Joints aching and eyesight failing, he stared hard at the table. A scaled creature leached of color writhed on the scarred wood, attempting to unfurl paper-thin wings and failing. Seymour found the drakling quivering in the forest. He wrapped it snug inside his coat and brought it home, but he knew it was dying and there was naught he could do about it. With a final rusty cry, the creature fell still.

Unwilling to put it in the icy ground or leave it for scavengers, Seymour buried the fragile body beneath the glowing embers in his hearth. He lay down close by with a rattle in his chest, closed his rheumy eyes, and mourned the death of the last magic in his world.

A screech startled him awake. The flames flared, and a tiny scaled head erupted from the embers. Its scales glowed a brilliant red, and its mouth gaped like a baby bird’s. Seymour moved swiftly on creaky joints to find a sliver of meat for it. The drakling gobbled it before crawling up Seymour’s arm.

He flinched, but instead of scorching him, a warmth seeped from the drakling and into his bones, easing his joints. The creature perched on his shoulder and breathed gouts of flame into his face. Seymour’s vision cleared and his breathing eased. It nuzzled its scaly head against his stubbled jaw.

Seymour leaned back with a sigh, ran a calloused finger down the drakling’s ridged back, and welcomed this tiny spark of magic home.

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