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"No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith."

― R.A. Salvatore

Hey guys! The start of a new book!! I hope you enjoy and please don't be afraid to comment! I'm world-building here and introducing the main character, so I know it might be a lot, but I hope that you find each of them a little mysterious, but a little cool.

I know that things might be moving a little fast, but that's how the beginning of the story is going to be.

Also, if you're reading it for the first time I uploaded this, so sorry, my wifi sucks and it didn't save my stuff properly *cries* nothing saved how I wanted it to save *cries harder* but you're here! I appreciate those of you who are reading this, despite it being oh-so-different than my usual works.

Anywayyyyys... I'm really excited to get this book started! I can't explain how long I've been planning this and wanting to show it to you guys. Oh! I also drew the art for the cover piece, so I hope you like it :))

Trigger Warning:

Mentions of past child abuse, mentions past torture, references to imprisonment, references to bodily harm/mutilation, slight depictions of starvation and/or bodily harm via hunger, minor injuries, unreliable narration, and slight racism towards a fictional race (witches - and only about believing they're all harmful/evil)

Part One - Chapter One

"The Lost Little Dragon"

On the edge of the town, across from a bakery and a blacksmith and centered at the front of a large forest, is a little shop owned by a witch.

It's tall and large, with big windows and shiny red bricks half-hidden behind a magnificent garden. Inside, there are hundreds of things to catch someone's eye—trinkets and gadgets and useless lovely things. Feathers and unlucky rabbits' feet and dire wolf fangs, there's seeds and hand-crafted jewelry and beautiful glass wind chimes.

There's enchanted weapons and clothes and funky little hats in every shape and size.

There's a box of sphinx feathers, a tube of pixie dust glowing from an empty basket, and pictures of stray, mystic creatures. Griffins and satyrs and little green faes. Books on imps and talking serpents and a mix match of wild things. Charms, crystals, and rocks bundled together; herbs like cypress and lavender line the shelves next to the mushrooms and across from the line of staffs and grimoires.

Spells and wards and bottled luck at the back. A library full of everything from history books to fanatical theories on ancient gods hidden by a door of beads.

It's everything a witch, human, or other could possibly need.

Astraeus, though—he doesn't want any of it.

The books that dance in place and the rocks that shine are nice and the rosemary and mint that lines the walls smell good, but they won't help him survive.

What Stray wants is in the chest behind the counter in the form of dried meat and tightly packaged berries. There's small containers of water next to it and a first aid kit on top that seems to always be freshly packed.

Stray isn't really sure why the witch who owns this shop doesn't have any wards up against thieves.

There's a good number for things like protection and sturdiness—things to keep those with ill-intentions away and to keep the building standing tall, the insides pristine—but none for people with nimble fingers and quick feet.

Even back when he could sneak in before they knew he was there, he'd be able to grab enough food to live off of for a couple days every other month or so without getting caught. The hatchling doesn't understand it, because every other shop has some type of ward up to prevent their wares from falling into the wrong hands, but he is grateful for it.

Being able to steal from the witch's store has saved his life multiple times.

The witch knew he had a burrow up in the old aster tree across the road and left little things at the base of it every so often. Food, a new looking towel, a bottle of water. Sometimes, they'll even hear them sit down and vocalize softly, speaking or singing to him. He doesn't know what the point of visiting him or leaving the things there is, but he solemnly touches anything.

He had taken a towel or two to keep his nest warm, though.

If someone wants to lose things that are useful, that's on them, not him.

With the condition he's in now and the way winter has been far from kind, Stray's never had been so appreciative of someone else being an idiot before.

His front leg has been rendered useless—the consequence of escaping a far too small cage rigged with corrosive magic—and with it having healed wrong and painfully, he can't shift back into his other form.

So here Stray is, stuck as a useless baby dragon.

It's not too bad, for the most part.

People don't notice him as much, he can slink around without the weight of eyes keeping him down, and when they do see him they're too surprised to do anything but gape or scream which lets him get away.

He might be smaller, but it's easier to survive.

His scales protect him better than his skin does from the cold—as long as he doesn't get too cold, then it's painful the way they grate together—and his claws let him dig up or catch food a lot easier than his clumsy human hands do.

It's easier to be a dragon for survival purposes, easier to hide, easier to get around, easier to keep warm.

Easier to hurt.

He has to stay away from people as much as he possibly can. Not everyone sees beings like him as people and not everyone agrees that they have a right to exist without a collar around their throats.

He's lived through the proof that being a dragon isn't a good thing.

Being young—and he is young despite how much he hates being called out on it—he hasn't developed enough of his heartfire to keep himself safe. He's barely grown on two legs but on four, he knows that no matter how much life experience he's fit into twelve measly years, he's still a baby.

Dragons live for a long, long time and they can get, if they're lucky, to be as tall as trees and as big as a house. Their hoards take centuries to perfect and as adults, their scales are hard enough that even swords won't pierce them and arrows bounce right off. Their heartfires can create enough flames that they can spit them out, their claws sharp enough to break through chest plates and snap shields, their wings large enough to fly for hours at a time and roars loud enough to hear for miles.

But he doesn't have centuries, he doesn't have long claws or impenetrable scales or a large heartfire to defend himself with, to keep himself warm.

Dragons are powerful—it's why they're so feared, so wanted, so used—and the familiars who've allied themselves with witches have created a reputation of unstoppable magical prowess for the rest of them.

So many people, now, want a piece of that power.

But Stray's not powerful, he doesn't know how to use his magic.

If he did, he wouldn't be on the streets, he wouldn't be so scared all the time. He wouldn't have these scars and he wouldn't have nightmares and he wouldn't be so hungry.

The hatchling doesn't even know how to survive, really. He doesn't know how to protect himself.

Most nights, he goes to bed holding back whimpers as he wishes that there was someone there to keep him company.

Someone to soothe his unruly magic, someone to keep him warm, someone to teach him how to hunt properly, and to fly with to show him how to avoid the large gusts of wind that send him spiraling towards the ground.

Someone to love him.

But when he wakes up, there's never anyone there, so Astraeus has to fend for himself.

Which is why he has to steal from the witch's shop even though guilt likes to curl heavily into his gut when he does it. Dying is worse than guilt, though, so although he feels bad it's never enough to make him stop.

Besides, the witch who runs it seems wealthy enough not to be affected past the point of acknowledging his existence.

Maybe, though... maybe one day the witch will do something more.

Witches aren't kind, after all. They're more, better than. Other.

They're magic—but the good kind. Not the ineffective kind, not the one that gives and gives and gives until there's nothing left. No, witches are the takers. The thieves, like him but so different.

This witch is strange, though. They don't seem to take much at all.

Even from his hollow in his aster tree, Astraeus can tell that the coven who owns the shop is strange. Oddly generous, but strange.

Best to stay away from them, then.

The cruelest hands are the ones that can catch him, after all—and he plans to never get caught again.