She looked about Barclay’s age, with light brown skin, shrewd dark eyes, and very curly brown hair styled in two buns, one on either side of her head. Though most peoples near the Woods were pale, not everyone in Dullshire shared the same complexion. But Barclay had never seen anyone who wore quite so much gold. Her coat was so covered in brooches, buttons, and pins that they entirely hid the fabric beneath. Her dragon poked a claw at the shiny buckle of her satchel.

On closer inspection, Barclay wasn’t sure the creature on her shoulder really was a dragon. It was barely larger than a raven, with silver scales and a sparsely feathered tail. And he’d never heard of any dragons within the Woods.

But, dragon or not, it was still a Beast. It would probably swoop down and bite off his hand if he wasn’t careful.

Barclay crawled backward through the leaves. He pulled his Beast-warding charm out of his pocket and waved it around. It was a rope braided with special bits of herbs and twigs, and it smelled putrid, like a skunk.

“Get away from me, dragon!”

“Dragon!” The girl let out a delighted laugh and scratched the Beast below its chin. “Mitzi is hardly that ferocious yet. She’s still only a whelp—a baby dragon—but we’re very flattered.”

Barclay let out a disgusted sound. The Beast had a name? It was a vicious killer, not some pet!

Then he realized what she and her Beast were.

“You’re a Lore Keeper,” he spat, shakily getting to his feet. “You use Beasts for magic. You become friends with them.”

Each word left a foul taste on his tongue. After all, tales of dragons weren’t the only ones whispered by the townsfolk. Lore Keepers might believe they kept their Beasts under control, but Beasts couldn’t be tamed—wildness was their very nature. In half the gossip Barclay heard, Lore Keepers died from their own Beasts betraying them, and with their so-called friends gone, there was nothing to stop the Beasts from unleashing their destructive magic on the innocent people around them.

So went the story of the Great Fire of Drearyfeld, which had claimed seven unfortunate lives. Or when the poor mayor of Dimfurt had been turned to stone. Or the time the place formerly known as Dismaldorf had been quite literally blown off the map.

The girl rolled her eyes. “You townsfolk are all like trout cursing a Wintertime avalanche.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Barclay said flatly.

“Oh, well, it does in my first language.” This surprised Barclay, as the girl had a perfect accent. “It means you’re all ungrateful. Who do you think protects your kingdoms from the Beasts? What Lore do you think keeps them in the Woods?”

Barclay didn’t trust Lore, and he was certain all of Dullshire would be horrified to learn of such magic just outside their walls.

The girl huffed and turned away from him, bending over a collection of glass jars she’d laid out over the fallen tree. Inside were strange items: holly sprigs with berries like crystal, feathers with metallic-tipped edges, dead bugs as large as Barclay’s fist, a speckled egg encased in amber, and a greenish goo that boiled even in the Winter cold.