baby dragon sidekick

by Bill Tiepelman

Dragonling in Gentle Hands

The Morning I Accidentally Adopted a Myth I woke to the sound of something humming on my windowsill, a note so small and bright it could have been a sliver of sunshine practicing scales. It wasn’t the kettle, and it wasn’t the neighbor’s feral wind chimes announcing another victory over the concept of melody. It was, as it turned out, a dragonling—a baby dragon the color of sunrise marmalade—clicking its pebble-like scales together the way contented cats purr. I was wearing an intricate dress I’d fallen asleep hemming—lace like frostwork, embroidery like ivy—and I remember thinking, very calmly: ah, yes, fantasy has finally come for me before coffee. The creature blinked. Two onyx eyes reflected my kitchen in perfect miniature: copper kettle, ceramic mugs, a calendar still turned to last month because deadlines are a myth we whisper to make ourselves feel organized. When I offered my hands, the dragonling tilted its head and scooted forward, claws whispering across the sill. The instant its weight settled in my palm, a warmth bloomed up my wrists, not hot exactly—more like the heat in fresh bread, the kind you break open and steam hugs your face. It smelled faintly of citrus and campfire. If “cozy” had a mascot, it had just climbed into my hands. “Hello,” I said, because when a mythical creature chooses you, manners matter. “Are you lost? Misdelivered? Out of warranty?” The dragonling blinked again, then chirruped. I swear the sound spelled my name. Elara. The syllables trembled in the air, tinged with spark. Tiny horns framed its head like a crown for a very small monarch who could, if pressed, flambé a marshmallow from three paces. It rested its chin where my thumbs met, as if I were a throne it had ordered from an artisan marketplace labeled hands for dragons. Somewhere between the second blink and the third chirrup, my sensible brain returned from its coffee break and filed an objection. We don’t know how to care for a dragon. The objection was overruled by the part of me that collects teacups and stray stories: we learn by doing—and by reading the manual, which surely exists somewhere between fairy-tale and homeowner’s insurance. I set the dragonling gently on a folded tea towel—neutral tones; we respect aesthetics—and inspected it the way you’d examine a priceless antique or a newborn idea. Each scale was a tiny mosaic tile, orange fading to ivory along the belly like a sunrise sliding down a snowy ridge. The texture whispered photorealistic, the way a really good fantasy art print dares your fingers to touch it. The horns looked sharp but not unkind. In the right angle of light, glitter—actual glitter—winked in the creases like stardust too lazy to leave after the party. “Okay,” I said, businesslike now. “Rules. One: no lighting anything on fire without supervision. Two: if you’re going to roast anything, it’s brussels sprouts. Three: we are a shoes-off household.” The dragonling lifted one foot—paw? claw?—and set it back down with grave dignity. Understood. I texted my group chat, Thread of Chaos (three artists, one baker, one librarian with the tactical calm of a medic), and typed: I have acquired a small dragon. Advice? The baker sent a string of heart emojis and suggested I name it Crème Brûlée. The librarian recommended immediate research and possibly a permit: Is there a Dragon Registry? You can’t just have combustible pets unlicensed. The painter wanted pictures. I snapped one—dragonling in my hands, lace sleeves soft as cloud—and the replies exploded: That looks REAL. How did you render the scales like that? Is this for your shop—posters, puzzles, stickers? I stared at the screen and typed the truest thing: It breathed on my palm and warmed my rings. The kettle finally finished its marathon to a boil. Steam curled toward the ceiling as if auditioning for the dragon’s job. When I lifted my mug, the dragonling leaned in, intrigued by the shallow sea of tea. “No,” I said gently, easing the cup away. “Caffeine is for humans and writers on a deadline.” It sneezed a microscopic spark and looked offended. To make amends, I offered a saucer of water. It lapped delicately, each sip producing a sound like a match being struck in the next room. A name arrived the way names sometimes do—inside a pause, as if it had been waiting for me to catch up. “Ember,” I said. “Or Emberly, if we’re formal.” The dragonling straightened, clearly pleased. Then it did something that rearranged the furniture of my heart: it pressed its forehead to my thumb, a tiny, trusting weight, as if stamping a treaty. Mine, it said without words. Yours. I hadn’t planned for a mythical roommate. My apartment was optimized for flat lay photography, fantasy decor, and a rotating collection of thrift-store chairs that squeaked like characters with opinions. And yet, as Ember explored the countertop—tail going flick-flick like punctuation—I could already see where the dragon would belong. The arm of the velvet sofa (sun-warm in the afternoons). The bookshelf ledge between poetry and cookbooks (where, admittedly, the cookbooks serve mostly as platonic aspirations). The ceramic planter that once held a succulent and now holds an enduring lesson about hubris. When Ember discovered my sewing basket, she made a sound so ecstatic it nearly hit whistle register. I intercepted her before she could inventory the pins with her mouth. “Absolutely not,” I said, sweeping the basket shut. “You’re a mythical creature, not a hedgehog with impulse control issues.” She pretended not to hear me, all innocence, the way toddlers pretend not to understand the word bedtime. For science, I laid out a rectangle of foil. Ember approached with ceremonial care, tapped it, and then scampered onto it like someone stepping onto a frozen pond for the first time. The foil crinkled. The sound—oh, that sound—made her eyes go moon-wide. She strutted in a circle, then performed a triumphant hop. If there is an internationally recognized dance of victory, Ember invented it on my counter with the stagecraft of a pop star and the dignity of a sparrow discovering breakdancing. I applauded. She bowed, entirely certain applause had been the plan all along. We negotiated breakfast. I offered scrambled eggs; Ember accepted a single bite and then, with the gravitas of a food critic, declined further participation. She preferred the water, the warmth of my hands, and the sunlight pooling across the table like liquid gold. Now and then, she exhaled a whisper of heat that polished my rings and made the spoon warm enough to smell like metal waking up. By nine, Ember had inventoried the apartment, terrified the vacuum from the safety of my shoulder, and discovered the mirror. She placed one hand—claw—against the glass, then another, then booped her own nose with profound reverence. The dragon in the mirror booped back. She made a sound like a smol kettle agreeing with itself. I realized, with sudden certainty, that I was not going to make it to my nine-thirty Zoom call. I also realized—and here I felt every synapse click into a better alignment—that my life had been a neatly labeled shelf, and Ember was the book that refused to stand upright. I texted my boss (a patient patron saint of freelancers) that my morning had turned “unexpectedly mythological,” and she replied, “Take pictures. We’ll call it research.” I took a dozen. In each photo, Ember looked like a sculpture of wonder someone had polished with awe. Dragon in hands. Baby dragon. Fantasy realism. Whimsical creature. Mythical bond. The keywords slid through my brain like fish through a stream, not as marketing this time, but as praise. After the photos, we napped on the couch in a puddle of light. Ember fit in the curve of my palm as if my hand had been designed for exactly this purpose—a cradle of scales and dreams. I woke to the sound of the mail slot shivering and found a narrow envelope on the mat, addressed to me in an elegant, old-fashioned hand: Elara,Congratulations on your successful hatching.Do not be alarmed by the hearth-syndrome; it passes.A representative will arrive before dusk to conduct the customary orientation.Warm regards,The Registry of Gentle Monsters I read the letter three times, then reread the part where the universe had apparently been waiting to send me stationery from the Registry of Gentle Monsters. Ember peeked over the paper’s edge and sneezed a spark that punctuated the signature with a dot of singe. Orientation. Before dusk. A representative. I thought of my unwashed hair, my less-than-stellar habits, my collection of mugs with literary quotes that made me sound much more well-read than I actually am. I thought of how quickly you can fall in love with something that fits inside your hands. “Right,” I told Ember, smoothing the letter as if it were a patient animal. “We will be excellent. We will be prepared. We will conceal the fact that I once set toast on fire in a toaster labeled ‘foolproof’.” Ember nodded with a seriousness that could have chaired a board meeting. She tucked her tail around my wrist—the living definition of friendship: a small, warm loop closing, promising mischief with consent. We tidied. I vacuumed; Ember judged. I swept; Ember rode the broom like a parade marshal. I lit a candle and then, reconsidering the optics of open flame near a creature that was technically a tiny furnace with opinions, blew it out. The day smoothed itself into quiet, the kind you can set a tea cup on and it won’t rattle. And then, with the deliberation of a curtain rising, someone knocked on my door. Ember and I looked at each other. She climbed my sleeve, settled at the crook of my elbow, and lifted her chin. Ready. I squared my shoulders, smoothed my embroidered dress—lace catching the light like frost—and opened the door to a woman in a long coat the color of thunderclouds. She carried a briefcase that hummed faintly and had the serene face of someone who never loses a pen. “Good morning, Elara,” she said, as if she’d known me all my life. “And good morning, Emberly.” The dragonling chirped, pleased. “I’m Maris, with the Registry. Shall we begin?” Behind her, the hallway rippled, just slightly, as if reality had taken a deep breath and decided to hold it. The smell of rain pressed against the threshold, bright and metallic. Maris’s eyes sparked with a kindness I wanted to trust. Ember’s tail tapped my forearm: Let’s. I stepped aside, heart beating a tidy allegro. A representative. An orientation. A whole registry of gentle monsters. Somewhere in the air between us, the future crackled like kindling. The Orientation, or: How to Fail Gracefully at Myth Management Maris swept into the apartment like she owned the air itself. Her thundercloud coat whispered secrets every time it shifted, and her briefcase hummed with a noise suspiciously like an electric kettle deciding whether to gossip. She sat at my wobbly dining table (bless the thrift shop), opened the briefcase with a click that sounded final, and produced a stack of forms bound in silver thread. Each page smelled faintly of lavender, old libraries, and the way parchment feels in dreams. Ember leaned forward, sniffing them with reverence, then sneezed another spark that singed a tidy hole through section C, question 12. “Don’t worry,” Maris said smoothly, producing a fountain pen the size of a wand. “That happens often. We encourage young hatchlings to mark their own paperwork. It establishes co-ownership.” She slid the form toward me. At the top, in neat, calligraphic letters, it read: Registry of Gentle Monsters — Orientation & Bonding Contract. Beneath that, in bold: Section 1: Acknowledgement of Fire Hazards and Snuggles. I read aloud. “I, the undersigned, agree to provide shelter, affection, and regular enrichment to the dragonling, hereafter referred to as Emberly, while acknowledging that accidental flambéing of curtains, documents, and eyebrows is statistically probable?” Ember gave a self-satisfied trill and licked her tiny lips. I signed. Ember patted the page, leaving a small scorch in place of a signature. Bureaucracy has never looked so whimsical. Next came dietary guidelines: “Feed Emberly two tablespoons of hearth fuel daily.” I asked, “What exactly is hearth fuel?” Maris produced a velvet pouch, opened it, and spilled out a handful of what looked like glittering coal mixed with cinnamon sugar. Ember practically levitated, eyes huge, and scarfed one pebble with the enthusiasm of a child meeting cotton candy for the first time. The afterburp was a delicate puff of smoke shaped suspiciously like a heart. “Note,” Maris added, scribbling on her clipboard, “Emberly may also attempt to eat tinfoil, shiny buttons, or the concept of jealousy. Please discourage the last one—it causes indigestion.” She looked at me over her spectacles, and I nodded gravely, as though jealousy snacking was something I dealt with regularly. The orientation continued with a section titled Socialization. Apparently, Ember must attend weekly “Play & Spark” sessions with other hatchlings to prevent what the manual called antisocial hoarding behavior. I pictured a support group of tiny dragons fighting over glitter and squeaky toys. Ember, still crunching on hearth fuel, wagged her tail like a dog at the word “play.” She was in. Then came the Friendship Clause. Maris tapped the page meaningfully. “This is the most important part,” she said. “It ensures your relationship remains reciprocal. Emberly will not simply be a pet. She will be your equal, your companion, and, in many ways, your very small yet very opinionated roommate.” Ember chirped as if to underline roommate. I imagined her leaving passive-aggressive notes on the fridge: Dear Elara, stop hogging the good sunlight spot. Love, Ember. “You will,” Maris continued, “share secrets, share burdens, and share laughter. It is the Registry’s belief that the bond between a human and their gentle monster is not a leash but a handshake.” I looked at Ember, who had curled into my elbow like a molten bracelet, her scales glittering against the lace embroidery of my sleeve. She blinked up at me, slow and trusting. A handshake, indeed. Paperwork finished, Maris reached into her briefcase once more and produced a small, polished object: a key shaped like a dragon’s claw holding a pearl. “This,” she said, “opens Emberly’s hearth box. You’ll receive it in the post within the week. Inside, you’ll find her lineage papers, a map to your nearest safe flying field, and a complimentary starter toy.” She paused, then leaned closer. “Between us, the toy will look ridiculous—rubber squeaker, flame-proof. Do not laugh. Dragons are sensitive about enrichment.” I made the mistake of asking how many other humans were bonded with dragonlings in the city. Maris smiled, the kind of smile that could power a lighthouse. “Enough to fill a pub,” she said. “Not enough to win a rugby match. You’ll know them when you meet them. You’ll smell the faintest trace of campfire, or notice the pockets with suspicious scorch marks. There’s a community.” She looked at Ember. “And now you’re part of it.” The idea thrilled me—a secret society of gentle monsters and their oddball humans, like a support group where the snacks occasionally catch fire. Ember yawned, showing teeth so tiny and sharp they looked like a row of pearls with a vendetta, and then promptly curled against my wrist, asleep mid-orientation. The warmth of her breath seeped through my skin until I felt branded with comfort. “Any questions?” Maris asked, already stacking papers into her humming briefcase. “Yes,” I said, unable to stop myself. “What happens if I mess this up?” Maris’s thundercloud eyes softened. “Oh, Elara. You will mess this up. Everyone does. Curtains will burn, biscuits will vanish, neighbors will file noise complaints about mysterious chirrups at dawn. But if you love her, and if you let her love you back, it won’t matter. Friendship is not about being flawless. It’s about being singed, occasionally, and laughing anyway.” She stood, coat shifting like weather. “You’re doing fine already.” And then she was gone, leaving only the faint smell of ozone and a half-empty pouch of hearth fuel. The latch on the door clicked, reality exhaled, and Ember blinked awake in my arms as if to say: Did I miss anything? I kissed the top of her tiny horned head. “Only the part where we became officially inseparable.” Ember sneezed, this time producing a smoke ring that drifted toward the ceiling before popping into glitter. I laughed until I nearly fell out of the chair. Bureaucracy had never looked so charming. The Friendship Clause in Action The next morning, Ember decided she was ready to explore the outside world. She demonstrated this by staging a protest in the living room: tiny claws on hips, tail whipping back and forth like a metronome set to defiance. When I tried to distract her with a rubber squeaker toy Maris had couriered overnight (shaped like a flame-retardant duck, heaven help us), Ember gave it one sniff, sneezed a spark that made it squeal involuntarily, and then turned her entire back on it. Message received. We were going out. I dressed with care: my prettiest embroidered dress, boots sturdy enough to survive both puddles and potential dragon-related detours, and a shawl to shield Ember from nosy neighbors. Ember clambered onto my shoulder, her scales glittering like sequins that had decided to unionize. She puffed a determined plume of smoke that smelled faintly of toasted marshmallow. “Alright,” I whispered, tucking her close. “Let’s show the world how whimsical bureaucracy looks in action.” The streets were ordinary that morning—coffee shops buzzing, pigeons plotting their usual bread crimes, joggers pretending running is fun—but Ember transformed them. She gasped at everything: lampposts, puddles, the smell of bagels. She tried to chase a leaf, then remembered she couldn’t fly yet and sulked until I let her ride in the crook of my arm like royalty in exile. Every time someone passed too close, she puffed a polite warning smoke ring. Most people ignored it, because apparently the universe is kind enough to let dragons pass as “quirky pets” in broad daylight. Bless urban denial. At the park, Ember discovered grass. I didn’t know it was possible for a dragonling to experience rapture, but there it was—rolling, chirruping, tail-thrashing joy. She tried to collect blades in her mouth like confetti and then spat them out dramatically, offended that they didn’t taste like hearth fuel. A small child pointed and shouted, “Look, Mommy, a lizard princess!” Ember froze, then puffed herself up to twice her size and performed a very undignified ta-da. The child applauded. Ember preened, basking in the world’s first recognition of her stage career. That’s when another dragonling arrived—sleek and blue as twilight, perched on the shoulder of a woman juggling two coffee cups and a tote bag that said World’s Okayest Witch. The blue dragonling chirped. Ember chirped louder. Suddenly I was in the middle of what can only be described as a competitive friendship-off, complete with synchronized tail-whipping and elaborate smoke rings. The other woman and I exchanged weary-but-amused smiles. “Registry?” I asked. She nodded. “Orientation yesterday?” She held up her singed sleeve like a badge of honor. Instant kinship. The dragonlings tumbled together on the grass, rolling like overcaffeinated puppies with wings. Ember paused long enough to look at me, her onyx eyes sparkling with unmistakable joy. I felt it then, deep in the lace-trimmed bones of my life: this wasn’t just whimsy, or chaos, or an elaborate form of spontaneous combustion disguised as pet ownership. This was friendship—messy, charming, ridiculous friendship. The kind that singes your sleeves but warms your soul. When we finally returned home, Ember curled into her hearth box (which had indeed arrived in the post, complete with a squeaky rubber phoenix that I pretended to take seriously). She hummed herself to sleep, scales glinting like pocket-sized constellations. I sat beside her, sipping tea, feeling the house glow with more life than it had ever held before. There would be mishaps. Curtains would burn. Neighbors would gossip. Someday, Ember would grow larger than my sofa and we’d have to renegotiate space and snacks. But none of that mattered. Because I had signed the Friendship Clause, not with ink, but with laughter and care—and Ember had countersigned with sparks, warmth, and the occasional unsolicited flambé. I leaned closer, whispering into her dreams: “Dragonling in gentle hands, forever.” Ember stirred, exhaled a tiny smoke heart, and settled again. And just like that, I knew: this was the beginning of every good story worth telling.     If Ember’s charm has warmed your heart as much as it singed my curtains, you can carry a piece of her whimsical spirit home. Our “Dragonling in Gentle Hands” artwork is now available as enchanting keepsakes and décor—perfect for anyone who believes friendship should always come with a spark. Framed Print — A timeless presentation, capturing every shimmering scale and delicate detail of Ember in a gallery-ready frame. Canvas Print — Bring the warmth of Ember’s gaze into your home with a bold, textured wall display. Tote Bag — Carry Ember with you everywhere, a perfect blend of art and everyday utility. Spiral Notebook — Let Ember guard your ideas, doodles, or secret plans with a notebook that feels part journal, part spellbook. Sticker — Add a touch of magic to your laptop, water bottle, or journal with Ember’s miniature likeness. From framed art for your walls to whimsical accessories for your daily adventures, every product carries the laughter, mischief, and friendship Ember represents. Bring home a spark of magic today.