“What’s that, Seelie?” Isolde whispers, still focused on the lock.

Was I still supposed to be keeping watch? I’d been given a new task, but—

Then the sound echoes around the corner, revealing a dragon slightly smaller than the wolf. Its scales are a mottled green, like weathered copper, and its undersized wings are held tight to its thickly muscled neck. Its mouth hangs slightly open as it paces, showing hundreds of spectacularly maintained white teeth. I know that firedrakes—the giant, wild, fire-breathing dragons—are long extinct, but I always imagined they’d look about as scary as this.

“Seelie?” Isolde repeats, as a chill runs all the way down my arms, and I squeeze the lock picks tighter in an attempt not to drop them in frozen terror.

“A myth,” I whisper, hoping its hearing isn’t great. It hasn’t spotted us yet, but that’s only because its snout is stuck to the floor, and it’s clearly puzzling over our unfamiliar scent.

Isolde glances up for less than a second and returns to the lock, swearing quietly as she tries to pick it faster. I manage not to let go and run screaming, but my hands are trembling so hard I can’t imagine it’s much help.

Less than a second before I’m about to make a run for it anyway, the lock gives, and the door glides open on silent, oiled hinges. We throw ourselves inside, not caring what might be lurking in the total darkness of the room beyond.

I ease the door back as far as possible without letting it actually click shut: I don’t want to risk being locked in here. Wherever here is. We wait several seconds, trying to listen to the dragon’s approach over the sound of our own shallow breathing. It pauses in front of the door, snuffling loudly, and Isolde squeezes my hand as we both try to stay completely still.

Then it moves on, and its claws click, click, click down the hall before disappearing. Finally, after another long pause, we slump in relief.

“What is this place?” Isolde asks, voice still cautiously quiet.

I’m imagining piles of gold, or some kind of treasury hiding magical artifacts, something that would warrant a lock like that on a door like that, when soft yellow light floods the room’s corners. Isolde and I both jump instinctively, backs bumping against each other, as we wait to be caught—but it’s only another ball of enchanted light, just like the ones in the hall.

The enchantment must activate whenever someone speaks. There isn’t actually anyone here.

Finally, I take in our surroundings. Nothing inside the room suggests the same kind of grandeur as the intricately decorated door. We must have passed a dozen studies that look exactly like this on our way up: a small, tidy space with a desk and soft carpeting and bookshelves lining the walls. The only things that seem out of place are a glass display case next to the desk and a tacked-up map covered in scribbles.