“I can’t believe Thraluic talked me into this,” Ander moaned the next morning, tugging at the shorn ends of his hair and looking into the dusty mirror above the cracked wash-basin.
Shyllen sat on the bed and looked at him in amusement, most of the traces of her earlier breakdown gone. There were still a few faint teary streaks on her face, but apparently the innkeeper’s wife had managed to calm her down.
Ander was smart enough not to ask any questions.

Ander shouted in surprise, and stumbled to the floor, covering his head with his arms.

“Uncle!” Shyllen shouted above the noise of tumbling rocks.

“Get out!” Thraluic roared, his forelegs clawing the ground in pain. “The cave could collapse at any moment!” As if to prove him wrong, the terrifying thunder halted abruptly.

“Oh, I don’t think that will happen.”

The cool, icy-green voice was barely louder than a hiss. Ander started to his feet, his heart jolting into his throat in fear.

Ander learned three very important things that first day of alone, training with Shyllen. Number one: Don’t argue with temperamental dragonesses, especially when she is holding a wooden staff that she knows how to use better than you do.

“Hold it like so,” Shyllen instructed him, positioning his hands on the long, wooden staff. They stood on the sandy floor of the cave’s north corner, their shoes removed and out of the way along the wall. Ander flexed his toes in the cool sand, nervously following Shyllen’s directions.

“It’s about time you two showed up,” a voice from inside the cave snapped. A figure stepped from the rocky shadows and into the dimming light.

It was a girl; tall and slender, like a willow switch. Her hair was long and red-tinted, and her skin was flawless – like the fine pink porcelain used for state dinners back home. She wore a finely-tanned leather vest, trimmed with scarlet stitching around the bottom and arm-holes; and her tunic was deep green, made of good linen. Her boots were shaped to her legs and feet, tooled with vine motifs and dyed a dark brown.