imagined the basket in her hands was heavier than herbs, that it was a shield, a weapon, anything but useless.

  “I said I’m fine,” she snapped, louder now.

  The hand dropped, but the grin remained.

  “Touchy,” the first knight muttered. “You sure you don’t want company? A pretty girl like you… might get the wrong kind of attention if you’re not careful.”

  Imogen stepped around him, refusing to break into a run, even though every bone in her body screamed move faster.

  “C’mon,” one of them called after her, voice laced with laughter. “Smile for us, sweetheart.”

  She didn’t.

  She didn’t look back, either.

  Finally, she arrived back at home.

  The familiar creak of the garden gate was a small comfort as Imogen stepped onto the worn path leading to the cottage. The scent of dried herbs and wild roses hung in the air, soft and familiar, wrapping around her like a memory, safe, grounding. The baskets of lavender by the windows, the wind chimes clicking gently in the breeze, the faint shimmer of protective runes etched into the stones, all of it whispered, You’re safe now.

  She opened the door quietly, hoping to slip in unnoticed.

  No chance.

  “You’re late,” Elanor called from the kitchen, her voice steady but edged. “You said you’d be back before I knew it. Well, I knew it half an hour ago.”

  Imogen stepped inside and set the basket down a little too carefully, like it might crack open if she let go too fast. “Sorry. I, um… ran into Aiden again.”

  Elanor’s head appeared around the doorway, flour streaking her cheek, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Her sharp gaze swept over Imogen like a mother wolf taking inventory after a storm.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “No, that’s not it,” she said, stepping fully into the room. “You’ve got that look on your face. Like something sour’s still stuck to your teeth.”

  Imogen tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “Maybe the mint vendor was lying about how fresh his leaves were.”

  “Don’t be smart with me, girl. What happened?”

  Imogen hesitated, then sat down at the edge of the hearth, her fingers tugging at the hem of her tunic. The fire crackled softly beside her, but it did nothing to chase away the chill in her bones.

  “I… I ran into Aiden again,” she said again, quieter this time.

  That was enough to make Elanor pause mid-step.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “I thought it would be a short conversation,” Imogen went on, her voice tight. “But he started talking about dragons… about how they’re just beasts that should be wiped out. And when I said they weren’t all monsters…” She swallowed hard. “He said that sounded like something a dragon sympathizer would say.”

  Elanor’s brow furrowed, slow and dangerous.

  “He said it with a smile,” Imogen added, bitterly. “Like it was some kind of joke. Like I should be ashamed for not wanting to see another creature hunted for sport.”

  She looked down at her hands, nails pressing into her palms.

  “I left after that. I didn’t want to hear more. But on the way home, near the well… there were two knights. Off-duty, I think. Still in uniform. They stopped me.”

  Elanor’s expression darkened immediately. “What did they do?”

  Imogen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “One of them grabbed my arm. The other kept circling me. They didn’t say anything explicit, but the way they looked at me, like I was prey. Like they could do whatever they wanted and no one would stop them.”

  She took a shaky breath. “I told them I was just going home. That I didn’t want trouble. But they wouldn’t let me pass. They laughed. Told me I shouldn’t be walking alone.” Her lips trembled. “Said I should smile more.”

  Elanor yanked off her apron. “THOSE BASTARDS.”

  “Aunt Elanor… ”

  “No, I mean it. That’s the third time this month I’ve heard about women being cornered by those louts… just because they dared to have an opinion, or a spine.” She marched to the hearth, slamming the kettle down like it had personally offended her. “You’d think they were the ones being hunted.”

  Imogen was quiet for a moment, then blurted out the thought that had been circling her mind, taunting her since she left the market.

  “Do you think Aiden is right?”

  Elanor stopped.

  “About what?”

  “About dragons. About them being dangerous. About people who don’t hate them being a danger, too.”

  Elanor turned slowly, her voice softer now. “I think… the world’s scared of anything it doesn’t understand. And fear makes people cruel.”

  She crouched beside Imogen, reaching up to gently touch her cheek.

  “But that doesn’t mean you have to become cruel too.”

  Imogen leaned into the touch, her eyes closing. She hadn’t realized how tired she was, how heavy her own thoughts had become until now.

  Elanor gave a small sigh and stood, brushing off her hands. “All right. We’re behind on orders. Let’s get to it before I start throwing jars.”

  Imogen blinked at her in surprise.

  Elanor glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised. “And while we work… I think it’s time I told you a little something about the Wyrmgaurd family.”

  Imogen smiled faintly, the knot in her chest loosening just enough to breathe again.

  “Yes, Aunt Elanor.”

  The scent of crushed fennel and charred sage hung in the warm air, curling beneath the low beams of the apothecary kitchen. Steam hissed softly from a brass kettle near the hearth, and vials clinked as Imogen carefully poured a slow stream of shimmering liquid into a stoppered jar.

  Their elbows brushed now and then as they moved in tandem while grinding, measuring, stirring. The rhythm of it, the shared silence, wrapped around Imogen like a spell more comforting than any potion.

  Elanor reached for a bundle of dried wyvern’s tongue and began stripping it into a bowl. “There’s something you should know about the Wyrmgaurd line,” she said, voice low but steady, like the beginning of a spell or a story.

  Imogen glanced up, curious. “I’m listening.”

  “There were two brothers,” Elanor began, grinding the herb with practiced force. “Gareth Wyrmgaurd, the firstborn; calm, noble, too kind for his own good. And Rowan, the second, always hungry for more. More praise. More power. More of what Gareth had without trying.”

  Imogen’s hands stilled slightly as Elanor continued.

  “Their father, Lord Thorne… was a war hero, if you want to use that word. He carved his legacy from the bones of dragons and raised his sons to do the same. Duty, blood, and obedience. That’s all that mattered to him. Love was a weakness. Mercy? Treason.”

  She added a pinch of starroot to her mortar, the mixture releasing a sharp, citrusy aroma as she ground.

  “Gareth tried to follow the path. He did. But then he met Serenya Vale.”

  Elanor paused, her expression softening.

  “She wasn’t magic. Wasn’t royal. Wasn’t even particularly remarkable to most, but to Gareth? She was everything. A former field medic who treated both sides in the war. Said wounds bled the same, no matter if they came from claws or blades. That alone made her dangerous in Thorne’s eyes.”

  Imogen frowned, her stirring slowing. “She helped dragons?”

  “She helped anyone who was hurt,” Elanor said, shaking her head. “But to Thorne, that made her a traitor. Gareth didn’t care. He married her anyway. They had a son… Aiden. And for a while, they were happy. Gareth even dreamed of leaving Blackhollow, of raising Aiden somewhere safe, somewhere kind.”

  She lowered her voice, her hands stilling over the simmering brew. “But Rowan… Rowan caught wind of the plan. He found Gareth’s maps, his letters, his escape route. And he twisted it into treason.”

  Imogen’s breath caught. “He turned on his own brother.”

  Elanor nodded grimly. “Told Thorne that Serenya was a dragon sympathizer. That Gareth was smuggling a traitor out of the realm. And Thorne… he didn’t even hesitate. Had them both hanged within the day.”

  The spoon in Imogen’s hand stopped stirring.

  “But Aiden… he was spared. Just a boy, taken in by the very man who betrayed his family. Rowan raised him like a little prince under the roof that murdered his parents.”

  Imogen’s eyes darkened. “Did Aiden ever find out the truth?”

  Elanor’s jaw clenched. “No. Rowan rewrote the story. He said Gareth betrayed the Wyrmgaurd name. Painted Serenya as a seductress, a dragon-lover, a liar. And Aiden… he grew up cold. Entitled. No magic. No sense of what was taken from him. Just bitterness and a warped sense of pride.”

  She tapped the rim of Imogens brew pot. “Remember, continue to stir counterclockwise. Slowly. Feel when it thickens.”

  Imogen obeyed, hands steady now despite the storm of emotion behind her eyes.

  “Aiden doesn’t remember the truth,” Elanor said quietly. “But some of us do.”

  For a moment, only the crackle of the hearth and the whisper of leaves outside filled the room. The kitchen was a haven, suspended between the past and the present, between pain and purpose.

  “It was a dark day,” Elanor murmured. “But stories like that don’t stay buried forever.”

  There was a long pause.

  Imogen let out a quiet, broken whisper.

  “Poor Aiden… no wonder he’s so lost. He needs me. I can’t just abandon him like everyone else has. I need to save him from his uncle.”

  Elanor’s head snapped toward her with sudden, sharp clarity.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, child,” she said, voice like flint.