The Witch Who Bled The DragonFire

The woman in my dreams always dies before I can reach her.

Every single time.

I’ve had the same nightmare for as long as I can remember, and you’d think I’d be used to it by now. But no. Apparently, my brain has decided that sleep is the perfect time to remind me of something I don’t even understand.

It always begins with fire.

Trees burn around me. Smoke fills my lungs, and somewhere in the darkness, branches crack beneath something heavy moving through the forest.

Then I see her.

A woman stands beyond the flames, reaching for me. I can never make out her face, no matter how hard I try. It’s as if the smoke deliberately hides it from me.

“Elowen.”

I know she’s calling me, but when I try to answer, nothing comes out.

“Listen to me, darling.”

There’s fear in her voice. Real fear. The kind that makes my stomach twist even though some part of me knows I’m dreaming.

Something moves behind her.

The ground trembles beneath my feet. The flames rise higher, swallowing the trees one by one, but the woman doesn’t run. Instead, she grabs my wrist.

“Whatever happens, do not let the dragon find you.”

I wake with a gasp.

For a few seconds, I lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that I’m in my own bedroom and not about to be roasted alive in some mysterious forest.

Rain taps against the window. My fireplace has gone cold, and everything around me is exactly where I left it.

I’m safe.

Probably.

I press a hand to my chest and immediately regret it.

The crescent-shaped mark beneath my nightdress is warm again.

Of course it is.

It always happens after the dream.

I’ve never told anyone about the mark, not even Fenna, my closest friend. My grandmother knew about it, though. She was the one who taught me how to hide it, and she made me promise never to let anyone examine it.

At the time, I’d thought she was being dramatic.

Now, considering the nightmares, the strange warmth, and the fact that she died without explaining a single thing, I’m beginning to think she might have had her reasons.

Unfortunately, being dead makes it rather difficult to answer questions.

I sit up and rub my face.

Dragons are extinct. At least, that’s what the Crown’s history books say. According to them, dragons were violent creatures that threatened the old kingdoms until the magical courts finally wiped them out.

My grandmother never agreed with that version of events.

“Monsters always become legends when people are too frightened to admit what they did to them,” she’d told me once.

I’d asked her what she meant.

She’d changed the subject.

And that was that.

Sometimes I wish I’d pushed harder. Maybe then I’d have something more useful than a mysterious birthmark and a recurring nightmare to work with.

But wishing won’t bring her back, and I have a business to run.

By the time I dress and head downstairs, I’ve decided to put the dream out of my mind. I’ve got tinctures to prepare, customers to serve, and enough work waiting for me without adding imaginary dragons to the list.

The apothecary smells of rosemary, mint, and old wood. Bottles line the shelves, dried herbs hang from the ceiling beams, and the familiar creak of the floorboards greets me as I cross the room.

It’s not much, but it’s mine.

Well, technically, it was my grandmother’s before it became mine. I’ve been keeping the place running since she died, and although business isn’t exactly booming, it pays most of the bills.

Most.

I’ll worry about the rest when I have to.

“Elowen?”

I turn just as Fenna walks in carrying two cups of tea.

She takes one look at me and stops.

“You look terrible.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“I’m serious. Did you sleep at all?”

“Define sleep.”

She hands me a cup, her eyes narrowing as she studies my face.

“Another nightmare?”

I take a sip of tea instead of answering.

Fenna sighs. “You know you can tell me things, right?”

“I know.”

“But you won’t.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

She gives me a look that says I’m impossible, then sets her cup down and starts helping me sort the day’s orders.

We’ve been friends since we were sixteen, so she knows most of my habits. She can tell when I’m upset, when I’m lying, and when I need someone to leave me alone.

Unfortunately, she’s also stubborn enough to keep asking questions until she gets an answer.

I’m grateful for her. Really.

I just wish she wouldn’t make it so difficult to keep a secret.

The morning passes without anything particularly interesting happening. An elderly fisherman comes in complaining about his aching hands. A woman wants something to help her sleep, and a little boy attempts to pay for a jar of honey with a button.

I accept the button because, honestly, it’s a rather nice button.

For a while, everything feels normal.

Then I pick up a dying sprig of silver heather.

I’d left it on the counter three days ago, hoping it might recover. It hasn’t. The leaves are curled inward, and the stem is so brittle that I’m surprised it hasn’t snapped already.

I turn it between my fingers.

Warmth spreads through my palm.

I frown and glance at the fireplace, even though I’m m nowhere near it.

That’s strange.

The leaves begin to unfold.

I stop breathing.

A thin line of green creeps up the stem, spreading into the branches. The dull silver edges of the leaves catch the light, and within seconds, the entire sprig