When Barclay had been very small, before his parents had died, he used to dream of adventure. He spent hours imagining the world that existed beyond Dullshire’s prickly walls, other towns and cities and kingdoms in far-flung realms beyond the Woods.
But his parents had loved Dullshire—they wouldn’t want such a life of uncertainty and danger for their only child. And so Barclay refused to disrespect their wishes. He tried to forget about the call of adventure, concentrating instead on how to stay. To belong.
Barclay focused back on the mission, and for the next several minutes, the only sounds were Selby’s teeth chattering, his nose sniffling, or his stomach rumbling.
As Barclay knelt to examine a promising fungus, Selby tapped him on the shoulder. “Look. Look.”
Barclay swatted him away and pulled out his forager’s notebook, to compare the sketch to the subject before him. He frowned. He needed a scarlet dome, but this one was clearly crimson. Mushroom foraging was a very precise science.
He dug it out anyway and added it to his basket.
I’ve done it again, Barclay scolded himself, inspecting the dirt underneath his fingernails. Master Pilzmann hated how dirty Barclay got himself, and how his hair looked wild only hours after combing it. Repeat after me, Master Pilzmann would always say when he quoted Dullshire’s lawbook. Filth is prohibited—no dirt, no odor, no potty mouths. Cleanliness is orderliness.
“Barclay!” Selby squeaked, and Barclay finally stood up and turned around.
The grass between them and Dullshire was alive, with dozens—no, hundreds—of tiny, glowing white eyes peering at them between the weeds.
The piles of leaves beneath the boys’ boots shuddered and shook as small figures dashed within them. Selby hopped back and forth as though he stood barefoot on hot coals.
“Barclayyyyyyyy,” he wailed.
But Barclay was frozen, his gaze fixed on a single creature perched on a rock. It looked like a mouse, except without a tail and with six curled spikes protruding from its back.
Barclay had seen Beasts before. Sometimes, on breezy Autumn days, strong gusts of wind carried glimmering insects from the Woods to his town, whose stingers turned your skin swollen and green. He’d spotted Beasts flying in V shapes across the sky, seeking out warmer places for the Winter, and leaving trails of glittery smoke behind them. Occasionally, more vicious Beasts snuck out from the Woods to break into chicken coops and goat pens for nighttime feasts.
When Barclay was four years old, the Legendary Beast who lurked in the Woods, named Gravaldor, had destroyed Dullshire on Midsummer’s Day. Though Barclay had never glimpsed Gravaldor’s face, he remembered how the town walls had crumbled from the force of his roar. Gravaldor had torn roofs off homes with his jaws, sinking fangs into stones as though they were butter. His magic had caused the earth to rupture, making whatever remained of their once flat town now stand on a tilt.
It was thanks to Gravaldor that Barclay was an orphan.
Knowledge of Beasts had since been forbidden in Dullshire. Travelers who spoke of them were turned away from inns, in case they could be Lore Keepers, wretched people who bonded with Beasts and shared their magic. Children who played too close to the Woods were punished. Even the Beast-related books in the library were burned, making the entire subject a mystery.
“I thought the B-beasts stayed in the Woods,” Selby moaned.
“They usually do.”
Barclay had foraged along the edge of the Woods before without ever spotting a Beast.
But Midwinter was only a few weeks away, and like Midsummer, the holiday was known to make Beasts behave strangely.
Barclay took a careful step away from the mouselike creature. He considered reaching into his pocket for the charm he kept to ward off Beasts. But it was already too late for that.
“Don’t panic,” he told Selby. “They’re blocking our way back to town. But if we just think of…”
Except Selby didn’t listen. Dropping his notebook and quill behind him, he turned around and shot off.
Into the Woods.
The hundreds of eyes in the grass seemed to blink all at once. Barclay glanced at Dullshire in the distance, his whole body trembling. Selby was gone. Into the Woods. If Barclay could get around the terrible creatures, he could alert the sentries, who protected Dullshire from the Beasts. Selby had parents and a family, after all. The townspeople would grab their pitchforks and go after him.
But before Barclay could take off, one of the mice leaped out of the leaves and landed on Barclay’s boot.
It squeaked.
Barclay screamed.
He shook it off and sprinted after Selby. As soon as Barclay crossed into the trees, the daylight dimmed, swallowed by the knotted branches overhead. The already cold weather went colder, a fine, icy mist prickling against his skin.
Barclay was small for an eleven-year-old, which made him an easy target for older kids looking for trouble. They tore pages out of his library books or stole the coins he saved for apple pastries.
If they could catch him.
Because when Barclay ran, even the sheepdogs struggled to keep up. And so he barreled down the forest hills and soon caught up to Selby, who ducked between the gray trees.
The wind blew, and leaves tumbled farther into the Woods, as if dragged by a riptide. The trees bent low, as though pointing Selby deeper, deeper.
“Selby!” Barclay screamed.
His long hair whipped across his face as he ran, quickly growing wild and tangled. The wind seemed to push him forward, like it was trying to carry him off as well.
“Selby, stop!”
Behind him, Barclay had lost sight of the edge. There were only trees and mist in every direction.
We’ve broken the rules, and now we’re going to die, Barclay thought with panic. Even if they escaped the Woods without being eaten by a Beast, what would they tell everyone? Selby and Barclay were both terrible liars.
Then Selby suddenly stopped running. Barclay skidded to a halt and slammed into him, knocking both boys down a thorn-covered hill. They rolled in a tangle of leaves and legs and branches, mushrooms spilling out of their baskets and bouncing down after them. They each screamed until they collided with the base of a fallen tree.
“What were you thinking?” Barclay shouted, shoving Selby off him. “We could’ve broken our necks! And—”
Selby let out a strangled sound and scampered back up the hill.
“What…?” Barclay turned around to see what had scared Selby off, and froze.
On the fallen trunk of a massive tree, there stood a girl.
And on her shoulder, there sat a dragon.
TWO
Dullshire might have burned every last book about Beasts, but even Barclay knew stories about dragons. They dropped their screaming victims into the mouths of volcanoes. Or buried you alive in their hoards of gold. Or set you afire and fed your charred remains to their hatchlings.
Barclay didn’t want to be swallowed up by lava, treasures, or baby Beasts, so he did what any clever apprentice would do when confronted with danger—he grabbed a fallen mushroom beside him and threw it at the girl’s head.
It missed—Barclay was a pitiable thrower. Worse, the girl caught it in her hand and crushed it in her fist.
He swallowed.
“Hmph. I was going to ask if you were all right,” she snapped, “but now I won’t bother.”