The woods were a special place to Zhyr. He liked the village, of course, tucked amid the trees as was near-everything in Vyl, and his home was a comfort little could compare to. Still, the forests of Vyl were the only place he could forget the Cavrians’ grip. They took their lands and they took their freedom, but they would not take these woodland paths and shadowed nooks, the sounds of birdsong and wind-tossed leaves. And as long as that was theirs, so was the hope for a better tomorrow.

  ‘Got you!’ cried a voice from somewhere behind and he ducked to the side as a green-grey blur whooshed past him and with a sound of snapping wood crashed into a bush. A tiny flock chirped their alarm and fled from a nearby tree.

  Zhyr laughed, tilting his head as he padded towards the crushed plant. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not fair!’ said the bush, who was not a bush at all. He waited as his sister clambered out of it clumsily, shaking off loose leaves and twigs. Her green-grey-brown scales would have blended perfectly with the foliage were it not for the telltale black socks of the Vyl. ‘Why do you always dodge so fast?’

  He gave her a sideways look. ‘Hmm, I wonder…’

  ‘Hey!’ Pwynd frowned at him, shook the last leaf from her tail, then puffed her chest. ‘I told you. That’s my war cry!’

  ‘Loser’s cry.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Zhyr laughed again, and it was almost enough for him to miss a rustling from behind.

  And enough to catch him blind.

  He whirled as another shape, green and white and orange-blue, barrelled into him from up in the canopy with enough force to send them both tumbling tails-over-heads into the bushes that grew just off the trodden path. ‘Ow,’ they said in unison as they settled in the thorny bowels of the nefarious plant.

  ‘Ha!’ cried Pwynd. ‘Got you!’

  ‘Ow,’ repeated Zhyr.

  The two left the thorny bush-hug—Zhyr had to help his little brother whose wing got stuck between the branches—and were met with a grinning Pwynd. Her tail swishes to and fro across the forest floor. ‘Loser’s cry? No. Winner’s distraction!’

  ‘Two on one?’ asked Zhyr. ‘Now that isn’t very nice.’

  ‘You are bigger though,’ argued Pwynd.

  ‘And faster,’ pointed out Qvyll, looking himself over for any stray leaves.

  ‘And older,’ added Pwynd.

  Zhyr could only shake his head and smile. Such was the life of an older brother. Though not by blood, he could not see himself as anything but. Speaking of which…

  ‘Where’s Dysh?’

  Pwynd and Qvyll exchanged a glance.

  ‘Wasn’t she with you?’ asked Qvyll.

  Pwynd baulked at that. ‘I was out here, busy distracting Zhyr.’

  ‘Well, I was busy hunting him!’

  ‘You should have kept an eye on her.’

  ‘Why is it always me?’

  ‘It’s not always you!’

  ‘Yes it is!’

  ‘No it isn’t!’

  'You're stupid!'

  'No, you are stupid!'

  ‘Hey, hey, easy,’ said Zhyr, cutting into his siblings’ quarrel. ‘We’ll all go look for her.’

  The arguing pair exchanged one last begrudging look and said, in unison, ‘Fine.’

  The woods were cool even at noon’s height. Through the dense canopy overhead rays of light fell in intermittent swoops, shifting with each tousle of the leaves by the wind’s invisible paws. Zhyr walked down on the forest floor, the packed ground a steady comfort underneath, the trees and bushes and ferns around him a peaceful normalcy. The sounds of birds and other forest life were now and then broken by the calls of ‘Dysh!’ from Qvyll and Pwynd as they flew overhead, checking every hidden nook. He didn’t worry much about her—nine springs old, she knew the woods here well enough. It was hardly the first time she had wandered off.

  So, while keeping his eyes open, he let himself enjoy the walk, the smell of sap and earth and life.

  But Dysh was nowhere to be seen, and his peace spoiled into a sour worry which settled heavy in the pit of his stomach. His tail twitched nervously as he advanced along the path. Pwynd and Qvyll must have shared the feeling, because their calls were getting more urgent, less sure.

  ‘Maybe she went back home?’ Qvyll suggested uncertainly, swooping down next to Zhyr.

  He frowned, considering. ‘Go check,’ he said. ‘If she’s back, come back and tell us. If not, come back and tell us too. We’ll keep looking.’ Qvyll nodded and in a moment was off in the direction of the village. Pwynd had flown a little lower to listen, and now looked in the direction Qvyll had left, then to Zhyr, and then, worriedly, wordlessly, flew back up and resumed her search.

  It was the start of summer, the woods a vivid near-uniform green, so when Pwynd said, ‘What’s this?’ and Zhyr looked up to see hints of yellow and red amid the treetops, he stopped and peered at the discolouration. He slowly approached and his suspicions were confirmed when Pwynd added, ‘I think it’s a dragon!’

  ‘How very observant of you!’ called back the stranger. She moved, and Zhyr could see the shifting outline of her shape.

  The dragon’s scales were the colour of early autumn leaves. Mostly a vivid green, they were dotted with what looked like random splotches of red and yellow. Like with leaves, there was no clear line between the colours, but rather a gradual, gradient change. She lounged on a tall branch, blending in almost seamlessly into the surrounding canopy. Had it been but two months later she might have been outright invisible.

  Zhyr was rather sure he had never seen her before.

  He took off and flew up to her, settling on a branch next to hers. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for our sister. Blue-green. A little grey. About this big.’ He indicated Dysh’s size, smaller than his own. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pwynd landing on another tree close by. ‘Have you seen her?’

  The autumn-leaf stranger considered him. Up close he could see that what at first looked to be random, had some order to it—the yellows and reds made a pattern of sorts, all across her otherwise green scales. She was young, too. He’d guess not much older than he was, if at all. She tilted her head and said, ‘You look dull.’

  Zhyr frowned, reared back a tad. ‘What?’

  ‘Dull,’ she repeated. She was a Vyl, no doubt, her eyes a telltale vivid green, and she spoke their tongue with ease, even if her accent and vocabulary belied a different dialect.

  Zhyr flicked an ear and scoffed. ‘I’m not dull.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, amused.

  His tail lashed against the branch. He wasn’t the most vibrant of dragons, especially among the Vyl—all his parents and siblings boasted brighter shades to complement the greys and blacks, and he was nowhere near as colourful as the early-autumn stranger. His own greens, pale and dark, and his brown and grey, topped with ecru socks, had no shade among them that could be described as bright. ‘My sister,’ he repeated, claws digging into the thick hornbeam branch. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Hmm,’ wondered the colourful stranger. ‘No.’

  Zhyr shook his head. ‘Come, Pwynd, let’s—’

  ‘But there are Cavrians here.’

  Zhyr stilled as he was trying to take off and almost fell from the branch. He steadied himself and looked back to the other dragon. ‘What?’

  ‘Ca-vrians,’ she said too slowly as though he hadn’t caught the word. ‘Here.’

  Zhyr stood there, dumbfounded. One tree away, Pwynd shared his hesitation, while the forest life around them—the wind, the birds, the little scuttles down below—paid no heed to the revelation. At length he managed, ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘No idea,’ said the autumnal stranger. ‘But they seem shifty. I don’t like them.’

  ‘Well, uh, thanks,’ said Zhyr. Then, turning to Pwynd, he added. ‘Let’s go look further.’

  They both took off, Zhyr flying back down to the forest floor, Pwynd keeping in midair, to resume their search. No sooner had he landed that he heard another wingbeat behind him—he turned to see the vibrant stranger swooping down from her perch to land next to him with a gentle thump. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Where do we begin?’

  Zhyr blinked. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ She tilted her head. ‘Helping you find your sister. It’s no fun, lost sisters.’ And she started down the path, without waiting for him.

  ‘Hey,’ said Zhyr as he ran to catch up. ‘Thank you, but… Who are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.’

  ‘There’s a village rather close, right?’

  ‘...yes,’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘Right. I’ll be moving in with my da soon.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. He’d heard rumours of new dragons coming soon, but he had paid them little mind.

  ‘Name’s Vyrsy.’

  He crossed his paws and inclined his head. ‘Zhyr.’

  She returned the greeting. ‘Blue, green, grey, smaller than us. Got that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Zhyr. Despite himself he was getting used to this strange dragon. Unlike Pwynd, who, he noticed, perched on another branch and was watching them from afar.

  ‘Alright,’ said Vyrsy. ‘Off we go!’ And strode into the dense undergrowth forcing Zhyr to catch up once more.

  It didn’t take them long to find the Cavrians.

  They weren’t looking for them—Dysh was still nowhere to be seen, yet the woods seemed all too eager to throw into Zhyr’s path every dragon that wasn’t his sister.

  There were three of them, standing in the middle of a small glade, and they contrasted with the surrounding green like a moldy growth—one mostly white with golden swirls in neat symmetries over his body, and golden smoke-like patterns on his wings. His horns were almost straight and ivory-coloured, as was the spike on his nose. He was young—roughly Zhyr’s age—and another of the three was too, his scales a uniform black. The third dragon was the only adult there, bearing strong resemblance to the monocoloured one. Zhyr had never liked how Cavrians looked—their simple bulky forms seemed to him ungraceful, yellow eyes set into their blocky heads.

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  But maybe they had seen his sister.

  ‘Are those the ones you saw?’ asked Zhyr and Vyrsy nodded, so, with some apprehension, he added, ‘Could you keep an eye on Pwynd for a bit?’ (Vyrsy nodded. Pwynd frowned and scoffed indignantly. Neither said a word.) And then he left the safe shadows of the trees and made his way over to the trio.

  They were talking in Cavrian—a weird language with sounds he still hadn’t quite learned to pronounce, but he caught a few words here and there: some “you”s, a “where”, then “catch” and “yet”. He didn’t much trust his language skills. He trusted those three even less.

  The smaller of the black ones saw Zhyr approach and pointed him out to the white-and-gold. They halted their conversation. Up close he noticed they each wore gold or silver hornbands—nobles?!—but it was too late to turn back now.

  ‘Uh, hello,’ said Zhyr, and then, remembering himself, repeated the word in his best approximation of Cavrian—all Vyl were made to learn it, but their village wasn’t big, and Zhyr himself had little skill for language. Still, he tried and managed something like, ‘I look I’s sister. Saw she?’ (It was a small wonder he remembered how the Cavrian past tense worked.) His heart beat fast as he waited for their reaction, and he suddenly regretted coming out to them at all.

  The adult one started talking. Zhyr gave it his all to listen, but the Cavrian spoke too fast and his accent was too strong, so much so he could barely grasp a single word.

  The others must have noticed, because one said something to his guardian and the dragon stopped. He seemed to think a bit, and at last said, ‘We saw no one other.’

  Zhyr fought not to cringe. The dragon spoke well enough to be understood, but his absolute butchering of the tongue was an almost physical pain. It wasn’t like with Vyrsy—she spoke the tongue of Vyl with ease, even if a different variant of it, and she still sounded how one should. The Cavrian’s speech, his accent, his pronunciation were just deeply wrong. Though, he supposed, he was the one to talk, with how he’d managed his own Cavrian.

  ‘Alright,’ he said in proper Vyly. ‘Sorry to have bothered you.’ And rapidly he withdrew, leaving the trio to their discussion.

  ‘And?’ asked Vyrsy, and then, looking him over, ‘Oh, that bad?’

  Belatedly, Zhyr realised he was shaking. He forced his body to still. ‘They say they didn’t see anyone out here.’

  ‘Damn Cavrians,’ said Vyrsy with sudden venom. Pwynd was uncharacteristically quiet. ‘What’re they doing here?’

  Zhyr exhaled a shaky breath. ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘Let’s go.’

  They moved around the glade, then veered deeper into the forest, but even after leaving the three intruders far behind Zhyr couldn’t shake a vague feeling of unease. He’d seen Cavrians before—visiting the village, talking to the chieftain—but never before had he seen them this deep into the woods. The forests here were a domain of the Vyl, and the invaders did not fit.

  ‘Hey,’ whispered Vyrsy. ‘You hear that?’

  Zhyr’s ears perked up. They had made sizable progress by now—Qvyll had either not returned yet, or he couldn’t find them—turning a wide arc through the denser part of the woodland. Shadows grew denser, and the air was permeated with the chirping-rustling sounds of wildlife. Zhyr was about to ask what it was he was supposed to hear when he caught it. Very faint and far away, but it was there regardless.

  A cracking, and a snarling, and weaved between them a quiet sound of a dragon’s voice. He couldn’t make out any words, but their emotion came across.

  Distress.

  There was no time to spare. Before he knew what he was doing, Zhyr leapt across a patch of nettles, ignoring the sting, and bolted in the direction of the voice.

  ‘Hey!’ called Vyrsy. ‘Wait up!’

  ‘Zhyr!’ cried Pwynd.

  He paid them no mind. Only one thing mattered now. It could be Dysh there, in trouble, and he could not afford to wait.

  Dimly, he registered a sound behind him, dragons rushing through the undergrowth, but he had started running first, and was older than Pwynd, and stronger, and he knew these woods better than Vyrsy could, so he shot ahead, the voices at his back dimming as the ones in front grew more distinct.

  He could now make out the growling and thrashing of some large animal, and the dragon’s voice resolved into a panicked cry for help.

  His SISTER’S cry for help.

  Not sure how, he managed to put on a new burst of speed.

  He was getting closer, no doubt, but even so, looking around frantically, he couldn’t see either her or the beast. He weaved around trees, here and now scratching his scales against rough bark, startling flocks of birds, jumped over jutting rocks and narrowly avoided tripping on hidden twisted roots. The calls seemed to be coming from just around there, but somehow below—

  He barely managed to stop himself from falling into a pit.

  Zhyr stood at the edge, panting heavily. Weird. He didn’t remember—

  ‘Help!’ came a voice from below, now almost resigned and choked with tears. An angry snarl followed. ‘Someone. Please.’

  He looked down into the pit and his heart sank inside his chest.

  The hole looked dragon-made. The bottom was strewn with branches and leaves, and sharp thin spikes jutted from it. Weaving here and there was a spiky metal wire, and trapped in its coils was a wolf—bloodied black-grey fur, three of its six legs caught in the wire’s grasp as it thrashed and tossed viciously—and a dragon, green and blue and grey, panicked and calling for help. Her wing and three legs were pierced and bleeding, caught in place by the wire.

  ‘DYSH!’

  She stilled, then looked up in disbelief. ‘Zhyr?’

  He looked back, but Pwynd and Vyrsy were still far behind, struggling to catch up. His heart beat fast—too fast. What even was this?

  The wolf was hurt, badly, made worse by its constant struggling, But its fight was not in vain, as it seemed to be slowly freeing itself from the wire.

  He knew, then. That was his sister down there.

  And so he jumped from the edge and soared down into the pit.

  He took care to avoid the spikes and the wire, which made his descent infuriatingly slow. He kept glancing at the wolf which, noticing him, increased its efforts.

  ‘Easy, Dysh,’ he said as she watched him anxiously. ‘It’ll be okay.’

  ‘It hurts,’ she said, glancing unsurely between him and the wolf.

  A painful pang shot through his chest. He flexed his claws and steeled himself. ‘I’m here,’ he said as reassuringly as he could. Up close he noted that her wing was tangled in the wire, and any move could hurt her badly. One strong wingbeat might tear the membrane off.

  He landed, wincing slightly as the wire on the ground dug into the pad of his left hindpaw. He repositioned himself carefully and examined the wire on Dysh’s wing. His paws were shaking and they felt weak, and he was barely able to stand. Perhaps he could—

  ‘What are you doing?!’

  The voice came from above, and he looked up briefly to see the early-autumn scales of Vyrsy, and next to her the greens and browns of Pwynd. ‘Saving my sister, is what!’ he meant to call out, but his voice came out all choked. (‘You’re crazy!’ yelled Vyrsy, but he ignored her.) Focus. He willed his tail to still lest it caught in the wire itself. He grabbed the binds and started pulling, twisting, trying to weave it out of Dysh’s wing. Second after painful second passed, the wire slowly getting pulled away. Just a moment and… done!

  Dysh eeped, shuddered, and moved her wing slightly. She winced, but was able to fold it and tuck it close to her body. She looked down at her paws.

  Zhyr got back to work. The wire wound more tightly here, and every time he tried to unloop it she jerked and cried in pain. It was made harder with Zhyr’s own paws shaking, red with his sister’s blood.

  ‘Zhyr?’ Vyrsy said above. ‘ZHYR! LOOK OUT!’

  He looked around just as the wolf, now free, leapt.

  Zhyr had no time to think. He grabbed Dysh and barrelled to the side, barely avoiding the beast. The wire at her paws pulled taut, and she shrieked, and on the other end it was wrenched free from the ground. Before the wolf could compose itself, Zhyr beat his wings and took into the air, but Dysh’s own wing was still hurt, and she seemed too scared to move, so he stopped to grab onto her, hefting her airborne with him. She was heavier than he’d thought, and their ascent was slow.

  Too slow.

  ‘No! Zhyr! Run!’ cried Dysh, but he didn’t listen, instead beating his wings all the harder, putting in it all his strength. The edge of the pit was closer, closer…

  The wolf leapt for them, and sharp pain erupted in Zhyr’s thigh as the beast’s teeth sank in, and they were pulled back to the ground.

  No!

  Dysh swiped at the wolf’s snout, but was still too weak, and it only snarled in fury.

  He could let go. He could release his sister and try to fight himself. But then the wolf might get to her…

  There was a blur—vivid green and yellow-red, and then Vyrsy was next to him, in the pit, slashing with all her might at the giant wolf.

  It wasn’t enough to hurt it badly. But just enough to confuse it, and it roared, opening its jaws and letting go of Zhyr.

  With a strength he hadn’t known he had, Zhyr shot up to the hole’s edge, and landed, bloodied and hurt, but safe, settling Dysh down carefully even as his paws threatened to buckle under his own weight. Pwynd was next to them in seconds, and then Vyrsy, unharmed, fell onto the grass close by.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ she demanded as all three of them worked at gently removing the wire from around Dysh’s paws. ‘You could have died!’ Down below the wolf tried—and failed—to get out of the hole.

  In truth, thinking was not one of the things he’d done. But with Dysh there, hurt, what else was he to do? He looked up at Vyrsy, and said, simply, ‘That’s what older brothers do.’

  It took some time, but at last they managed to untangle the wires from Dysh’s limbs, and she immediately flopped onto the undergrowth, unable to stand up. The scales around her paws looked shredded.

  ‘We should get going,’ said Vyrsy. ‘These wounds look ugly. Come. My da could help.’

  ‘Dysh?’ said Pwynd, crouching down. ‘Can you walk?’ Dysh groaned.

  ‘I can carry you,’ Zhyr offered. ‘On my back.’

  They helped Dysh settle snugly on Zhyr’s back, and she held on weakly with her bloodied paws. Zhyr’s thigh throbbed with its own wound, but he carried on.

  ‘What was this?’ he asked no one in particular as they made their way back.

  ‘A trap.’

  Zhyr looked up. It was Vyrsy, and she looked ahead as she spat the words.

  ‘These Cavrians must’ve set it up for some easy catch.’

  Zhyr felt as though he were struck. It made sense—it made too much sense, and his tail lashed against the grass. The woods were the last place he’d see claimed by that scum.

  ‘Da, I’m back!’

  Back at the village they entered a house-tree Zhyr had thought was unused. And indeed, it seemed as though dragons were in the process of moving in, its interior in disarray.

  ‘Oh, Yls, I was wondering—’ A dragon came into view from a bend in the natural-grown corridor and stopped short when he saw them. He was a Vyl, eyes and scales a matching dark green with flourishes of orange, brown and red. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Zhyr, Dysh and Pwynd. I met them in the forest.’ Vyrsy grew serious. ‘We need help.’

  Zhyr came forward and lowered Dysh to the bare floor so that the dragon could see her. He inhaled sharply. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She fell into a Cavrian hunting trap,’ said Vyrsy. ‘With a wolf.’

  His eyes went wide as he looked between the gathered four. His claws twitched against the floor. ‘Yls, I can’t do this every time.’

  ‘This isn’t every time!’ She flared her wings, rearing her head at him. ‘This is serious.’

  He hesitated, as though at war with himself, then sighed. ‘Alright. Come.’ Zhyr followed the dragon deeper into the house-tree, Pwynd and Vyrsy at his tail. The new room presented an even bigger mess—half-unpacked boxes and their many contents in uneven piles between them. Vyrsy’s father searched for something in one of the chests, pulling out a small pouch. ‘Now,’ he said, addressing Zhyr and his sisters. ‘You will not speak of this to anyone, understood?’

  Zhyr wasn’t sure what was going on, but he nodded. If this could help Dysh…

  The dragon shook the pouch and out of it slipped a tiny green thing, sharp and shining in the scant light. He sat back, closed it in his paw, and put the other one on Dysh’s wounds.

  She yelped and Zhyr was about to move away with her, but then the dragon’s eyes glowed with some internal light and Dysh gasped. She squirmed on top of him, tail wiggling to and fro, paws clenching and unclenching, but it seemed more restlessness than pain. After a while Vyrsy’s father withdrew his paw and moved on to the other wounds. Zhyr watched, stunned, as one after another they seemed to close.

  ‘Try it now.’

  Zhyr helped Dysh slide onto the floor. She wobbled a little, and he readied to catch her, but she righted herself and stood, speechless.

  ‘You’re hurt too, lad?’ Zhyr turned round, hesitated, but then thought better of false bravado and exposed his injured thigh. Vyrsy’s father tutted, shook his head, then placed his paw on the wound. Zhyr hissed, then gasped as a tingling warmth spread along his leg. He almost jerked at the sensation—all the world was put into sharper focus, his senses keener than they’d ever been, but more peace than panic. In moments the dim pain left, and as the paw withdrew, so did the wonderful feeling. Zhyr stretched his hindleg. It was a little numb, but the bite wound was gone.

  Did this dragon… access?

  It was one of the things the Cavrians had taken from them. Accessors of Vyl were almost exclusively recruited for the invaders’ army, with only a scant number who were allowed to stay in their homes. Was he like that?

  No. He’d told them to keep this a secret.

  ‘Anyone else?’ he asked. ‘No? Good. Now, remember, not a word.’

  The three siblings nodded and the accessor visibly relaxed. Vyrsy grinned at them. ‘Come, let’s not bother da too much.’ And with that they all left the room, and then the house-tree.

  Zhyr looked up at the enormous living structure—similar to any other tree in shape, though not in size, impossibly wide and hollow within, walls grown, not built. It was a small wonder their conquerors had allowed those to stay, though larger settlements were gradually transitioning to stone and dead-wood houses. The upkeep of house-trees was not an easy thing, made harder with most Gardeners recruited for the army. A portion of them was reassigned to this task, a small guild of accessors who travelled across Vyl and repaired the living homes or, in increasingly rare cases, helped grow new ones.

  ‘Well,’ said Vyrsy, ruffling her wings and grinning. ‘That’s one way to get to know your new neighbours.’

  Zhyr tilted his head at her, remembering her father’s greeting. ‘Yls?’

  She grimaced, ears flat. ‘Don’t ask.’ Dappled half-shadows danced across her scales below the swaying boughs of the house-tree. The look she sent him was hard. He smiled.

  ‘And if I do?’

  ‘I won’t tell you.’

  ‘Alright. Yls.’

  She swatted at him, but he managed to dodge with little to no issue. ‘Don’t,’ she warned.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Zhyr, tilting his head—a little right, a little up. ‘See you, then. And… Vyrsy?’

  ‘Hm?’

  He sobered. ‘Thank you. For saving us back there.’

  She smiled, then, bright and true. ‘Don’t mention it. Or, you know, do mention it. It makes me sound like a hero.’ She puffed her chest proudly.

  He laughed at that and then, with Pwynd and Dysh already moving ahead, made his way back home.