The Dragon’s Whisper
The Dragon calls it what it is…magic.
Yet magic does not always arrive with thunder. Sometimes it comes softly, carried on the breath of a single word.
That night the Dragon had retired to his chambers early. He and the Witch had spoken their good-nights, the distance between their chambers bridged by the black mirror. He had just settled into sleep when the mirror came to life again.
The Witch’s voice trembled. “It’s important,” she said.
A friend far to the south was in danger. Hailstones hammered her workshop, tearing the storm door from its hinges. A tornado had touched down half a mile away and was racing toward her farm. She could not reach the safety of the main house; there was no time, and the hail was fierce…even deadly in its size and number.
The Dragon listened, and in the instant he understood, the hail ceased.
He drew the storm map onto his mirror and centered it on her land.
A red wound of warning pulsed over the farm.
He breathed once — a steady, silent breath of will — and when the mirror renewed its image, the red was gone.
Not moved. Gone.
The Witch called again, her voice calmer now.
The storm had vanished. The night was still.
Some call it coincidence.
The Dragon calls it what it is…love.
Chapter 8: The Dragon’s Breath