A warm breeze drifted through a room, brushing gently against the messy black hair of a small girl. Her large, violet-tinged eyes shimmered in the glow of the clear, star-riddled night sky. She leaned against the rim of her open window, chin resting on her arms, taking in the beauty of the blackened night, where scattered celestial lights sparkled like distant lanterns. Her lips curled into a soft smile, eyes drawn to the pale, luminous moon hanging low over the horizon.

  “Big sis!” a small voice called from behind her.

  She turned toward the door, where a little boy stood holding a box brimming with colorful sock puppets. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, and his eyes wide with hopeful anticipation.

  “Will you put on a show before bed? Please?” he begged, bouncing slightly on his heels.

  Behind him stood a gentle-looking woman with the same unruly black hair, though hers curled softly at the ends. She placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and nodded encouragingly to her daughter.

  “Okay! But only one play,” the girl agreed, glancing up at her mom with a grin.

  She dropped down from her windowsill, landing barefoot on the plush, peach-colored carpet with a soft thump. Their mother dimmed the room’s main light, letting only a mellow glow remain. Star-shaped decorations across the ceiling began to shimmer, casting soft constellations across the walls.

  The girl knelt at the base of her bed and tugged out a carefully constructed puppet stage made from cardboard and glitter-glued dreams. It bore hand-drawn doodles along its edges and a little sign that read “Sea Star Theatre.”

  She set it up with practiced hands, gently mounting the stage with tender care.

  “Which adventure do you want tonight, Assyr?” she asked, taking the puppet box from his small hands.

  Assyr sat cross-legged on the carpet, his eyes alight. He tapped his chin dramatically, then his face lit up. “How about a new one?”

  “Hmmm… Okie!” From the tangle of yarn and stitched fabric, she pulled three puppets—each lovingly handmade:

  A Green Dragon with a regal set of wings.

  A Girl, smiling with long, flowing black hair.

  And a Beast, houndish with mismatched eyes.

  Before she began, she turned toward their mother. “Can I use my Kyyr? Just a little?”

  Their mother nodded softly, and that was all she needed.

  The girl’s hands glowed with a warm, golden hue as Kyyr energy coalesced between her palms. It twirled around her fingers in delicate spirals, sinking into the fabric of the puppets like sunlight soaking into cloth. The puppets quivered slightly, as if waking from a long nap.

  The stage was set.

  And the story was ready to begin.

  With her Kyyr humming softly in her fingertips, the girl brought the puppets to life. They twitched, stirred, and straightened as her voice rose in gentle narration.

  Once, in a village by the sea, there was a girl named Alia who loved collecting bright stones. Her favorite place was the clear spring deep in the forest—a place no one else dared go. They said a dragon drank from its waters.

  But Alia had met the dragon. Its scales shimmered like dew on jade leaves, and its eyes were soft, like candlelight in the dark. It never roared. It only listened. And it never hurt her. Not once.

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  They played. They laughed. They were friends.

  But one day, at the spring, Alia met something else. A little black creature, no larger than a rabbit, with mismatched eyes—one like a drop of blood, the other like a chipped moon. It sat atop a rock, watching the dragon sleep.

  “You shouldn’t trust that thing,” it whispered. “It’s digesting its last meal. That’s why no one comes back from the woods.”

  Alia’s heart stung. She knew the dragon was good. But the creature’s voice was calm. So calm. And its eyes were so unbearably sad.

  “Please,” it said. “Tell the villagers. If you care about them… if you care about me.”

  So she told them.

  And the villagers came—with fire, fear, and blades. They struck the dragon down while it slept. It never roared. It only looked at her—eyes wide, filled with sorrow. Like it was saying, Why?

  The creature returned. But it did not thank her. It simply smiled. Then it opened its mouth—and inside were far too many teeth.

  That night, three children vanished. Then two more. Then six.

  And Alia understood. It had always been the black creature. The dragon had been guarding the spring.

  She ran. Through the night. Through the rain. Through the silence of shame.

  She found the dragon’s body curled beside the dead spring. And she cried. She screamed until her voice cracked and emptied. Then, when there were no tears left—she did the only thing she could.

  She fell to her knees and prayed to the Symbols. Not for forgiveness. But for a way to make it right.

  The Symbols answered.

  The next morning, a new dragon stood at the forest’s edge. Gold and glorious, with scales like molten sunlight. But her eyes glowed not gold—but sorrowful blue. In her chest, a fragment of the old dragon’s heart burned.

  She was Alia no longer.

  She flew. She hunted. And she turned the black creature to ash.

  The village was saved. No more children vanished.

  But when she returned… The people screamed. They ran. They bolted their doors.

  “Another terrible dragon… just like the last.”

  So she returned to the spring. Alone. But never forgetting.

  And from that day on, no evil ever touched the forest again.

  Because one girl—once foolish, once broken—learned to guard what was good, even if the world would never thank her for it.

  Assyr blinked slowly. “Alia… why are your stories getting so sad?”

  The girl popped out from behind the puppet stage, grinning. “Maybe I’m just getting older?”

  Their mother chuckled as she scooped him into her arms. “He’s got a point, sweetheart. That one was pretty heavy.”

  Alia tilted her head, thinking. “But she became a big scary dragon! And now she can fly anywhere! Maybe even to the moon!” She pointed through the window at the pale orb among the stars.

  Assyr’s eyes sparkled. “That’s pretty cool!”

  Their mother smiled gently. “Alright, little dragons. Bedtime now—you’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Huh? What…” Alia spun around to face her mom, but she was alone. “Mom? What’s tomorrow?” She ran over to her door and looked down the hallway.

  There was no one.

  “Child.” An old, inhuman voice echoed from behind her; she staggered back, falling down.

  “Mom?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

  “You can’t ignore me any longer.” The voice echoed from behind the puppet stage.

  Alia struggled to her feet, instinctively stepping back from the voice.

  Thud!

  She turned. The door was gone.

  Just a blank wall.

  “Come to me.”

  She blinked—and in the next instant, she was seated behind the puppet stage staring at the sock puppets.

  “Do you want to say bye-bye to your family?”

  Alia shook her head.

  “Then put this on.”

  A single puppet rose from the box, as if pulled by unseen hands.

  The little black beast. Its button eyes stared—one pale white, the other cracked like broken porcelain.

  “I can place you in any lie I choose. Because they’re so much better than your truth…” the sock puppet writhed.

  Alia felt an unknowable gaze upon her as she reached down to the puppet and stuck her hand into the wet, slimy insides.

  “Good,” the voice hissed. “Let’s play.”

  -L. Osric