The only right a dragon shall retain is the right to die.
—Royal decree renewed by His Majesty King Philippe, 1739 AA
Chapter One
Abel
I turn the charred body on its back. Tattered clothes. Flaky skin. In the mud, a small piece of metal reflects the low sunslight. It’s a Slayers Guild badge—a crescent moon encircling twin suns—identical to the one on my chest.
Not a great start to a dragon hunt.
The last ray of sunslight dies on the horizon. Nightfall swallows the ten other bodies I found scattered across the decimated vineyard—just before a set of footsteps comes up beside me. The stark glow of a lantern exposes my visitor: an officer from the local Gendarmerie station. Ash smears the man’s red uniform so thoroughly that the silver trim looks brown. Even his tricorne is crusty with it. The musket slung over his shoulder will need a deep cleaning once he and his fellow gendarmes finish collecting the corpses.
“I found your resident slayer,” I say, flashing the badge. “I heard he was missing.”
“I’m surprised you bothered to search for him,” he replies. “Most traveling slayers don’t help with cleanup.”
“I’m not most slayers. Where is his helmet?”
“Unaccounted for.”
Like the rest of his equipment. “Bourlin is lucky a rainstorm moved in. Half the town survives because of it.”
A firefly crawls out from the corpse’s mouth and illuminates the black teeth. I nudge it away with the back of my hand. The light in its abdomen flickers as it flies into the night, probably searching for fellow survivors.
The gendarme grimaces. “Good luck tracking the dragon in this mess, Monsieur . . .”
I hesitate. “Abel Estellio.”
He steps backward. “You.”
“I know there are rumors—”
“That you’re trying to cure the dragon curse? That you’re endangering the entire kingdom by keeping a dragon in captivity?”
My grip on the badge twitches. “You’re talking about my brother.”
“The Gods went to war over sinners like him. How are we supposed to trust a slayer who protects someone from his Diu-given punishment?”
I drop my pack in the mud. The dragon-skull helmet I keep strapped on top of it lolls forward, as if snapping at his feet. The gendarme stumbles away from it.
“As you can see, my brother is dead.”
The rest of Florent just doesn’t know it yet.
“Now that the suns are down, your dragon will have shifted back to human form,” I explain. “Tell me if any civilians report stolen clothing. That might offer clues to the human identity.”
He watches me warily. “How can we be sure you’ll kill it?”
“You can’t. But right now, I’m the only slayer you have.”
He scoffs, then places his handkerchief over his nose and walks away—likely searching for any excuse to maintain distance from the slayer who allowed his esteemed family to fall into ruin.
He isn’t the first.
I slide a hand through my hair and sigh up at the infamous owl constellation.
No matter the time of year, that damn owl is always there, watching, even as the rest of the sky changes with the seasons. The left wing is outstretched in a taunting wave. The eyes twinkle, as if my scorched reputation amuses Noctu—the War-Torn God who rules the night.
“I learned my lesson, all right?” I grumble. “No need to revel in my misfortune.”
No response. Unlike Diu, his brother—who rules the day—Noctu is the God who wants humanity to perish. If he had it his way, we’d all be extinct.
My stomach growls. I have one month until the next Ignition Day. If I don’t catch up to this dragon before it transforms again, I won’t eat.
I need this bounty.
“Lucy!” I call.
The telltale glimmer of gold fur catches my eye. Lucy zigzags through the vineyard’s remains, sniffing for leftover embers. Tinderfoxes are notorious sneaks. With the smell of smoke everywhere, she’s bound to run off.
“Come,” I command.
She perks up, ears pointed toward the buzz of voices atop the hill. Then she darts toward a pebbled road that cuts through the vineyard. It leads to two lampposts—the entrance to Bourlin’s famous Night Market.
I curse my pack’s weight and bolt after her. A passing cart horse spooks. A corpse thuds to the ground, sparking a string of insults from the driver. “These bodies are on their way to the cemetery! Show some respect!” he shouts.
I wish I could pay my respects to the dead, but Lucy has plans to disturb the living.
Cold air scrapes my throat as I dash past charred trees, ash- smeared storefronts, and the imploded stained glass of the Church of the War-Torn Gods. Merchants carry inventory back from their fire cellars and into freshly swept shops. In the crowded market, Lucy’s white-tipped tail weaves between stalls of wine barrels, cheeses, and stale baguettes. Scraps of what the market typically offers. Still, the space is crowded. Customers shout over spilled wine, more concerned with drinking away their sorrows than rebuilding.
A bonfire, piled high with broken water barrels and other dragon-touched belongings, comes into view in the market’s center. I slow to a walk and drag a hand down my face. There’s no stopping what will happen next.
Lucy springs nose-first into the flames. Firewood collapses under her weight. The impact spews sparks at the patrons enjoying its warmth. Her teeth gnash as she eats the flames, her stolen snack sending red-hot ripples through her coat.
“Whose tinderfox is that?” an aproned salesman snaps. A barmaid gestures at me with a handful of dirty wine glasses. I grimace. The badge pinned over my heart is a dead giveaway. Tinderfoxes are obvious familiars for slayers.
“Thanks for showing up, Monsieur Estellio,” a woman sneers.
“The dragon tax is wasted on you,” says another.
“King Philippe should stick your neck in the guillotine.”
Word sure spreads fast. I wish I weren’t accustomed to this. At the last town where I tried explaining myself, I ended up drenched by a bucket of spoiled milk. Even Lucy kept her distance for days.
Silence is the smart choice. I’ll search for leads tomorrow once the townspeople’s shock—and alcohol—has worn off. Lucy and I can set up camp outside town for the night.
On my walk to the shrinking bonfire, a young woman—a girl, really—catches my eye through the sparks. The fire, and perhaps one drink too many, flushes her pale skin. Raven hair falls in waves past the brass buckles that line the front of her suede swallowtail coat. Gray rabbit fur lines her hood, and a leather satchel hangs at her hip. Expensive taste.
In a word? Stunning. But it isn’t her beauty that holds my attention. Two parallel scars mar the right side of her face and run from her jaw to the curve of her cleavage. Scars from a dragon’s claws.
She’s dragon touched.
A stumbling townsman, easily twice her age, straightens his frock coat and clinks his full glass of white wine with her dwindling red. She spares him a glance, unbothered. Amazing that people don’t avoid her. Testament to her charm, I suppose.
“Are you dense, slayer?” the aproned salesman hollers. “That mongrel is getting ash everywhere!”
Ash already is everywhere, but I keep that to myself. No need to draw extra attention to the damage I failed to prevent.
I fling a silver coin his way and mutter apologies in passing. Lucy prances out of the weakened bonfire and perches on the stone perimeter, the glow in her coat replenished. Her eyes narrow sleepily—full stomach, no doubt. Yet she whines in protest when I scoop her up, as if subjecting these people to the October chill wasn’t enough fun for her. Her coat’s heat, heightened from engorging herself, warms my skin as she squirms.
“No, Lucy,” I warn. Her tail smacks my face. “Luciole!”
With a final whine, Lucy curls up in the space between the back of my neck and the dragon-skull helmet mounted on my travel pack. Her favorite sulking spot.
As I’m about to leave, the man next to the dragon-touched girl takes a lock of her hair and smells it. I hurry to intervene. My reputation as a slayer isn’t great, but I’m not about to keep my head down while a drunkard takes advantage of an unfortunate girl.
The moment I reach for his shoulder, a second man stumbles between us and waves a clumsy finger at the girl’s face.
“Thief!” he slurs. “I bought you a drink and you stole my coin purse!”
The girl’s eyes widen. “Monsieur, I—”
“Don’t yell at her,” the first man growls. He shoves the girl’s accuser into a barmaid, who drops her tray.
A small leather coin purse falls to the ground between the men. The girl picks it up and offers it to her defender with a timid smile. “You dropped this, monsieur.”
With a bellow, the girl’s accuser tackles her defender onto the glass-scattered ground. “It was you!” He reels a fist back. Semi-sober men shout at them to stop. A few struggle to drag them apart.
It happens so fast, I almost miss the girl empty the coin purse, tuck the coins down her bosom, and toss the leather into the fray with a smirk worthy of a tinderfox. She sips her wine and calmly watches the fight, as immovable amid the chaos as the owl constellation among the stars.
I snort. This girl doesn’t need a hero. If anything, I should watch my pockets around her.
Our eyes meet. Her smirk vanishes. Then she offers a flirtatious smile and struts my way.
“Come with me,” she says.
Before I can respond, she takes my sleeve and leads me through a scrutinizing crowd. I’m glad to leave the judgmental glances behind—until she pushes me up against the brick exterior of the nearest inn.
“Mademoiselle—”
She cuts me off with a finger to my lips, swallowing her last mouthful of wine. “You’re the slayer everyone’s talking about?” she coos. “Abel, Abel, Abel . . . That name rings a bell.”
I push her hand away. She must’ve heard my last name by now, but perhaps it didn’t stick. “Abel Estellio. If you don’t mind, I have a bounty to pursue.”
She frowns. “You’re here to slay a dragon?”
This again.
I catch her hand near my back pocket. “Yes. As you can see from my badge, that’s my job.”
She blinks slowly, as if she can’t connect my name with my history. Before I tried to cure my brother’s dragon curse, I was great at my job. Now I have a reputation to recover. That shouldn’t be hard to comprehend, even for a drunk.
Copyright © 2026 by Morgan J. Watchorn. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
