“Mother, I am okay… Let’s just keep walking.”

Luna’s voice was barely more than a whisper, each word caught on her shallow breaths. She tugged weakly at Menorah’s hand, but her feet dragged across the cobblestones. The streets of the city helm were dark and empty, the lanterns unlit, their iron frames rattling in the wind. Far behind them, the laughter of taverns and the clamor of merchants had died away. Here, at the edge of the poorer districts, silence pressed down like a heavy shroud.

Menorah squeezed her daughter’s hand tighter. “No, Luna. You’re not well. We’ll stop soon. I promise.” Her own voice cracked under the weight of fear. She had seen sickness before in other children — the way fever gripped like a predator, leaving skin cold one moment and burning the next. Luna’s face was pale, lips tinged blue, eyes heavy as stones.

The tiny dragon, still unknown to Menorah, clung to Luna’s back. Its scales shifted to mimic the gray folds of her cloak, its small body pressed tight against her spine. It radiated warmth, trembling as if in sympathy, trying desperately to shield her from the chill night. But its camouflage made it invisible to Menorah, who glanced only at her child’s sagging shoulders and labored steps.

“Please, Luna,” Menorah whispered. “Just hold on.”

But Luna’s knees buckled. Menorah caught her before she hit the ground. Panic surged like fire in her chest. She looked around the empty street, at the shuttered windows and locked doors. No one wanted beggars or strangers knocking this late. No one wanted the burden of sickness inside their walls.

Yet she had no choice.

With trembling knuckles, she rapped on the nearest door. Once. Twice. Harder.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then came the sound of heavy footsteps, dragging and reluctant, before the door cracked open.

And there he was.

Bramble Grisk.

The flickering lamplight from inside spilled across his gaunt face and untamed hair. His eyes, sharp beneath bushy brows, squinted out at them with suspicion. He smelled of smoke and earth, his patched shirt open at the throat, trousers loose and stained. His expression soured at the sight of strangers on his threshold.

“What d’you want?” he growled, his voice thick with irritation. “It’s near midnight. Don’t you know folk have sleep to get?”

Menorah opened her mouth, but only a choked whisper came out. She shifted Luna in her arms so Bramble could see her face — the sweat on her brow, the unnatural pallor. “Please. She’s sick. I… I just need a place to let her rest. Just for tonight.”

Bramble scowled deeper. His eyes flicked from Menorah’s desperate gaze to Luna’s limp form. For a long, heart-stopping moment, he said nothing.

Then he sighed, long and ragged, as though the weight of the world had been shoved onto his shoulders. “Bloody fools, the lot of you,” he muttered. “Come in, then. Quick, before I change my mind.”

He pushed the door wide enough for them to stumble inside.

The house was as shabby as its owner — walls patched with wood scraps, rafters blackened from years of smoke, a small fire coughing in the hearth. The air smelled of onion skins and damp wool. But it was warm.

Menorah lowered Luna onto a rough wooden bench near the fire. The girl shivered violently, her teeth clattering. Menorah knelt beside her, smoothing sweat-soaked hair from her forehead, her heart pounding with dread.

Bramble closed the door behind them with a grunt. He stood for a moment, scratching his beard, watching as though debating whether to toss them back into the night. Then he shook his head and shuffled toward a cupboard.

“Don’t get used to this,” he muttered, yanking out a ragged blanket. “Ain’t in the business of handouts. But can’t very well let a child freeze in me house, either. Here.” He tossed the blanket at Menorah.

She caught it, wrapping it around Luna’s trembling form. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t thank me,” Bramble said gruffly, pulling out a dented pot. He filled it with water from a clay jug, muttering all the while. “Blasted strangers, showin’ up at me door in the dead o’ night. Don’t know why I bother. Should’ve kept me head down, but no, Bramble Grisk always has to play the fool.”

Menorah ignored his words, her focus fixed entirely on Luna. The girl’s skin burned hot now, fever spiking. Her breaths came shallow and fast.

“Please,” Menorah begged, looking up at him. “Do you have anything — herbs, medicine, anything to bring down the fever?”

Bramble grumbled under his breath, but his hands moved quickly. From a shelf, he pulled down a bundle of dried leaves wrapped in twine, tearing some off and crushing them into the pot. He set it over the fire, the flames licking hungrily at the iron.

“Ain’t much,” he muttered. “Old remedy from me gran. Tastes like pond muck, but it might help.” He glanced at Luna, then away. “Can’t promise nothin’.”

Menorah’s throat tightened. “It’s more than I had.”

Minutes crawled by. Luna’s shivers grew worse, her small frame wracked with violent tremors. Menorah clutched her hand, whispering prayers under her breath. Bramble fetched another blanket, then another, grumbling each time.

“Strangers, beggars, sick folk — always find their way to me bloody doorstep. Should’ve barred the door. Should’ve feigned deafness.” He draped the blanket over Luna anyway, tucking it clumsily but carefully around her shoulders.

The pot boiled. Bramble poured the bitter brew into a cracked cup and crouched, holding it out. His large, scarred hands dwarfed the vessel. “Here. Get this down her throat, quick.”

Menorah eased Luna upright, pressing the cup to her lips. The girl swallowed weakly, coughing, but enough of the liquid went down. Bramble hovered nearby, muttering curses under his breath, though his eyes betrayed worry he didn’t care to admit.

“She’s still so cold,” Menorah whispered, pressing her palm to Luna’s damp forehead.

Before Bramble could reply, a movement caught his eye. Something shifted near Luna’s side — a ripple of color against the blanket, as though the fabric itself stirred. Then, before either of them could react, a small creature leapt free.

The dragon.

It scrambled across the bench, scales shimmering as it shed its camouflage. In a heartbeat it wrapped its tiny body around Luna’s chest, nuzzling into her fevered skin, warmth pouring from it like a living hearth.

Menorah screamed.

Bramble staggered back, his chair crashing to the floor. “Bloody—WHAT in the gods’ names is THAT?!” His voice cracked with sheer panic.

Menorah scrambled to pull Luna away, her own scream torn between terror and disbelief. “A dragon!” she shrieked. “Luna—Luna’s—”

The tiny beast clung tighter, wings flaring, eyes glowing like embers. It pressed its head against Luna’s cheek, crooning softly, as though shielding her with every ounce of warmth it possessed.

Bramble grabbed for the poker by the hearth, brandishing it like a spear. “Get it off her! Get it OFF!”

Menorah’s eyes were wide, torn between terror of the beast and fear for her daughter. “No—don’t! It—it isn’t hurting her—”

The dragon hissed, a sharp, protective sound that filled the shabby room with primal warning. Its tail lashed, its scales bristling.

Menorah and Bramble froze, both staring. Luna, despite her fever, seemed to settle under the creature’s warmth. Her shivers eased, her breathing deepened.

The silence stretched, thick and terrible, broken only by the crackle of the fire and Luna’s faint, fevered breaths.

And then Bramble roared, his voice splitting the night. “WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS HAVE YOU BROUGHT INTO ME HOUSE?!”