An Enchanted Life explores the fantasy genre through anthropological and mythological lenses, uncovering the hidden systems that make imaginary worlds feel alive. Today, we’re talking about names.

During a recent quick dip into ‘The Hobbit’ (which involved literally sticking my finger into the book and reading whatever pages I could in a 15 minute frame), I re-read the scene in which the Dwarves have been abandoned by Gandalf, cannot make a fire due to torrential rain and lost the pony with almost all the food. Again, due to the excessive rain and whoknowswhat going through the pony’s brain. Anyway, while grumbling and complaining, the Dwarves spot a fire off at a distance. It’s decided that Bilbo, being a burglar and light on his feet, will steal up to the fire and get a lay of it. So to speak.

He overhears Trolls complaining to each other about their limited dinner choices, “Mutton yesterday, mutton today, and blimey, if it don’t look like mutton again tomorrer.”

“Never a blinking bit of manflesh have we had for long enough…What the ‘ell William was a-thinkin’ of to bring us into these parts…”

Insert needle-on-record brain screech here.

Wait…William was a Troll? Who names a troll, William??

Apparently Professor Tolkien, that’s who.

For him, names were part of language-making, and language-making was inseparable from culture, history, and story. He approached names through language because he was first and foremost, a philologist. Simply put, he was an expert who studied language, through the lenses of history and culture. Many of his stories started out at his children’s bedsides, but he took his characters so much further. He gave them invented languages (ConLangs, in today’s pop culture terminology) that had their own evolutions. And names were terribly important. He connected a language’s distinctive character with the mythology and history surrounding it. He didn’t just gaze at clouds and write down the first name that popped into his head.

Why then name a troll William, Tom, or Bert?

Take Gandalf’s horse, Shadowfax. Tolkien represents the language of the Rohirrim through Old English, and Shadowfax’s name reflects that choice: sceadu for shadow and fæx for mane or hair. It’s generally agreed that Tolkien was likely inspired by Old Norse names for mythical horses with mane-descriptive names such as Hrímfaxi (Frost Mane) and Skinfaxi (Shining Mane). Yes, in the movies, Shadowfax is nearly snow white, but I need to point out that in the books, Shadowfax is described as silver-grey by day, and as unseeable as a shadow at night. So knowing these things, we can see why the Prince of Horses was named as he was.

So why name trolls Bill (William), Bert and Tom? Well, keep in mind that The Hobbit was originally a tale intended for children. And since the encounter with the trolls was early on in the book, it may have been easier to ease children into the story if common names were used, along with familiar expressions and personality traits. Tolkien never explicitly told anyone his reasoning that I’m aware of.

But all that raises more questions, for me at least. What about the other legends of Fantasy? Le Guin, Martin, Hobb, Sanderson, and their literary neighbors…did any of them put the same kind of work into their character names? I mean, a good fantasy name should reveal something about the world that produced it, not just sound as though it belongs on a map beside a dragon.

So, I did a little digging. Just a little, mind you.

Robin Hobb used virtue names in her Farseer trilogy. Noble children were named with a virtue it was hoped they would live up to, although not all did. Commoners were not named the same way. ⁠They were commonly named after plants or animals. There were distinct, culturally driven naming conventions for different social classes. How children were named was decided by historical tradition, local folklore, and parental intent.

The name Fitz comes from Anglo-Norman French, meaning “son of.” It was attached to a father’s first name to show family lineage, creating surnames like Fitzwilliam (son of William) or Fitzgerald (son of Gerald). In the Six Duchies though, the surname element Fitz explicitly denotes an illegitimate royal child (such as the protagonist FitzChivalry). Or what boils down to ‘Bastard of Chivalry’. I always found it interesting though that Patience names Fitz ‘Tom’, which is what she would have called her own son. It says a lot about her morals that she refused to call him Fitz. Later on, Fitz takes the name Tom Badgerlock while living in hiding. From a name based on lineage, to one of thoughtfulness, kindness and potential.

And it is through this name that we circle back to Professor Tolkien, who also gave us a ‘Tom’. Tom Bombadil. Something I found interesting was that the character of Tom Bombadil predated ‘The Lord of the Rings’ by many years. In fact, the name came from one of Michael Tolkien’s toys, a Dutch doll. His father made Tom Bombadil a character in a poem in the early ‘30’s, and gave him his own tale in ‘The Adventures of Tom Bombadil’, in 1934.

But while he is a fascinating figure in ‘Lord of the Rings’, he is much older within Tolkien’s world than the casual reader might realize. Tom describes himself as The Eldest, claiming memories reaching back to before many of the things the Hobbits regard as unimaginably ancient. At the Council of Elrond, Elrond recognizes Bombadil as an immensely ancient being and says that “Tom Bombadil” was not the name by which the Eldar had known him. He gives the Elvish name Iarwain Ben-adar, “oldest and fatherless,” and adds that other peoples had given him other names: Forn among the Dwarves and Orald among Northern Men.

I’m going to put my writing coach hat on for a minute here…

A fantasy character needs a name because somebody else needs to call them something. But writers, for the love of all things chocolate, please remember, you don’t need X’athyrion Moonblade to make a name be ‘Fantasy’. Be kind to your readers. Name your characters with depth and originality, but at the same time, name them distinctly enough that their names don’t all sound the same in readers minds. Make their names easy enough to say aloud, and in their heads. Many a potential Fantasy reader has been put off whole books, series and sub-genres because names were simply too unwieldy and got in the way of the reader-character bond.

So yes, name your kings, witches, assassins and dragons with care. Give their names history. Give them culture. Give them meaning. But don’t confuse complicated with convincing.

After all, one of fantasy’s greatest philologists looked at a man-eating troll and called him William.

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Storytellers, it’s that time again…back by popular demand…sharpen your quills!

Write a scene of 800 words or less that involves two characters. Any genre you like, any characters you like. But write the scene from the viewpoint of 1 character.

AKA First Person POV

Then, write that same scene from the viewpoint of the other character!

Don’t use labels that would define them. Differentiate them through

sensory selection

vocabulary

metaphor

judgment

omissions

and, bodily response.

If you’d like to share your writing with us, we’d love to read it! If not, that’s okay too. Good luck!

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Welcome to the Back Room.

If you’ve wandered in here before, you already know this is where the conversations slow down. Usually, I share essays, stories, and ideas with everyone. But the Back Room is where we pull those ideas apart, ask harder questions, and see where they lead.

That’s what these Field Notes are.

They’re not rough drafts, and they aren’t …

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Nearly every fantasy city seems to have one.

Sometimes it’s hidden beneath taverns, alleyways, under massive trees, or even under abandoned sheds. (Looking at you, Elder Scrolls!) Sometimes it’s a powerful criminal syndicate that rivals the city government itself. Sometimes it’s almost legendary…a brotherhood of rogues with strict codes of honor. They’re so common in Fantasy that most of us barely notice them anymore.

Crime isn’t simply about breaking laws. Crime is a relationship between a society and its values.

Every culture decides what is illegal, what deserves punishment, what is tolerated, and what is quietly ignored. That tells us an enormous amount about the culture itself.

Imagine two kingdoms.

In one, stealing bread is punishable by death, or perhaps branding, losing a hand.

In the other kingdom, allowing someone to starve is the greater crime.

Which society would produce the larger criminal underworld?

Criminal underworlds exist, but not because people are evil. Because societies create pressures. Taxes, prohibition, corruption, inequality, among other things. Although, yes, evil is out there, too.

The underworld can provide protection, loans, employment, justice, and black markets that might save the life of a loved one that society would let die.

Every crime tells us something about official culture.

• Illegal books? Knowledge is dangerous.

• Illegal magic? Power is restricted.

• Illegal worship? Belief is controlled.

• Illegal travel? Movement threatens authority.

Fantasy Tropes We Rarely Question

Fantasy literature has a surprisingly small number of criminal archetypes that get recycled over and over. We accept them because they’re familiar, but they’re actually fascinating windows into how Fantasy imagines society. Why do fantasy worlds always have assassins’ guilds, thieves’ guilds, smugglers and fences?

Thieves Guilds

Why are thieves organized? Are they a union? A cartel? A family?

But an even more intriguing question, I think, is this…Why has theft become institutionalized?

Assassin’s Guilds

Almost as common. Fantasy often assumes murder can become a licensed profession.

Who hires them? Why hasn’t the ruling class eliminated them? (Quick answer - because assassin’s are useful to the Ruling Class!) What does this say about justice? Governments of all sorts can be corrupt, in all genres, in all timelines. In Fantasy and reality. Assassins provide an end to a means. Pay them enough and they’ll take out your rival, no matter if it’s a modern-day Superpower taking out whistleblowers, or a Prince’s bastard son taking out the King’s biggest pain in the ass. Fantasy loves assassins because they usually come with a hidden organization, mentors, rules, a sub-society, politics, secrets and conflicts. And stories are all about conflicts! (Yes, even cozy fantasy) And even though assassins are fond of saying “It’s just business”, it is almost always personal for someone. Killing someone can change inheritance, alliances, succession and so much more. An assassination is never “just business.”

Black Markets

Almost every fantasy city seems to have one. Tucked away beneath a tavern, hidden behind an unmarked door, or whispered about in the marketplace, the black market is where people go to buy the things they aren’t supposed to have.

But what exactly is being sold?

Magic? Forbidden books? Medicine? Food during a famine? Rare dragon scales? Or perhaps the most valuable commodity of all: information.

The answer isn’t just a piece of worldbuilding trivia. It tells us something important about the society above it. Black markets don’t exist because people suddenly become criminals. They exist because a society has decided that certain goods, services, or knowledge should be restricted. Every illegal marketplace is a reflection of the legal one.

If you want to understand a fantasy world’s culture, don’t just visit its grand bazaar. Visit the market hidden in the shadows.

The criminal underworld is never separate from the society above it.

It is the society above it…seen through a cracked mirror.

Fantasy writers and game developers often spend hours inventing secret societies, hidden tunnels, and colorful rogues. And it’s fun, I’ve done it myself. Anthropology invites us to ask a deeper question. Not who steals, murders, smuggles, lies and sells secrets, but why does this society have thieves in the first place?

The next time you encounter a thieves’ guild in a fantasy novel—or decide to create one in your own world—don’t begin in the shadows beneath the city.

Begin in the marketplace. In the temple. In the tax office. In the palace.

Because that’s where every criminal underworld is truly born.

I’ve really enjoyed looking at Thieves Guilds today, and I hope you did too.

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The conversation continues, and goes even deeper, in the Back Room, where the Marginalians and I take these ideas apart piece by piece through field notes, worldbuilding exercises, and conversations about fantasy, anthropology, and mythology. Upgrade, and come join us!

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Have you ever wondered why some fantasy worlds stay with us long after we close the book?

Why do readers, myself included, still dream about Middle-earth decades after first visiting it? Why does Earthsea feel like a place that existed before we arrived and continues after we leave? Why do we feel as though we could step aboard a ship in the Archipelago, share a meal in the Shire, or walk the windswept plains of Roshar?

Part of the answer lies in a discipline most fantasy readers rarely think about. Anthropology.

Anthropology is the study of human societies and cultures. At its heart, it asks a simple question. How do people make sense of the world around them?

Every culture develops its own answers. Its own stories. Its own traditions. Its own understanding of what is sacred, shameful, valuable, and what is worth fighting for.

What does fantasy get wrong about culture? More on that here,

But the most memorable fantasy worlds feel alive because their creators understood this.

Imagine a desert culture where water is sacred. Hospitality, inheritance, marriage customs, religion, architecture, and even crime would all develop differently than they would in a land of abundant rivers.

Who controls access to water? How is it stored? Who inherits the wells? What rituals surround its use? What happens when someone wastes it?

The moment we begin asking these questions, we stop creating scenery and start creating culture. And culture is where fantasy becomes immersive. After all, plots repeat.

A farm boy joins a rebellion against an evil empire. A young woman seeks revenge against the duke who murdered her family. A reluctant hero discovers a hidden power.

These stories have been told thousands of times. What makes them feel fresh is not the plot. It is the culture surrounding the plot. It is the beliefs people hold. The stories they tell their children. The way they bury their dead, if they bury them at all. The things they fear. The things they love. The things they would sacrifice everything to protect.

Plots repeat. Cultures don’t.

Maybe this is why the greatest fantasy worlds feel so real. They’re not built from maps, magic systems, or royal bloodlines alone. They’re built from people.

From the countless ways people adapt to their environments, organize their societies, explain the unknown, and search for meaning.

Anthropology reminds us that every culture is an answer to a question. And every fantasy world becomes richer when we take the time to ask what those questions might have been.

What’s the most memorable fantasy world for you? Why do you remember it so vividly?

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Every culture on Earth tells stories that aren’t true.

Some of those stories built civilizations. Others started wars, justified kings, shaped religions, marked sacred places, and taught generations how to live. Whether the stories were factually accurate was beside the point. What mattered was that people believed them. Anthropologists, folklorists, and historians have long recognized that communities often organize themselves around stories that are only partially true…or not true at all in a literal sense.

It was only recently that I found out the word lore comes from the Old English lār, which means teaching, knowledge, or learning passed from one person to another. Originally, it wasn’t fantasy-related at all. It simply meant knowledge that was taught and preserved. Maybe it’s the Nerd in me, but I thought that was pretty cool.

(Yes, I did capitalize Nerd)

Over time, the word evolved into meaning traditional knowledge passed through generations. Which explains why we still see words like folklore, and herbal lore, among others. In each case, we’re talking about knowledge carried by a community. So, lore is the collected stories, beliefs, traditions, memories, explanations, and knowledge that a culture carries about itself. Doesn’t matter if we’re talking about herbal lore or the lore of the Owlbear…which is fascinating, btw.

Now, remember, lore is not the same thing as history.

History asks,“what happened?” Lore asks, “what do people believe happened?”

There’s a difference.

An empire’s official history might say, King Aramon united the Seven Provinces. The lore whispered by villagers might say, Aramon made a bargain with dragons and sold part of his soul.

Both cannot necessarily be true. But both shape the world. Some of those stories may have a historical foundation. Others may be entirely symbolic. But whether they’re factually accurate isn’t always what gives them power.

What gives them power is belief.

From an anthropological perspective, lore functions as cultural memory, identity preservation, and community cohesion. It tells people, or creature-cultures, who they are, where they came from, and what they value.

When fantasy readers hear the word lore, they often think of timelines, ancient battles, forgotten kings, and pages of boring background information tucked into an appendix. But lore is something much older, stranger, and more powerful than a collection of facts. Lore is cultural memory. It is the stories people tell about themselves, their past, and their place in the world.

If people believe a story, they will often act on that belief. And if they act on that belief, the story begins shaping reality. Lore just changed reality.

A king who claims to rule because his grandfather conquered a nation is making a historical argument. A king who claims to rule because the gods chose his bloodline is wielding lore.

The first scenario appeals to facts. The second appeals to belief.

Throughout history, rulers have understood this instinctively. They don’t only govern territories; they govern narratives. They encourage stories that reinforce their legitimacy and discourage stories that threaten it.

That’s why so many cultures have origin myths.

A kingdom might tell a story that its first ruler was descended from the sun. (Egypt, anyone?)

A noble family might claim ancestry from a legendary hero. A religious order might preserve stories proving its sacred mission.

Whether these stories are literally true is beside the point. What matters is that they explain why the current power structure exists.

When official histories erase people, lore often survives in songs, stories, proverbs, and oral traditions. Entire cultures have preserved their identities through stories long after kingdoms, governments, and borders disappeared. This is one reason anthropologists and folklorists take oral traditions so seriously. They aren’t merely entertaining tales. They are repositories of memory.

In fact, one of the most fascinating things about lore is that it can challenge authority just as effectively as it can support it.

A ruler may declare that the kingdom was founded by a saint. Meanwhile, villagers whisper stories that the saint was actually a thief.

Now there are two competing versions of reality.

One is official. One is popular. Both are lore.

Both influence behavior. And both shape the future.

Lore does not merely explain power. It creates power.

The stories people believe shape the choices they make, the leaders they follow, the places they fear, and the futures they imagine.

Control the stories, and you influence the world.

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The next time you encounter lore in a fantasy novel, look a little closer.

Ask yourself who is telling the story. Who benefits from it? Who remembers it differently? Because lore is never just background information.

It’s the memory of a people.

And sometimes, hidden inside a story about dragons, saints, lost kingdoms, or wandering heroes, is the blueprint for an entire civilization.

Not bad for something most readers think belongs in the appendix.

What are your thoughts on Lore?

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Once upon a time…okay, back in 2023…a story germ appeared in the subconscious of an author’s mind. Elements of a tale slowly emerged, one by one.

• A scheming mistress determined to build her own future where she ruled all of Uclandia as Empress.

• A young woman with a tormented past, horrible sword-wielding skills, and a hidden gift, and a pretty cool name.

• The youngest Shadow Guard ever, accused of a brutal killing she didn’t commit.

• Sheep, and the baby dragon forbidden from eating them.

The more I thought about all of this… you knew the author was me, right? The more I thought about all of it, the more details I saw! I named it ‘Anthem’s Ember’. I wrote madly, frantically, happy to lose myself to it. Sometimes writing two thousand words a day!

And then real life came, not with a polite knock, but with an ass-kicking I’ll never forget.

My dad’s health started going downhill. Diabetes he chose to ignore. COPD he ignored, except to smoke more, sleeping longer and longer. A fall, a concussion that I still swear to this day was something more, and then, all of a sudden, in a week, he could do less and less for himself. After trying as best I could to be a caregiver for him and my mom…I just couldn’t help him anymore. Hospitalization gave us no answers, only more questions. His health got worse. He was there for a month. One morning he simply…never woke up.

My mother, who had also been declining, albeit more slowly, was devastated. Her health went into freefall. Dialysis wasn’t helping much, her balance was shot, she was losing weight so fast, the she became sticks and bones. Where we live made everything more complicated.

Then my soulmate, the love of my life, got sick. She refused to go to the doctor for two months. Finally, she acquiesced and went to the emergency room. Breast cancer. She was admitted for testing, diagnosis and treatment planning. She lived six more days and died before ever seeing an oncologist. Also in the early morning.

A month later, also hospitalized by then, my mom gave up. Frustrated by a medical support system that refused to help in the best way possible, she stopped dialysis, went into hospice and a week or so later, she died.

Needless to say, ‘Anthem’s Ember’ had been put on the back burner.

I fell headlong into grief so intense and enormous, I still don’t remember most of the next six months. But I do remember closing the door to my mother’s room, and not opening it more than once in those six months…and technically it was my brother that opened it, collapsed in tears in the hallway, and didn’t touch it again for a year.

I remember being punched in the chest by grief every time I walked into my bedroom and looked at my wife’s side of the bed. I remember finally going to my own health practitioner with a blood pressure reading that we all agreed should have produced a stroke.

Which brings us to today. Three years after I first got the seeds of an idea for a story.

I don’t tell you this in a bid for sympathy. I’ve shared all this with you to provide a timeline for the roots of ‘Anthem’s Ember’. I find it remarkable that those seeds stuck with me, rooted firmly in the back of my mind. I didn’t forget the young woman with a gift for fire who rebuilt her life time and time again. Or Pud, the ewe who soaked up Anthem’s tears and gave her something real and warm to hold onto. Over the last few months, I’ve gotten the story out a few times, reread it and all my notes on the magic system, the lore behind the magic, and the little dragon who was forbidden to eat the sheep.

These days, my own story more closely resembles Anthem’s. I have rebuilt my life, rediscovered who I was underneath the skyrocketing blood pressure and years of caregiving (seven years, all told), and had a most interesting, (and positive!) development.

A few weeks ago, something unexpected happened. An agent reached out after reading one of my essays.

We talked about Fantasy. About worldbuilding. About stories and the kinds of books that linger in your bones long after you finish them.

And afterward, I found myself thinking about Anthem again.

About the unfinished manuscript. About the notes. About the girl with fire in her veins and a dragon egg in her future. So I went digging.

I opened old folders. Reread old scenes. The story was still there.

Waiting. Not finished. Not polished. But alive.

Which brings us to The Cinderbound Archives.

This corner of the newsletter will be devoted to the rebuilding of Anthem’s Ember. Not only the novel itself, but the world surrounding it.

Here you’ll find lore fragments, maps, magic systems, story journals, abandoned ideas, character notes, worldbuilding essays, deleted scenes, recovered scenes, and reflections from the long road back to fiction. Think of them like field notes from an archaeological dig.

Because that’s what returning to this story has felt like: uncovering something buried beneath ash and time, and discovering the embers were still warm. Pardon the pun, it’s entirely intentional.

In truth, opening these old notes again has felt less like “working on a novel” and more like sitting down with an old friend I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to.

So this little corner of the newsletter will be exactly that: a place to share the journey back into the story.

The worldbuilding. The false starts.
The dragons. The strange bits of lore scribbled in notebooks at two in the morning.
The things that changed. The things that refused to.

Thank you for being here at the beginning of it all.

Or perhaps, more accurately…at the beginning again.

Carolyn

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A hidden library beneath a ruined city. A forbidden book sealed behind iron and oath.

A single figure who knows the truth.

We recognize these things instantly. But something about them should feel…strange. Because these are not just story devices. They are fragments of something much larger.

Fantasy worlds shouldn’t just run on magic or power.

Most Fantasy fiction treats knowledge as something to be stored in libraries, towers, and archives and revealed at exactly the right moment for the plot. In these cases, knowledge behaves like an object. You find it. You unlock it. You use it.

But in reality, and in truly living worlds, knowledge is never so simple. It is fragmented, contested and complex, and almost always controlled by those in power. Even in our “real” world. And as in our world, not all knowledge is treated equally.

So, there are different kinds of knowledge. Some we’re already familiar with, others…less so.

There’s ‘Institutional Knowledge’. The kind we see in books, or historical scrolls, academies or most often…libraries. (I’ve always wondered just what was in the Library of Alexandria.) Historically the recording, organizing, copying and distribution of knowledge, sacred or not, was given over to scholars, scribes and monks. Even in many fantasy tales this is true. The problem is that institutional knowledge becomes a power tool, and in doing so, loses its neutrality. There is a saying in our world, (frequently mistakenly attributed to Winston Churchill), “History is written by the victor”. No matter who really said it, the truth of the statement is hard to miss. Those in power at any given time control the history they want remembered.

Then there is ‘Lived Knowledge’. This is the knowledge passed down from one mind, one person, to another. In Fantasy, this is most often herbalists, stone masons, blacksmiths, and in FitzChivalry Farseer’s case…the trade of assassins. Lived knowledge is more often than not, dismissed until it is deemed necessary. You know what I mean…the blacksmith has always been there…taken for granted until a group of adventurers suddenly realize only that particular smith can create a monster-killing blade for them. When the scholar’s theory fails, it’s the herbalist who knows which root will draw out the fever. When the map is wrong, it’s the local who knows where the river actually runs.

This is knowledge that can’t be separated from the body that carries it.

Hidden Knowledge is knowledge that must not spread. It is controlled in forbidden texts, and sealed archives guarded by a massive two-head Dire Wolf fed by a secret Order of Scholars. Its power comes not only from what it contains, but from the fact that access is controlled.

To restrict knowledge is to shape reality. If people cannot know something, they cannot act on it. If they cannot act on it, the world remains as it is. This is a fact that rulers, whether Imperial Kings, or modern politicians, rely on to control the masses.

But what happens when someone knows something they were never supposed to learn?

Throughout Frodo’s quest to return the One Ring, and ultimately destroy it, he learns the extent of the corruption across Middle Earth. He learns the Ring has a will of its own, and is a link between its maker and the Ring Bearer. This shatters Frodo’s disillusions of the world outside The Shire, and ultimately puts the Shire in terrible crosshairs. The cost of this hidden knowledge shapes Frodo’s future.

In A Wizard of Earthsea, Ged learns a spell beyond his maturity and tears open the boundary between worlds, releasing a shadow. He reaches for knowledge that he has not earned, that he does not understand, and that requires restraint he doesn’t yet possess. Ged’s mistake isn’t ignorance, it’s premature knowledge without wisdom. A lot like Mickey in the Magician’s Apprentice, also known as Fantasia.

Well, the original, anyway.

In Mistborn: The Final Empire, Kelsier and Vin uncover cracks in the narrative passed down for generations. The Lord Ruler is not what he claims, and history has been rewritten. Even better, Sazed (my favorite character) is a Terrisman steward which, on the surface, looks like a servant role. But it’s really a hidden order dedicated to preserving knowledge that the empire has tried to erase. They safeguard religions that were wiped out, philosophies that were suppressed, and histories that were rewritten. They don’t just study this knowledge. They carry it inside themselves.

Sazed sits at the intersection of multiple knowledge systems.

Institutional knowledge → controlled by the Lord Ruler (rewritten history)

Restricted knowledge → suppressed religions and truths

Embodied knowledge → Sazed carries it in his own body

Cultural knowledge → tied to Terris identity

In some worlds, knowledge does not sit in towers or archives. It lives in the bodies of those no one thinks to question, quiet stewards, attendants, and explorers like my own Vibris Ceza who carry entire histories beneath the notice of powerful figures who would rather have all that knowledge hidden. In the end, it isn’t the spell or the sword that changes a world. It’s someone who understands something they were never meant to. And refuses to forget it.

Once you start looking for it, you can’t unsee it. The quiet hierarchies of knowledge. The invisible lines of permission. The moments where truth slips through anyway. And if you follow those threads a little further…there’s a deeper layer waiting.

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There’s a quieter layer to this work in the back room, where notes, fragments, and unfinished thoughts gather. Upgrade, become a Marginalian, and read in the margins with us.

I’ve never liked mornings.

Too much hope in them. Too much expectation. The world hasn’t had a chance to disappoint you yet.

That morning was all damp air and creaking joints. My knee was already complaining before I made it to the bench outside. Tarragon bounced ahead of me like she hadn’t just eaten two fish and passed out like a log the night before. Youth is wasted on the small, scaly, and oblivious.

Adair sat on the low stone wall, checking the straps on her boots like she wasn’t itching to talk. Her silence was louder than most folks’ shouting.

“She’ll meet us,” she said without looking up.

“She?” I asked, settling beside her.

“The contact. Her name’s Sela. She’s got maps. Knows the old paths.”

“And the catch?”

Adair shrugged one shoulder. “She wants something in return.”

“Of course she does.”

I wasn’t in the habit of trusting smugglers. Then again, I wasn’t in the habit of raising dragons either.

Inside, the cottage looked like a storm had passed through. Which, in fairness, it had. A small, hungry, magical one. Tarragon had taken a liking to my tea kettle, and by the time I pried it out of her claws, she’d learned to steam the spout just by breathing near it.

She chirped proudly when I caught her doing it again. I ignored her.

We had packing to do.

I found the old oilskin roll I used back when I still traveled with the guard companies. The seams were mostly intact. I cut it down, refitted it, and stitched a sling pouch onto a padded harness I could wear across my front like a satchel. Tarragon tried to help.

She ended up tying her tail into a loop and knocking over a jar of dried bark. I pointed at the mess.

“You knocked it over, now you put the bark back.”

She tried to clean it up. Baby dragons aren’t exactly built for a task like that, so I ended up cleaning most of it up myself. But I could already tell by how she held her head that she knew I wasn’t happy. This connection we were developing was proving interesting.

Adair watched from the doorway with that crooked grin of hers.

“You’re not bad with kids,” she said.

“I’m better with swords,” I muttered, tugging a final knot tight.

When the harness was done, I fitted it over my chest, adjusted the balance, and opened the pouch.

“Want to try?”

Tarragon didn’t hesitate. She launched herself at me and nestled inside. Her head peeked out just beneath my chin. Warmth radiated up through the leather like a hot stone from the hearth.

‘Safe,’ she murmured.

Adair actually smiled. I ignored it.

Around midday, Adair left to confirm the meeting place with Sela. She told me it would be a short walk, but knowing her, that meant a brisk six-mile climb through goat trails and death brambles.

Which left me and Tarragon alone.

I fed her a strip of dried venison and sipped my Vanasoom tea. We sat by the hearth, and I sharpened the knife I’d refused to sell five years ago, even when I had nothing but carrots and frostbite.

Tarragon watched me with half-lidded eyes.

‘Find Dam?’ she asked.

I nodded. “That’s the idea.”

She blinked, then tilted her head.

‘Want Dam… but also want… you.’

The words came slowly, tentative. Like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say them.

I didn’t answer. Just kept sharpening the blade. I had no idea what to say to a little dragon who missed her mother.

Adair returned at dusk with a bloodied sleeve and a crooked smirk.

“Sela says she’ll take us as far as Red Hollow. After that, we’re on our own.”

I gestured at her arm. “You pay with coin or blood?”

“Bit of both.”

“Of course.”

She looked at me then, serious for the first time since she’d knocked on my door. “We leave tonight.”

I frowned. “Why?”

Adair hesitated. “There’s been talk. About a trader who saw something fall from the sky. Big. Green. With wings.”

“Someone’s looking,” I said.

“Maybe.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And you didn’t think to mention that part earlier?”

Adair crossed her arms. “Didn’t want to spook you.”

“You think I scare easy?”

“No,” she said. “I think you carry too much alone.”

I didn’t answer. Just turned back to the hearth, poured the last of the tea into a flask, and lifted my old sword off the wall. I picked up the pack I’d filled with as many provisions as I could, and turned back to my old comrade-in-arms.

“Let’s go then,” I said.

Tarragon snuggled deeper into her sling, eyes bright. She sent one word like a bell ringing across the space between our minds:

‘Together.’

To be continued!

There’s a quieter layer to this work in the back room, where notes, fragments, and unfinished thoughts gather. Become a Marginalian, and read in the margins with me.

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Previously,

I reached for the feather because that’s the kind of idiot I am after a long day. Adair’s hand was faster. She caught my wrist with two fingers. “Don’t,” she said. “Could be marked.”

“By what?”

“By whoever wants to know if you’re home.”

I drew back and swallowed whatever sharp reply I had lined up. The feather stirred in a wind that wasn’t there. It smelled faintly of sulfur.

“Inside,” Adair said. “Slow. Keep your noise to your mouth.”

“That’s where noise comes from,” I whispered.

“That’s why I said it,” she replied just as quietly.

I pushed the door with my fingertips and we stood for a breath, listening like thieves. The cottage answered with its ordinary music…the soft settle of beams, Mina humming in the back as she wrestled with a stubborn bucket. No overturned chairs. No shadow slipping across the floor with a dagger between its teeth. We stepped in. The smell of sulfur was fainter here, replaced by the kinder perfumes of mint and beeswax and damp wool. Adair shut the door with the quiet, careful click of someone putting a lid on a jar of hornets. She nodded toward the hearth.

“Sit,” she said.

“I’m not—”

“Rye.”

I sat. It’s a rare day I argue with the tone that saved my life.

Mina’s braid appeared around the corner, then her face, smudged with earth and pride. “You’re back! I did the watering and fed the bees, and only got stung once, and I didn’t cry or…Is everything all right? You both look like you swallowed a lemon.”

“Half a lemon,” I said. “You did well.”

She beamed. Then her eyes dropped to the feather Adair laid on the table. “Oh.”

“You’ve seen this?” Adair asked.

Mina nodded slowly. “On a man’s shoulder. He asked what made the basket smell nice. I told him it was none of his business.”

I blinked. “Probably wise.”

“He had the sort of smile I don’t like,” Mina went on. “Like a cat who knows your henhouse has a hole.”

Tarragon pushed her nose out from the cloak and chirped, which Mina, gods bless her, ignored with the solemn dignity of someone who has decided not to see the thing that will get her scolded. “I didn’t tell him anything,” she said. “Except that you bite.”

“I do,” I said. “Frequently.”

Adair’s eyes had gone that particular flat I recognized from a hundred bad nights—the color of water before a storm. “We’ll set watches,” she said, as if we hadn’t done that for years. “You sleep first. I’ll take the door.”

“Bossy,” I said.

“Alive,” she said with a shrug.

Tarragon yawned so wide her tongue curled. ‘Sleep?’ she suggested hopefully, already burrowing deeper into my collar.

“Soon,” I promised. I could still remotely taste metal at the back of my throat, but the Vanasoom smoothed it, turned the sharpness down to a warning hum. My knee throbbed a slow, familiar rhythm. Outside, the pines leaned together, creaking and whispering.

Adair lifted the feather with the hem of her sleeve, not her fingers, and slipped it into a jar with a lid. “If it’s marked,” she said, “let it sing to glass, not to you.”

“You think it’s him?” I asked. “Grey-green leathers. The one who saw a snout where there should’ve been scarf.”

“I think he wanted you to know he was close,” she said. “And clever.”

“Ugh,” I said. “My least favorite kind.”

Mina hovered in the doorway, looking between us like we might sprout antlers. “Should I…go home?” she asked, not meaning it, not wanting to, but brave enough to ask.

“You’ll stay,” I said. “You can have the good pillow.”

Mina’s eyes went round. “The goose one?”

“Don’t abuse the privilege,” I said, and she laughed, shaky but real.

Adair took the first watch at the door, posture easy, gaze sharp, sword within reach but not flaunted. I brewed tea because that’s what I do. Vanasoom for the hatchling, mint for Mina, nettle for me. Steam softened the air. Two ex-mercenaries and a girl, a sleeping dragon in a cloak, a feather in a jar singing nothing we could hear.

The feather sat on the table in a jar, glimmering faintly in the firelight. Mina had gone to bed with the goose-down pillow, and Tarragon was finally asleep, curled in a tight green comma beside the hearth. I sipped my tea — too strong, too bitter — and watched Adair as she sat sharpening her blade with long, deliberate strokes.

“You knew,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I intended. “Back at the market, when the old woman spoke of the Covenant. You knew what she meant.”

Adair didn’t answer right away. She set the whetstone down, angled the edge of her sword toward the flame, and nodded as if the steel had passed some private test.

“They were real, once,” she said finally. “Not just whispers for scholars and priests. I’ve seen their sigils carved in stone, their books chained in noble libraries. The Covenant swore to keep the balance between dragonkind and our kind. To protect both.”

“And now?”

Her mouth twisted. “Now they’ve forgotten what protection means. The Order split…scholars chasing power, priests hoarding relics, gemwardens guarding their stones like dragons of flesh and scale. They call themselves Keepers still, but it’s been centuries since they kept anything well.”

I shifted in my chair, Tarragon’s warmth echoing faintly through the Tether.

‘Keep. Mine.’

“So what happens if they find out about her?” I asked.

Adair looked at me then, sharp and tired, eyes full of old knowledge. “If the Covenant believes a hatchling bonded outside their reach, they’ll come to claim her. They’ll dress it as duty, as balance, as law older than kings. But make no mistake, Rye: they’ll come for you, too.”

I swallowed. “That woman said it runs both ways.”

“It does.” Adair leaned back, sliding her sword into its scabbard with a hiss that sounded like finality. “Your heart is hers now. And hers, yours. Be glad she’s small and not yet breathing fire. If the Covenant had their way, you’d be nothing more than a footnote in their records, remembered only as a mistake.”

I stared into my cup. Tarragon twitched in her sleep, dreaming again, and the taste of lightning brushed the back of my tongue.

Adair’s gaze softened, almost. “But you’re not a mistake, Rye. Neither is she. Just…don’t expect the world to see it that way.”

Chapter 11

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Previously…

“I’m not helpless.”

“No,” she said. “You’re loud. And your knee clicks when you lie.”

“It does not,” I said, and my knee clicked.

We followed the prints because of course we did. The path home lay in the same direction; whatever had come through the pines had no respect for my fences. We walked in silence except for the whisper of needles, the rasp of my breath, the little chuff-chuff Tarragon made when she tasted air she didn’t like.

“Tell me about Wolfhaven,” I said after a bit, because fear congeals if you give it quiet. “Distract me with upholstery.”

Adair didn’t look back. “Large, old, full of eyes. The land chooses the heir. The house remembers. The father is a patient knife. The daughter is the edge.”

“That’s not a description,” I said. “That’s a threat.”

“It’s both,” she said.

We found the boundary of my garden the way I always do: first by the smell of mint where it’s escaped its bed, then by the buzzing choir of the bees who love me even when I swear at them. The fence stood. A string of garlic braided fresh lay over the latch where I’d told Mina to put it. And there—just inside the gate where boot heels ought to go—two of the long, narrow prints, pressed into damp earth. The garlic above them had browned at the tips.

“Gods,” I said softly. “Right to the door.”

Adair didn’t answer.

I pushed the gate open and breathed through my teeth. Tarragon whined low. Her thought-voice cinched tight as a belt: ‘Nest. Mine. Keep.’

The Tether tugged. She wanted to flare, to crackle…my forearms prickled as if I’d walked too close to a storm. I knew what her lightning did to fish. I didn’t want to find out what it did to dry wood and thatch. Or me.

I slid my hand into the pocket sewn inside the cloak and found the little twist of Vanasoom I kept for bad days. Not the pretty leaves I dried and jarred; this was the rough stuff—crumbled, resinous, still sticky with its own sap. I pinched a bit between finger and thumb and lifted it to Tarragon’s snout. She sniffed, eyes slitting, then flicked out her tongue and tasted.

The change ran through us both. In my mouth, the world lost its tin edge. My shoulders remembered they weren’t a wall. Tarragon’s claws loosened a fraction; her breath unknotted. ‘Warm,’ she sent, small and soft, a little lightning-curlicue of contentment.

“Good girl,” I whispered. “No frying anyone until we know who deserves it.”

Adair’s gaze had been on the prints the whole time. Now it caught on the door. She lifted her chin. “There.”

Something had been tied to my handle with a thin strip of reed. The thing hung where a polite visitor would leave flowers. It wasn’t flowers.

It was a feather, grey-green, slick as river weed, darker toward the quill. It didn’t look like any forest bird I knew. It looked like it had been dipped in ash.

I felt Tarragon’s attention narrow to a point. Mine did, too.

I reached for the feather because that’s the kind of idiot I am after a long day. Adair’s hand was faster. She caught my wrist with two fingers. “Don’t,” she said. “Could be marked.”

“By what?”

“By whoever wants to know if you’re home.”

Chapter 10

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A year or so ago, I quietly set aside a feature here on An Enchanted Life called Plot Points.

It was one of my favourite things to write—little collections of what I’d been reading, watching, and thinking about. The ideas that caught, the threads that lingered, the moments that made me pause and look twice.

But it never quite found its footing. Or at least…not in ways I could easily see. And yet I’ve found myself missing it.

Missing the act of gathering fragments. Missing the habit of noticing.
Missing the quiet practice of asking: why does this matter?

So I’m bringing it back. But not exactly as it was.

Plot Points is returning as:

Plot Points: Field Notes from a Fantasy Mind

This time, it won’t just be a collection of interesting things. It will be a window into how I think about fantasy.

What I’m studying. What I’m questioning. What I’m beginning to understand about, myth and memory, culture and inheritance, ritual, land, belonging, and the hidden systems that shape the worlds we love.

If you’ve been following along with my work on Anthropology in Worldbuilding essays, you’ll recognize some of those threads. Because this is where many of those ideas begin. Not as polished essays. But as sparks. As notes in the margins.

Each edition of Plot Points will be a little like sitting at my desk with me while I sort through what I’ve encountered over the past couple of weeks.

A book passage, or a myth.
A detail in a story, or a question I can’t quite let go of.

And then…why it stayed with me, what it might mean, and how it might shape the worlds we build.

I know many of you read quietly.

You don’t always comment or click the heart. But you’re here. And you’re thinking alongside me.

This space is for you, too.

Plot Points: Field Notes from a Fantasy Mind returns next week.

I’m very glad to be opening this notebook again.

Carolyn ✨

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Fragments From Uclandia are drawn from the recovered journals of explorer Vibris Ceza, whose records offer rare glimpses into a world that does not always behave as expected.

I have been told, more than once, that my maps are unreliable. This is not incorrect.

They do not always reflect the land as it is… only as it was when I passed through it.

There are places in Uclandia that resist certainty.

Roads that lengthen between visits. Forests that do not end where they once did. Rivers that alter their course without flood, or drought, or reason. I have learned, over time, that it is better to record what I see than to question it.

Others prefer clean lines. Borders that hold. Distances that behave.

I have found such maps comforting—and, more often than not, wrong. It is not my purpose to correct them.

I travel where I can, when I can, and I write what I find. Sometimes this is geography. Sometimes it is people. More often, it is the quiet space between the two…where something shifts, and no one agrees on when it began.

There are those who call me an explorer. But I do not seek new lands. Only those that refuse to remain the same. I search out secretive places where the shadows shift without explanation. I journey to places that are older than remembered history. I listen for whispered tales of the incredible things that happen in Uclandia’s far corners.

And I record all of it here in my journals, and on my maps.

Join me here, Friend, and I will share with you what I have seen.

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Field Notes from the Dragonstead Institute of Fantasy Literature Studies

For the Marginalians gathered in the Back Room…

Most fantasy maps are beautiful.

Mountains rise where they should. Rivers curve elegantly across the page. Forests gather in deep green swaths. But too often, they are only that—beautiful.

Geography, in any genre but most importantly in F…

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In my last essay, I promised we’d examine “...how various systems (ecological, economic, political, ritual, knowledge, magical, and emotional) can help build worlds that will suck readers in.” So today, I’d like to take a look at knowledge systems.

Why? Because a knowledge system can answer a simple question. Who knows things — and how do they know them?

Every lasting society has mechanisms for storing, controlling, and transmitting knowledge. These mechanisms shape power, culture, and even the direction of history. In fantasy worlds, they can also determine who understands magic, myth, or truth. And if someone understands how the system works, they can control it. Or at least attempt to.

Knowledge systems include things like:

• libraries

• archives

• oral traditions

• guilds and scholarly orders

• magical texts and grimoires

• temples and priesthoods

• secret societies

• family histories and genealogies

• forbidden or suppressed knowledge

The key question is, who controls the flow of information?

Knowledge Is Power

Some of the most compelling fantasy worlds are driven not by swords, but by control of knowledge.

The Name of the Wind

The University Archives are a perfect example.

Knowledge is technically available — but access is restricted. Certain topics are forbidden. Records disappear. Stories about the Chandrian exist, but only in fragments. The result? The mystery of the world is created by information scarcity.

The Name of the Rose

This story revolves around a labyrinthine monastery library. Books are hidden. Ideas are suppressed. Knowledge itself becomes dangerous. The mystery unfolds not because the world lacks knowledge — but because knowledge is deliberately controlled. Sounds fascinating to me!

How Knowledge Shapes a Fantasy World

A strong knowledge system can answer a key question. How is knowledge preserved?

• Written manuscripts

• Oral storytelling

• Magical memory

• Living witnesses

• Sacred relics

Some cultures prioritize memory and story, while others rely on archives and record-keeping. Each choice shapes the world.

Who Is Allowed Access to Knowledge?

This question is where drama and conflict live.

Certain knowledge might be:

• Heretical

• Magical

• politically dangerous

• socially taboo

The moment knowledge becomes forbidden, it becomes irresistible to characters. And even as children, we learned that if we were told we could not have something, we wanted it all the more. It’s human nature. So then the question becomes, what will this character do to acquire what they’re forbidden to have?

In fantasy, knowledge systems often drive the story itself. Think of how many plots revolve around lost books, hidden maps, ancient prophecies, secret histories, or forgotten languages. These aren’t just narrative devices. They’re artifacts of the world’s knowledge system. When a character uncovers a lost manuscript, or a forgotten language, or a suppressed truth, the reader experiences the thrill of archaeology of the imaginary.

Every fantasy world contains libraries we have not yet opened, histories that have been carefully edited, and truths that someone would prefer remain forgotten. Consider your favorite fantasy world…who controls sacred knowledge there? Who decides what makes certain knowledge sacred in the first place?

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Next time, we’ll explore different knowledge systems. How they evolve, compete with each other, and add to the depth and plot of some of our favorite Fantasy tales.

There’s a quieter layer to this work in the back room, for those who like to read in the margins. Become a Marginalian (supporter), and find out what you’re missing.

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What makes the best Gothic statue polish?

Gargoyle.

(Garg-oil. Get it?)

Got a fantasy-themed joke or pun? Share it with us in the comments section!

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Even the most casual of fantasy readers should fail to realize why they can’t put a good book down.

I say should, because a truly gripping book should be like a great illusionist. You can’t look away, but you have no idea why.

For example, The Shire, Mordor, Rohan, Gondor — each ecological zone produces a different culture.

• The Shire → demonstrates pastoral comfort → agrarian values → resistance to industrialization.

• Mordor → a desolate wasteland → extraction → domination.
  Rohan → sunny open plains → horse culture → mobility and loyalty.

Tolkien didn’t just invent landscapes. He built ecological systems that shaped politics, values, and conflict. But we don’t notice this right away. Maybe not even until our 7th or 8th read-through.

What Do We Mean by “Systems” in Fantasy?

A system is not just a feature.

It’s not “there are dragons.”
It’s not “there’s a magic school.”
It’s not “there’s a monarchy.”

A system is a network of relationships that produces predictable patterns of behavior inside a world. Seeing the world not as a collection of isolated facts or events, but as a set of interdependent, interacting forces that create patterns, cycles, feedback loops, and emergent behaviors. These elements can drive stories, give a character a reason for their quest for revenge, or even decide whether that quaint little village grows or chases away outsiders. Unexpected outcomes arise from simple interactions — a small change triggers a massive shift. Everything has consequences.

Fantasy feels immersive when systems are working under the surface — even when readers don’t consciously notice them. When systems break, the world feels thin. Magic, politics, environment, religion, trade… all of these are, or should be, linked. Changing one affects the others.

In fantasy literature, systems thinking means the world the story is set in isn’t just a static backdrop. It’s a living web of cause and effect.
Actions ripple outward, sometimes unpredictably.

Readers may not always recognize it, but when a culture behaves consistently, magic has consequences, economies make sense, geography shapes politics, and beliefs influence behavior.

In Westeros (Game of Thrones) The political structure works because Houses operate as dynastic units. Marriage is strategic. Land brings military power. Honor and ambition drive conflict. Even betrayal makes sense because the system incentivizes it.

In the coming weeks, we’ll explore how various systems (ecological, economic, political, ritual, knowledge, magical, and emotional) can help build worlds that will suck readers in. And hopefully build an immersive and unforgettable reading experience. It’s my hope that this will add a level of understanding for readers and a framework for writers that will help them find plots, create more nuanced characters, and create stress and conflict in their stories. And along the way, we’ll also explore fantasy novels that already include all that magic.

Ready to get sucked into a magical secret? Subscribe if you aren’t already, so you don’t miss anything. Bring your own mead. 🍺

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Good morning, one and all!

I know some of us have read all the available episodes of “Tea With a Dragon”, but we’ve been joined by some new enthusiastic fans of fantasy who haven’t heard about Tarragon, Rye, and Adair. I thought it might be nice to introduce them all to our new friends, and a re-read wouldn’t be too strenuous as we build up to the holidays. After all, television has charmed us with reboots, so why not try that with a wee dragon?

So without any further delay, I offer for your reading pleasure,

“Tea With a Dragon, Episode #1

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This week’s story prompts will be a little different, thanks to the Fantasy Expansion pack I bought this week from the people who brought you The Story Engine. (These folks, and their products, are fabulous!)

Let’s crack open the decks and see what we have this week!

Story Prompt #1

A journalist wants to reveal the dangers of an obsidian ring, but they’ll have to turn against a Mentor, and confess an old sin to get what they want!

Story Prompt #2

A Warlock wants to claim the hidden (or possibly stolen) artifact of a celestial sword rumored to be in a Keep somewhere, but to get it, they’ll suffer an injury that doesn’t heal.

Good luck with this week’s story prompts, and no matter how you use them, if you write anything inspired by them, be sure and tag me so I can share your brilliance and creativity!!

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Want to start at the beginning of our adventure? You can do that here on the episode map

Welcome back to Tea With a Dragon. Last time,

“Those feet…”

“I know,” she said. “Keep walking.”

And now, for the continuation…

We left the market with a sack of onions, a small bag of empty bottles for my tinctures, a wedge of hard cheese, and a baby dragon pretending to be an exceptionally heavy scarf.

Tarragon had fallen asleep after we cleared the spice stall. Nose tucked into my collar, little claws hooked in the weave. She snored like a kettle just thinking about boiling. Every few steps she snorted, and a puff of warm air tickled the side of my neck.

“My favorite part of shopping,” I said, “is carrying everything up the hill while my knee throws a tantrum and my scarf weighs twenty pounds.”

Adair didn’t slow. “Good training.”

“For what? Competitive hobbling?”

“Surviving.”

“That again,” I muttered. “You should try optimism.”

“I did,” she said. “It died.”

I snorted and shifted the sack higher. The path home knifed through pines and red-needled fir. The air smelled like resin and damp bark and the faint, faraway sweetness of peat smoke from someone else’s fire. Mina would already be at the cottage, watering in the last of the afternoon light, practicing how to scowl at slugs like a true herbalist. I’d left her a list and the promise of a few cuttings. If I was going to be gone soon …when, not if…someone had to keep the bees from staging a coup.

“Don’t bite your tongue,” Adair said.

“I wasn’t,” I lied.

“You were thinking with your teeth.”

‘Teasing,’ Tarragon murmured in my head, with drowsy amusement. ‘Teasing is how she says she likes you.’

“Yes,” I whispered. “I’m familiar.” Her thoughts were becoming more mature.

We walked five more paces before Adair said, too casually, “So…Ganymede Wolf sent word.”

I stumbled, knee flaring. “He what?”

“Sent word,” she repeated. “Gold coin with a contract. Hired me to be a bodyguard at Wolfhaven for his daughter, Andromeda.”

The name tasted like a sliver of flint. I’d heard it from gossip at the market: the Lady with the wolf’s mark, the one who made merchants sweat and laundry-women cry. The Wolf family drew trouble like bread draws ducks.

“When?” I asked.

“Soon.”

“That’s not a date,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

I adjusted the sack again, because my hands needed to do something. “Well then,” I said lightly, “congratulations. You can glare at silk instead of mud. Try not to stab the upholstery.”

“Upholstery stabs itself,” she said. “With pins in the seams.”

“Witty,” I said. “You should write that down. Send it to the Chronicle.”

“Don’t read the Chronicle.”

The path curved. We stepped into a hollow where the pines grew thick, crowding close like gossiping aunts. The air changed—cooler, thinner, like a door had opened in a cellar you didn’t mean to find. The change slid across my tongue like metal.

I stopped. “Do you smell…”

“Sulfur,” Adair said.

We both went still. Tarragon woke with a startled chirr, claws tightening against my skin. Her thought-voice sharpened. ‘Hot. Wrong. Hot…wrong.’

“Easy, little ember,” I murmured, tugging the cloak higher over her snout. The smell wasn’t strong—just a thread of it, as if someone had set a match to yellow rock and blown it out, the ghost of fire laced through damp green. I’d smelled it in old alchemy sheds and once at a spring where the stones stained your fingers, but not here. Not on our path.

Adair pointed with two fingers, that quiet Guard gesture I’d seen a hundred times on patrol. The moss beside the trail had collapsed into deep oval prints—too long for a deer, too narrow for a boar, toes splayed like a bird gone wrong. Each print had a rim of paler green as if the moss had been singed, not burned but…cooked. A fine dust glittered along the edges.

“New?” I asked.

“An hour at most,” Adair said. “See the moisture gather in the heel? Not yet filled.”

“What walks on three long toes and smells like a bad thunderhead?” Even to me, it sounded like the opening to a bad joke.

‘Hot…wrong’, Tarragon pulsed again, and then something else: a flicker of sensation that wasn’t mine…stone warm under a belly, dark, the press of egg-mates, then a flash of cold fear like biting metal. I sucked in a breath.

I shifted the sack off my shoulder and crouched, hissing when my knee protested. With two fingers I touched the moss beside the print. The cold came up through my skin like a warning. “It’s leaching something,” I said. “Whatever it is, it’s upsetting the ground.”

“Back,” Adair said, so softly I barely heard her. She drew me up by the elbow and set me behind her as if we’d never stopped doing this dance—her the shield, me the mouth. Her hand fell to the hilt on her belt. “Stay to my left.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“No,” she said. “You’re loud. And your knee clicks when you lie.”

“It does not,” I said, and my knee clicked.

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We followed the prints because as ex-soldiers, then mercenaries, that’s what we did. The path home lay in the same direction; whatever had come through the pines had no respect for my fences. We walked in silence except for the whisper of needles, the rasp of my breath, the little chuff-chuff Tarragon made when she tasted air she didn’t like.

Episode 9

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