by Bill Tiepelman
The Day the Dragon Hatched in Her Hands
When a quiet forest loophole places a newly hatched dragon into the wrong hands, responsibility ignites faster than fire. The Day the Dragon Hatched in Her Hands is a mischievous fantasy tale about ancient magic, unintended guardianship, and what happens when the forest gets clever—and picks the wrong woman to manage the consequences.
by Bill Tiepelman
The Girl the Forest Chose to Keep
Raised by roots and teeth, she was never lost—only claimed. The Girl the Forest Chose to Keep is a mythic tale of quiet power, living woods, and the cost of mistaking nature’s patience for mercy.
by Bill Tiepelman
The Rosewing Vanguard
The Fall and the Flame They called her Hessa the Silent, not because she didn’t speak—gods no, she swore like a sky-sailor drunk on phoenix blood—but because when she struck, there was no warning. No clink of armor. No battle cry. No dumb heroic monologue. Just a cold wind, a flick of silver hair, and then someone’s spleen went flying into a lake somewhere. The Vanguard weren’t meant to survive the Purge. The Empire made sure of it. One by one, the dragonriders were hunted down, their mounts burned alive mid-air, their bones fed to wolves, and their legacies erased from every map and bard's ballad. That was a decade ago. And yet, here she was—grizzled, scowling, riding a goddamn rose-colored dragon like a war goddess dipped in glitter and fire. They tried to break her. They bound her wrists in shadowsteel and dumped her body in the Screaming Trenches for the worms to clean. But Hessa doesn’t stay buried. Not when there’s vengeance to serve on a flaming platter. Not when she’s the last rider of Rosewing, the only living dragon born from dusk itself, whose wings turned skies pink and whose breath scorched lies out of men like confession candles. She found the beast again on the 10th night of the Blood Gale, half-starved and chained beneath the ruins of an old observatory. His eyes were dull. His wings clipped. His pride had been flayed from him like bark from a cursed tree. Hessa didn’t speak. She just held up the old saddle—torn, scorched, and still slick with the blood of her sisters—and whispered, “You up for another round?” Rosewing blinked. Then he roared. Now, they fly over the smoking wreck of Fort Cravane, painting the sky in streaks of rage and redemption. The soldiers on the ground barely know where to look—at the impossible dragon with flaming fuchsia wings, or the leather-clad hellcat astride him, sword in one hand, middle finger in the other. She wasn’t here for mercy. She was here to remind the Empire that some fires don’t go out. They just wait for a gale strong enough to spread the damn blaze. And Hessa? She was the gale, the match, and the whole bloody firestorm wrapped in a corset of spikes and broken promises. “Run,” she growled to the battalion commander as Rosewing hovered over the smoking keep. “Tell your emperor I’m bringing every scream back. With interest.” And then? She dropped. Like a meteor. Like judgment with boobs and a blade. And the world caught fire. Again. Ashes and Ascension The crater left by her landing would be visible from orbit, if the empire had gotten their magic spy mirrors working before she fed the engineers to the wolves. The impact wasn’t just physical—it was mythic. Fort Cravane wasn’t some wooden outpost run by bored teenagers. It was a stone beast, a juggernaut carved into the bones of the mountain itself. It had stood unbreached for a hundred years. Emperors were crowned there. War councils forged genocides there. Bastards were legitimized in its brothel-halls by drunk nobles and even drunker scribes. And now? It was rubble. Smoking, blood-soaked rubble with a single pink-scaled dragon coiled atop it like a crown forged in madness and sass. Hessa didn’t just burn the fort. She erased it. Every banner torn, every relic shattered, every smug face either melted or begging for death like it was a warm blanket. She didn’t even get off Rosewing’s back for the first half hour—just strafed the courtyard like a pissed-off comet, cackling and spitting insults while her dragon turned war machines into molten modern art. Then came the real fun. See, Hessa had a list. A long one. Names she carved into the inside of her left gauntlet with a bone stylus dipped in witchblood. Each one was a reason she hadn’t slit her own throat during those ten years in exile. Each one had laughed while her kin burned, each one had signed the warrant, cast the spell, sealed the fate. And each one, like delicious, screaming destiny, had been summoned to Cravane for a war meeting. The gods must have known. Or maybe they just had a sick sense of humor. Because Hessa was coming for every name, and she was coming with style. She dismounted in the courtyard—Rosewing spinning lazily in the air above her like a bored death angel—and stalked across the shattered marble, her boots crunching on bones and brass. Her armor wasn’t polished. It was jagged, blackened, and smeared with enough blood to make the floor slippery. Her left pauldron still had a jawbone stuck to it. She left it there. Statement piece. General Vaeldor was the first. Big man. Voice like thunder. Beard like a brick wall that grew its own testosterone. He raised his axe and gave the dumbest speech of his dumb life: “I do not fear a broken woman on a stolen beast.” “And I don’t fear a sausage with arms,” she replied, kicking him in the groin so hard his ancestors felt it. Then she stabbed him through the mouth while he was still vomiting up vowels. Two minutes later, she’d impaled three more officers on a flagpole and shoved their corpses into a ceremonial brazier to keep her sword warm. Flames danced, blood steamed. It smelled like justice and burnt chicken. Rosewing dropped from the sky to snatch an archer off a tower like a child grabbing a snack. Bones crunched. Screams followed. Then silence. Hessa liked the silence. It gave her time to monologue. Which she did, frequently, and with profanity that could etch glass. “I’m not here to win,” she shouted, addressing the survivors hiding behind what used to be a tower wall. “I’m here to balance the books. You arrogant little piss-stains thought you could kill the Vanguard and stuff the story in a vault? Nah. You made it juicy. You made it a revenge song. And now I’m here to play the chorus—LOUD.” Someone tried to cast a banishment rune. She threw a throwing knife through his eye mid-sentence and didn’t break stride. Another tried to run. Rosewing spat a burst of flame shaped like a screaming banshee and turned the deserter into ash-flavored dust. The sky darkened. Stormclouds rolled in like they were trying to get a better view. By sundown, the fort was gone. Literally. There was nothing left but a field of smoking debris, a few blood-slick stones, and a single saddle sitting upright on a hilltop. Rosewing perched behind her like a goddamn monument, wings half-unfurled, tail wrapped in a spiral that glowed faintly from the still-burning embers in his veins. Hessa stood before the last survivor—a boy, maybe fifteen, holding a broken pike and a face full of piss and tears. She crouched before him, eye to eye. “Go home,” she whispered. “Tell them what you saw. Tell them the Vanguard flies again. And if they ever dare raise another army…” She leaned in, smile razor-sharp. “Tell them pink will be the last color they ever see.” The boy ran. Good. She wanted fear to spread faster than fire. Later, as she and Rosewing flew east toward the mountain strongholds, the wind carving new stories into the air around them, Hessa leaned back in the saddle, breathing deep. Her muscles ached. Her armor reeked. Her soul thrummed like a lute string strung too tight. But it was done. The first name crossed off. Forty-two to go. “That’s right, sweetheart,” she muttered to the stars. “We’re just getting started.” The Screaming Skies They called it The Rift—the tear in the earth that bled skyfire and swallowed armies. Stretching fifty miles across the Wastes like the gods had clawed the planet in half during a drunken brawl, it was said to be impassable. Suicidal. A graveyard of heroes and the last hope of fools. Which, of course, made it perfect for Hessa. She didn’t slow. Didn’t plan. Just gritted her teeth and kicked Rosewing into a dive so steep her eyelashes caught fire. The dragon responded like he’d been waiting for this all his life—wings slicing air, jaws open in a grin made of flame and defiance. Below, the Rift cracked wider, as if the land itself was screaming “OH NO SHE DIDN’T.” Oh, but she did. She’d crossed the Wastes to end this. To burn the root, not the branches. Her goal? The floating citadel of High Thorne—home of the Arken Lords, final architects of the Purge, and smug bastards with magic glass floors and an unearned superiority complex. You couldn’t reach them by land. You couldn’t breach the shield walls. Unless, of course, you were riding a rose-scaled dragon made of ancient war magic and spite with wings strong enough to tear holes in reality. Rosewing pierced the cloud barrier like a needle dipped in vengeance. Thunder rolled behind them. Magic sigils cracked as they passed. Dozens of skyward ballistae fired, but she danced between the bolts like the wind owed her money. One caught her pauldron. She didn’t flinch. Just bit the shaft off with her teeth and spit it at the tower. Then came the Sky Guard—aerial knights on winged drakes, thirty strong, gleaming with enchantments and entitlement. They fanned out like birds of prey, blades glowing, spells primed. One shouted, “By order of the High Council—” “Eat my order,” Hessa barked, slamming Rosewing into a barrel roll that sent three of them tumbling into each other like enchanted bowling pins. She stood in the saddle, sword in one hand, firebomb in the other, screaming a war chant so raw it probably made three ancestors resurrect just to clutch their pearls. “Let’s fucking dance, sky boys!” They fought through the air like demons on holiday. Rosewing twisted, snapped, spun into dives so sudden the horizon screamed. Hessa disarmed a mage mid-incantation, then headbutted him so hard he exploded into feathers. She caught a flaming spear with her bare hand, screamed “THANKS!” and hurled it into the citadel gates like she was mailing back someone’s bad decisions. Drakes shrieked. Blood fell like crimson rain. Magic collided with dragonflame and lit the clouds on fire. You could see it from every village within a hundred miles—an inferno in the sky, with a silhouette of a woman standing atop a god, unkillable and pissed off. The gates of High Thorne cracked. Then split. Then detonated. Hessa stepped into the throne room like she owned the floor. Because now, she did. Ash coated her hair like a crown. Her armor was half-melted. One eyebrow was gone. Her sword hummed with the deaths of men who hadn’t shut up when they should’ve. At the far end sat the three Lords—robed in silks, gaudy with enchanted rings, surrounded by trembling bodyguards and illusions that flickered like bad lies. “We can negotiate,” one started, face twitching. “Negotiate these,” she said, and hurled a blade into his chest so hard it pinned him to the back wall. The others went for spells. Rosewing crashed through the stained-glass ceiling like a pink war deity from someone’s trauma nightmare and screamed fire into the room, melting every protection circle in a heartbeat. Hessa walked through the blaze like a bad memory given form, killing everything that moved and most things that didn’t. When she reached the second Lord, she whispered something so foul into his ear that his soul left his body before the knife did. The last one she saved for last—Lord Vaedric, High Chancellor of the Purge, too cowardly to even stand. “You remember my sister?” she asked, sliding onto the throne. “Red hair, big heart, tried to talk peace while you gut-punched her with shadowsteel?” He nodded. Cried. Snot. Begged. Hessa rolled her eyes. “You know what her final words were?” He shook his head. “They were ‘Tell that bastard I’ll see him in hell.’ So.” She leaned forward. “Get going.” One twist of her wrist. One gurgle. Done. And just like that, the Purge was over. Later, after the fires died and the dust settled, Hessa and Rosewing sat atop the highest spire, watching dawn break over a quieter world. She wasn’t a hero. Heroes get statues. She preferred nightmares. She preferred stories. “You think it sticks?” she asked her dragon. Rosewing growled something deep and thoughtful, then sneezed a puff of glittery embers into the air. She laughed. “Yeah. Me too.” And then they flew. Into legend. Into infamy. Into every campfire tale and drunk bard song from here to the dead coast. Because the Rosewing Vanguard wasn’t a dream. She was the end of one empire—and the birth of something so much louder. The sky still hasn't healed. Epilogue: Embers Never Sleep In a tavern carved from the ribs of a long-dead titan, a bard plucks strings too old to remember their own tuning. The room hushes. Drinks still. A fire pops. “They say she vanished,” the bard begins, voice raspy with ash and rumors. “Rider and beast. One moment setting skies on fire, the next—gone. Like they’d burned so bright, the world couldn’t hold them anymore.” A drunk near the hearth snorts. “Bullshit. No one survives the Rift.” The bard just smiles. “Then explain the pink scales they found last month in a crater outside Blackwind. Still warm. Still humming.” At a distant table, a woman with platinum hair and a half-melted pauldron sips quietly from a chipped mug. She says nothing. Just watches the flames. Her dragon sleeps in the valley beyond, curled like a storm waiting to remember itself. She doesn’t need the songs. She doesn’t need the statues. She needs only this: wind, silence, and the promise of one last flight, should the world dare ask her again. Because embers? They don’t die. They wait. Bring the Legend Home If the tale of The Rosewing Vanguard lit something fierce inside you—don’t let it fade. Capture the fire, the fury, and the flight with exclusive merchandise inspired by the story. Let our metal print turn your wall into a battleground of light and legend, or test your wits and your patience with this epic jigsaw puzzle forged from the heat of fantasy skies. Want to send some fire by mail? Our greeting cards carry the saga one envelope at a time, and stickers slap the legend onto any surface that dares. And when the cold creeps in? Wrap yourself in dragon-warmed dreams with a luxuriously soft fleece blanket that feels like Rosewing’s wings wrapped around your soul. Because some stories belong in your hands—not just your head.
by Bill Tiepelman
Whispers of the Pearl Dragon
Moss, Mirth, and Misinformation “You know it’s rude to drool on royalty.” The voice was lilting and sharp, like laughter carried by a cold stream. The dragon, roughly the size of a large ferret, blinked one opalescent eye open. It did not move its head, because said head was currently being used as a pillow by a pale, pointy-eared girl with morning breath and an aggressive snore. “Pearlinth, did you hear me?” The voice continued. “You’re being used as a sleep accessory. Again. And you promised me after the Leaf Festival that you’d develop boundaries.” “Shhhh,” Pearlinth whispered back—telepathically, of course, because dragons of his stature rarely spoke aloud, especially when their jaws were pinned beneath the cheek of an unconscious elf. “I am nurturing her. This is what we do in the Sacred Order of Subtle Kindness. We are pillows. We are warmth. We are soft dragon-shaped comfort talismans.” “You are enabling her naps,” the voice replied. It belonged to Lendra, a willow wisp with far too much time and not enough daylight. She circled lazily over the mossy clearing, trailing bioluminescent sass like confetti. She had once worked in fae HR, so she took boundaries very seriously. “She’s been through a lot,” Pearlinth added, twitching one pearl-scaled wing slightly. “Last week she tripped into a goblin’s kombucha vat trying to rescue a snail with anxiety. Then the week before, she singlehandedly prevented a forest fire by confiscating a fire-breathing possum’s smoking pipe. That kind of courage requires rest.” Lendra rolled her glow. “Compassion is great. But you’re not a therapeutic mattress. You’re a dragon! You sparkle in seven spectrums. You once gave Queen Elarial a glitter sneeze that caused a mild panic in two villages.” “Yes,” Pearlinth sighed. “It was glorious.” Underneath him, the elf stirred. She had the telltale signs of a Dream Level Six: fluttering fingers, lips pressed into a faint smirk, and one foot slightly twitching as if arguing with a raccoon in REM sleep. Her name was Elza, and she was either a softhearted healer or a well-meaning menace, depending on the day and the proximity of magical livestock. Elza mumbled something that sounded like “Nnnnngh. Stupid cheese wizard. Put the goat back.” Pearlinth grinned. It was a subtle dragon grin, the kind that only showed if you’d known him through three mushroom cycles and at least one emotional molting. He liked Elza. She didn’t try to ride him. She gave excellent ear scritches. And she once taught him how to roll over for moonbeam cookies, which he still did, privately, when no one was looking. “You love her,” Lendra accused. “Of course I do,” Pearlinth said. “She named me after a gem and a musical note. She thinks I’m a baby, even though I’m 184 years old. She once tried to knit me a sweater, which I accidentally incinerated with excitement. She cried, and I wept a little molten sadness on a toadstool.” “You are the squishiest dragon alive,” Lendra huffed, though her glow dimmed with affection. “And proud,” Pearlinth replied, puffing out his glittery pearl chest just enough to lift Elza’s head by half an inch. Elza stirred again, brow furrowed. Her eyes fluttered open. “Pearlie,” she muttered groggily, “was I dreaming, or did the mushrooms invite me to a poetry reading again?” “Definitely dreaming,” Pearlinth lied lovingly. She yawned, stretched, and patted his head. “Good. Their last haiku night ended in sap fire.” And with that, she rolled onto her back and resumed snoring gently into a patch of glowmoss, muttering something about “sassy ferns” and “emotional crumpets.” Pearlinth curled protectively around her again, resting his cheek against hers, listening to her breath as if it were the music of the forest itself. In the trees above, Lendra hovered silently, the ghost of a smile playing through her flickering light. Even she had to admit: there was something sacred about a dragon who knew when to be a sanctuary. The Emotional Support Lint Ball and the Jelly-Faced Oracle By midday, Elza was awake, semi-conscious, and wrestling a piece of dried apricot that had somehow fused itself to her hair. Her movements were not elegant. They were more… interpretive dance performed by someone being chased by bees in their mind. “Ugh, this moss is moister than a gossiping pixie,” she groaned, yanking at the stubborn fruit clump while Pearlinth looked on with a mixture of concern and bemusement. “Technically, I am not allowed to judge your grooming rituals,” Pearlinth said, tail twitching thoughtfully, “but I do believe the apricot has achieved sentience.” Elza stopped mid-tug. “Then it has my condolences. We’re both stuck in this disaster spiral together.” It had been That Kind of Week. The kind that begins with a stolen scrying mirror and ends with a petition from the woodland raccoons demanding universal basic nut income. Elza, being the region’s only registered Emotimancer, was responsible for “diffusing magical tensions,” “restoring psychological balance,” and “not letting magical ferrets unionize again.” “Today,” she declared, standing with the grace of a collapsing beanbag chair, “we’re doing something non-productive. Something selfish. Something that does not involve accidental possession, emotionally confused oaks, or helping warlocks recover from breakups.” “Like brunch?” Pearlinth offered helpfully. “Brunch with wine,” she confirmed. And so the duo made their way toward Glimroot Hollow, a charming village so aggressively wholesome it had annual pie fights to release passive-aggressive energy. Pearlinth disguised himself using the ancient art of ‘hiding under a suspiciously large blanket’ while Elza draped a string of enchanted crystals around her neck to “look like a tourist” and deflect responsibility. They barely made it three feet into town before the whispering started. “Is that the Emotion Witch?” “The one who made my cousin’s spleen stop holding grudges?” “No no, the other one. The one who accidentally gave an entire wedding party the ability to feel shame.” “Oh her. Love her.” Elza smiled through gritted teeth, whispered, “I am a people person,” and kept walking. Inside The Jelly-Faced Oracle—a local tavern that looked like a candle shop collided with a forest rave—they finally found a quiet corner booth behind a curtain of beads that smelled faintly of elderflower and drama. “Isn’t it wild how your body knows when it’s time to crash?” Elza said, slumping into the booth with the dramatics of a bard mid-opera. “Like, my spine knew this moss cushion was my soulmate. Pearlie, tell it to never leave me.” “I believe that moss cushion is also in a committed relationship with a taxidermied owl and a teacup,” Pearlinth replied, having curled around her feet like a sentient foot warmer with pearls and low-level attitude. Before Elza could reply, a small voice interjected: “Ahem.” They looked up to see a gnome waiter with a spiral mustache, wearing a vest embroidered with the words “Freakishly Good Empath”. “Welcome to the Jelly-Faced Oracle. Would you like to order something joyful, something indulgent, or something existential?” “I’d like to feel like I’m making bad choices, but in a charming way,” Elza replied without pause. “Say no more. One ‘Poor Decision Porridge’ and a Flight of Regret Wines.” “Perfect,” Elza sighed, “with a side of Toasted Self-Loathing, lightly buttered.” As their order was conjured into existence via emotional resonance kitchen magic (which, honestly, should be a TED Talk), Pearlinth dozed under the table, his tail periodically knocking into Elza’s boots like a lazy metronome. Elza leaned back and closed her eyes. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she allowed herself stillness. Not the kind forced by collapse, but the kind invited by kindness. She thought of Pearlinth’s quiet loyalty. His willingness to be her anchor without asking for anything in return. The way his pearl scales reflected her own messy heart—shimmering, cracked in places, but whole nonetheless. “You okay down there?” she asked gently, nudging his side with her foot. He answered without opening his eyes. “I will always be where you need me. Even if you need me to remind you that the raccoon uprising wasn’t your fault.” Elza snorted. “They formed a marching band, Pearlie. With tiny hats.” “They were inspired by your leadership,” he mumbled proudly. And just like that, something inside her softened. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a lump of lint she’d been meaning to discard. “You know what this is?” she said with mock seriousness. “This is my Official Emotional Support Lint Ball. I’m naming it… Gary.” Pearlinth opened one eye. “Gary is wise.” “Gary gets me,” she said, balancing it atop her wine glass. “Gary doesn’t expect me to fix the ecosystem or heal emotionally constipated centaurs. Gary just... vibes.” “Gary and I are now in a committed triad,” Pearlinth declared. The waiter returned just in time to witness Elza toasting to lint-based emotional regulation. “To Gary,” she declared. “And to every underpaid magical familiar and overworked woodland therapist who ever just needed a damn nap.” As they clinked glasses, something shimmered quietly in the folds of the moment. Not magic, exactly. Just something sacred and unhurried: a dragon's soft sigh beneath the table, the rustle of moss in a booth built for weirdos, and the glow of ridiculous hope lighting up a small, messy heart. And somewhere outside, the wind carried whispers. Not of destiny. Not of doom. But of two unlikely souls who gave each other permission to fall apart, nap hard, and rise sassier than ever before. The Ceremony of Snacks and the Pearl Pact It was dusk when they returned to the glade, their laughter trailing behind them like fireflies. Elza, emboldened by three glasses of Regret Wine and a surprising number of existential hash browns, had declared that today would not end in a fizzle. No, today would be legendary. Or at least... moderately memorable with decent lighting. “Pearlie,” she slurred with determination, “I’ve been thinking.” “Oh no,” Pearlinth muttered from her shoulder. “That never ends quietly.” She plopped dramatically onto the moss and spread her arms like a stage magician mid-mood swing. “We should have a ceremony. Like a real one. With symbols. And snacks. And... sparkles. Something to mark this… this sacred codependence we have.” Pearlinth blinked. “You want to formalize our emotional entanglement?” “Yes. With carbs and candles.” “I accept.” Thus began the hastily assembled and dubiously spiritual **Ceremony of the Pearl Pact.** Lendra, summoned against her will by the scent of pastry crumbs and the promise of mild chaos, hovered nearby in judgmental participation. “Are there bylaws for this union of sass and mutual emotional damage?” she asked, glowing skeptically. “Nope!” Elza grinned. “But there’s cheese.” They built a sacred circle using mismatched rocks, half a stale baguette, and one of Elza’s boots (the left one, because it had fewer emotional issues). Pearlinth fetched glitterberry leaves from the nearby bramble and arranged them into a shape that was either a heart or a very tired hedgehog. Symbols are open to interpretation in rituals fueled by vibe alone. “I, Elza of the Uncombed Hair and Questionable Judgement,” she intoned, holding a toasted marshmallow aloft like a holy relic, “do solemnly swear to continue dragging you into minor peril, unsolicited therapy sessions, and emotionally-charged bake-offs.” “I, Pearlinth of the Gleaming Chest and Soft Tummy,” he replied, voice echoing in her mind with the gravity of someone who once swallowed a gemstone for attention, “do swear to protect, support, and occasionally insult you into growth.” “With snacks,” she added. “With snacks,” he confirmed. They touched the marshmallow to his snout in what might be the first recorded dragon-to-graham offering, and in that moment, the moss beneath them shimmered faintly. The air pulsed—not with ancient magic, but with the undeniable resonance of two beings saying: I see you. I choose you. You are my safe place, even when everything else burns down around us. And then, of course, came the parade. Because nothing in the glade stays private for long. Word had spread that Elza was “doing some kind of unlicensed ritual with snacks and possibly swearing eternal loyalty to a lizard,” and the forest responded like only enchanted ecosystems can. First came the squirrels with flags. Then the toads in tiny cloaks. The raccoons showed up late with instruments they clearly didn’t know how to play. A gaggle of dryads arrived to provide ambiance, harmonizing over a beatbox mushroom named Ted. Someone set off sparkler spores. Someone else fired a potato cannon out of pure enthusiasm. Lendra, despite herself, glowed so brightly she resembled divine disco. Elza looked around at the utter chaos she’d conjured—not with magic, but with connection—and started to cry. Happy tears, the kind that sneak up behind you and slap you with the weight of being loved exactly as you are. Pearlinth curled around her again, warm and steady. “You’re leaking,” he observed gently. “Shut up and hold me,” she whispered. And he did. As the celebration roared on, something deep in the soil stirred. Not a threat. Not danger. But recognition. The land knew loyalty when it saw it. And somewhere in the glade’s memory—etched not in stone or scroll, but in the pollen and laughter of beings who dared to be weird and wonderful together—this day rooted itself like a seed of legend. They would talk about the Pearl Pact, of course. They’d turn it into songs, poorly drawn scrolls, and probably some kind of pudding-based reenactment. But none of it would match the truth: That the strongest magic isn’t cast. It’s chosen. Repeatedly. In the small, ridiculous, glowing moments that say—you don’t have to carry it alone. I’ve got you. Snacks and all. And thus concludes the tale of a dragon who became a pillow, a girl who turned lint into emotional currency, and a friendship as absurd as it was unshakably real. Long live the Pearl Pact. If the tale of Elza and Pearlinth stirred something soft and sparkly in your soul, you can carry a piece of their bond with you. Whether you’re decorating your sanctuary with the Whispers of the Pearl Dragon tapestry, sipping tea while pondering existential lint with the framed fine art print, bonding over puzzles in true Pearl Pact fashion with this enchanted jigsaw, or taking Elza’s sass and Pearlie’s snuggly loyalty with you on the go in a sturdy tote bag—you’ll always have a little magic by your side. Celebrate friendship, fantasy, and emotional chaos with art that whispers back. Available now on shop.unfocussed.com.
by Bill Tiepelman
Guardian of the Fractal Grove
The Dragon Queen's Gambit The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting golden light through the fractal branches of the mystical grove. It wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled upon by accident—not unless you were spectacularly lost, like Elara had been when she first arrived five years ago. Now, she wasn’t lost anymore. No, she was queen. Well, self-appointed queen. But queen nonetheless. “Your Majesty, you’ve got a bit of dragon slobber on your jacket,” said a deep, rumbling voice beside her. Elara turned to face the source of the remark, raising an eyebrow at Azuryn, her loyal dragon companion. His sapphire-scaled snout glistened suspiciously in the sunset. “Slobber? Az, please. It’s called ‘divine dragon dew,’ and it’s the latest trend in royal accessories. Get with it,” Elara retorted, flicking the edge of her denim jacket with exaggerated flair. “Honestly, you’d think I’d taught you nothing about high fashion.” Azuryn huffed, a plume of smoke curling from his nostrils. “High fashion? You’re wearing a lace corset and a jacket you ‘borrowed’ from a tavern bouncer.” “First of all,” Elara said, holding up a manicured finger, “that bouncer was asking for it when he said I didn’t look ‘regal.’ Second, this jacket has character. And third…” She paused, smirking. “If you keep talking, I’ll add ‘bedazzling your tail’ to my to-do list.” Azuryn growled low, but there was a twinkle in his amber eyes. “Fine. I yield to your superior judgment, oh illustrious Dragon Queen.” The Price of Power Elara folded her arms and leaned against the spiraling bark of the nearest tree. It wasn’t easy being the Dragon Queen, especially when the title came with no actual political power, and the locals still thought she was “just some girl who wandered in with a dragon.” Sure, she had magic now—thanks to the fractal grove’s odd, glowing fruit—but magic didn’t pay taxes. And the villagers didn’t seem impressed by her ability to summon firestorms when her pantry was empty. “I don’t think the council’s going to take us seriously, Az,” she muttered. “They’re still holding that grudge over the, uh… ‘scorched chicken incident.’” “You mean when you set their ceremonial feast on fire because they called me a ‘winged lizard’?” Azuryn said, his tone somewhere between amused and exasperated. “To be fair, it was an impressive blaze.” Elara grinned. “Thank you. I thought so too.” She kicked a loose pebble, sending it skittering across the grove. “But yeah, diplomacy’s not exactly my thing. I need a new approach. Something that says ‘benevolent queen’ but also ‘don’t mess with me or my dragon will roast your cabbages.’” The Unexpected Visitor Before Azuryn could reply, the air in the grove shimmered, and a figure emerged from the trees. He was tall, dressed in dark robes that seemed to absorb the sunlight, with a smirk that rivaled Elara’s in sheer audacity. “Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous Dragon Queen,” the man said, his voice smooth as silk. “I’ve heard tales of your… exploits. Scorched chickens, bedazzled tavern bouncers, and all.” Elara tilted her head, scrutinizing him. “Let me guess—mysterious stranger with a cryptic warning, or just here to stare at my dragon? Either way, you’d better make it quick. I’ve got royal things to do.” The man chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “My name is Drenic, and I represent the Council of Shadows. We’ve been watching you, Elara.” “Creepy,” she said flatly. “Get to the point, Drenny.” Drenic’s smirk faltered. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself, but power like yours is dangerous. If you can’t prove yourself worthy of it, the council will take it—and your dragon—by force.” Elara felt a spark of heat flare in her chest. “First of all, Azuryn isn’t ‘mine.’ He’s my partner. Second, you can tell your shadowy council buddies that if they want a fight, they can come get one. I’ve been dying to try out my new fire whip spell.” “Indeed,” Drenic said, his gaze shifting to Azuryn. “But can your partner protect you from us? We shall see.” With that, he vanished into the shadows, leaving only the faint scent of burnt ozone. The Queen’s Gambit Azuryn growled, his scales shimmering brighter. “Elara, this is serious. The Council of Shadows isn’t a joke. They’re dangerous.” “Dangerous?” Elara snorted. “Az, we live in a grove that grows glowing fractals and magic apples. I’ve had to fight off enchanted raccoons twice this week. Dangerous is just my Monday.” Still, she couldn’t shake the unease Drenic’s words left behind. She’d worked too hard to carve out her place here—to prove she was more than some lost girl. If the Council wanted a fight, they’d get one. But it wouldn’t be on their terms. “We’ll show them, Az,” she said, fire dancing in her eyes. “We’re not just surviving anymore. We’re thriving. And if anyone tries to take that away…” She snapped her fingers, conjuring a small flame that hovered above her palm. “Well, let’s just say I hope they like their chicken extra crispy.” Azuryn rumbled approvingly. “That’s my queen.” As the last rays of sunlight bathed the grove, Elara stood tall, her dragon at her side, ready to face whatever shadows dared to challenge her reign. Because she wasn’t just a queen. She was the Dragon Queen. And she always played to win. Bring the Magic Home The enchanting world of the Dragon Queen is now within your reach! Immerse yourself in the mesmerizing beauty of Guardian of the Fractal Grove with these stunning products, perfect for adding a touch of magic to your life or gifting to fellow fantasy enthusiasts: Tapestries – Transform your space with the vibrant, fractal-inspired beauty of this art piece in a high-quality, lightweight tapestry. Canvas Prints – Own a timeless masterpiece to display on your walls, bringing the Dragon Queen and Azuryn into your home. Puzzles – Dive into the intricate details of this magical artwork piece by piece for a fun and engaging experience. Duvet Covers – Let the magic inspire your dreams with luxurious bedding adorned with the captivating image of the Dragon Queen and her loyal companion. Explore these and more at Unfocussed's Shop and bring a touch of enchantment into your everyday life.
