At first, I wonder if I’ve hallucinated.

Maybe the pain and anguish from the day has shriveled my brain into a tired, burnt-out crisp.

But then the beast swings in, wide wings beating billows of air toward me. The gales push my hair back and cast chills along my skin.

I stumble back, away from its talons, as it takes a swipe at me. I can practically feel it grazing my skin as it misses, tumbling forward into the tall grass. For a moment, I wonder if it’s over. Then the dragon rights itself, tail whipping at the air as it whirls toward me again.

Instinctively, I bring my staff up and swing, nearly landing a strike on its throat.

The throat is the most vulnerable spot on a dragon, Papa’s voice whispers in the back of my mind. Scales are more spread out. Easier to penetrate.

The dragon lands behind me, and I spin to face it, backing up as it rears on its hind legs. A powerful screech bellows from its lungs as it towers high above me, a glinting giant of muscle and scintillating scales in the dark of night.

I suppose his lessons would be useful if I had something more than a wooden staff to my name. Adrenaline buzzes in my veins, my pulse thundering in my ears.

I try to wrap my head around the creature. If I can identify just what it is, then maybe I can figure out how to stop it. It’s too dark to judge the fine details of the dragon, but thankfully, the moon provides just enough light to make out its shape. Judging by the size of it, it seems to be a shadow dragon. Venari Umbra.

It’s about the same size as Solie—a tad bit larger than a horse, with dark scales that shimmer like obsidian stones. It’s not the largest dragon I’ve ever seen, but certainly one of the stealthiest of its kind. The Quiet Death, as some call it.

My father’s lessons come to mind again. Size is not a measurement of a dragon’s strength, he used to say. According to Papa, even a dragon as small as Droplet can be dangerous in the right situation.

My heartbeat elevates, deafening my eardrums. What am I supposed to do now? I can’t possibly take on a shadow dragon on my own.

Then, just beyond the dragon, a shadow moves in the darkness.

Not a dragon, but a human.

A villager?

A tiny flame of hope flickers in my chest. “Help!” I shout out to him. I might know dragons, but I don’t have much experience fighting one. And by the looks of the object on his hip, this stranger has a weapon, which means I have a chance of surviving this.

The shadow approaches passive and easy, drawing a sword from his side. He raises it in the air, and that tiny flame of hope in my chest flares brighter.

If I can just keep the dragon distracted, this man can take it down.

I wait for the beast to rear on his back legs again. Then I strike him across the chest with my staff, the wood reverberating in my hands as it meets the creature’s scaly flesh.

Another vulnerable spot—just over the heart, where the scales are smaller, thinner.

The dragon lets out a furious hiss and drops to all fours, a hungry gleam in its eyes.

“Hurry!” I shout to the stranger. “Strike it in the neck!”

The shadow sweeps closer in the darkness, but something is off. He doesn’t seem to be paying much mind to the dragon at all. He approaches it with far too much comfort.

“Be careful!” I shout. “What are you doing?”

And then I realize he isn’t coming for the dragon at all. His sights are honed on me.

I stumble back, both the dragon and the shadow pursuing me now. What the hell is going on? Is he a bandit? How did he get in here?

The shadow cuts around the dragon, his sword dragging in the tall grass. He raises it to strike, and I panic, slamming my staff against the flat edge of his sword.

It does not fall from his hand as I had hoped, but the strike seems to confuse him long enough for me to stumble back a distance.

It isn’t enough to outrun the dragon. The creature advances, crawling toward me on all fours. It rises as it reaches me, and I slam the blunt end of my staff into its ribs, the blow sending the bones of my finger throbbing.

There’s no way this is happening right now. I can’t take on a dragon and a bandit by myself. Hell, even the dragon is too much for someone of my expertise.

“Help!” I scream out. I shield myself with my staff between strikes, but it isn’t enough to block the strength of the dragon’s talons. They come down hard against the wood, knocking it from my hand and tearing into the flesh of my arm.

Pain radiates, cold and sharp, through my shoulder, and I right my staff to defend myself from its next attack. It plants its large claws against the wood and leans in, its rancid breath fanning over me. Pushing and pushing the staff toward my chest. I can feel the wood bending, cracking under my grip.

I kick at the beast, knocking it off guard. Then I continue backward, holding my staff out defensively in front of me. I’m losing speed and growing increasingly aware that a wall is closing in behind me. Soon I won’t have anywhere else to go.

I’m so distracted by the fact that I don’t notice the dragon rising on its haunches to deliver another blow—not until it knocks the staff from my hand.

My only source of protection goes clattering to the ground, and I look up as the beast rears for another attack. Everything in me turns to ice.

This is it. I’m done for.

For a moment, just a moment, my father’s face flashes behind my eyes—his faint smile as he lay in his deathbed, blood leaking from his lips with every word.

Arla. You will become the greatest Dragon Master the world has ever known.

It feels like a blade has been lodged between my ribs. Every breath aches. I’ll never be a Dragon Master. I’ll never be anything.

I’m sorry, Papa.

Then a shout comes from the distance. I look over my shoulder at the faint outline of a ranger closing in. He’s barreling forward into the high grass, his blade drawn in the air.

The sight seems to deter the dragon, who falls back in hesitation. Suddenly, the bandit is nowhere to be seen. With a lunge, the dragon takes to the air, vanishing into the dark.

By the time the ranger reaches me, they’re gone.

“Are you all right?” he asks, pausing to catch his breath as he reaches me.

I glare at the ranger, the wound of my arm panging where it bleeds and soaks through the slashed linen of my shirt. “Do I look okay?”

He examines my wound in the darkness and asks, “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” I bite back the will to cry. Not because I’m scared, but because I’m angry. I’m angry that all of this is happening to me at once. “It was a shadow dragon and…what I think was a bandit. But how did he get in here? The bandits aren’t supposed to—”

“It doesn’t matter,” the ranger interrupts. “I should get you to an infirmary.”

I pry my hand from my wound to take a look. It glimmers black in the faint light of the moon, but it doesn’t look terribly serious. “It’s just a cut. I’ll bandage it myself.”

“The cut is not what I worry about,” the ranger says. “Surely, you’ve taken a hit to the head. Everyone knows shadow dragons are mythical creatures. They aren’t real.”

“Well then, I suppose it was an imaginary beast that nearly took my arm off!” I snarl.

I shove past the ranger to fetch my staff from the ground, adrenaline prickling through my veins. He takes note of me passing by and stammers, “A-aren’t you Arla Severn?”

I return the question with a middle finger and continue forward.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he calls after me. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the infirmary?”

I’m too bristled by what’s happened to pay his concerns any mind. I continue forward, ignoring him as I make my way back to the village.

Bandits are nothing unusual, particularly at this time of night. But a shadow dragon…

A shadow dragon is a sign of grave danger. An omen, some might say.

I need to report it to the elders. As much as I don’t want to return to the likes of those decrepit old bastards, the dragon’s presence is a threat to the village. Typically, reporting these kinds of issues was a task that fell to my father. Since he is not here any longer, it becomes the responsibility of the next Dragon Master.

Which isn’t me.

Something ugly tugs at my heart. I don’t want to have to go to my uncle. I’m still angry and hurt by his subordination in taking my title away from me. But my father always took threats like this with the utmost importance, which means I should, too. The safety of the village depends on it.

I make my way to my uncle’s home, bristling at every slightest noise and rustle from the shadows. I move with my staff choked between my hands, ready to strike if anything emerges from the dark.

My heartbeat quickens as I reach my uncle’s dwelling, but just as I step into the gate, a muffled conversation reaches my ears.

I can recognize my uncle’s voice—hear it speak my name—and it causes me to pause.

He’s talking about me? But why?

Silently, I move closer, taking cover behind a hedge. Through the gaps in the leaves, I can see my uncle pacing in his yard, clearly upset about something.

A stranger stands before him, taking the brunt of his rage. At first, I assume it’s a ranger by the looks of his uniform. Then I notice the sheening blade of his sword as he sheathes it onto his hip.

That’s no ranger.

My blood runs cold as I recognize the sizable silhouette. Why is my uncle speaking to the bandit?

Then a thought causes me to grip tightly at my staff. Is he being robbed?

I steel myself, prepared to launch out and attack when I hear my uncle speak.

“I hired you to do one thing. You were supposed to kill her too!”