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“It needs interpreting?” My lie is undone.

The stew is good though and the hermitage is warm. There are cushions and rugs next to the stool I’m sat on, comfortable looking cushions and rugs in colourful block patterns, so unlike the item Meg is knitting.

“What does it say?” she says, her beady eyes fixed on me.

“Keep the creatures, keep the Wyrm, never let him harm, for in all his days and all his nights, he will keep her warm. Fate has come and fate has gone, and she will be the one to tame him, for when the Wyrm finds his mate, fire will finally warm them,” I repeat, as if in a trance.

I have read it, but I did not think I had committed it to memory.

“I have no fire,” I say, my voice sounding quieter than I expect.

My spoon falls to the floor.

“You have plenty of fire, Wyrm,” Meg says. “You just haven’t found it yet.”

“Where?”

“The question is when, and the when is where you find your army,” she says cryptically.

“Stop speaking in riddles,” I growl.

My brain can’t work out anything, not when all I want to do is sleep. But sleep is not what I should do. Sleep is for the weak.

I sleep.

FENROTHER

Iopen my eyes to find I am not in the hermitage anymore. The residual warmth of the fire and the food ebbs away. I do, however, have something around my neck and I pull at it. My claws catch in the loops, and I pull at it, and it slithers from my scales.

It’s a scarf. One Meg was knitting earlier. I stare at it for a while. The only garment I like to carry with me are theknickersof my mate. If I had my way, I wouldn’t bother with any clothing. Only the Duegar insist.

I am out on the edge of the moors, close to the river valley, my scales glistening with dew. It’s been an entire night, and my sweet mate is not in my arms.

I am not in my castle. Meg has tricked me, and I want to kill her.

“Fenrother?” I’m rolling onto my front, clutching at my head when a voice drops into my ears like a hot poker.

I sit up and see Warden as he trots slowly along an animal track which follows the contour of the fell.

“Have you been licking mushrooms again?” he asks as he gets closer.

“It was one time,” I grumble. “And no, I haven’t beenlicking mushrooms again,” I mimic him. “Meg of Maldon did something to me.”

“How is Meg?” Warden asks.

“She’s creating a stew which sends you to sleep before evicting you from your own hermitage,” I reply.

“Did the stew have mushrooms in it?” Warden’s back legs dance from side to side, his head inclined, and his dark eyes filled with the ferality of his kind.

I glare at him.

“What are you doing here anyway?” I say finally, after he’s folded his arms and stamped a front hoof a few times.

“I was at a loose end, and I thought, why not go bother Fenrother and get my arse bitten again.”

“I did not bite your arse.” I rub the back of my neck, knowing I was more concerned about keeping Warden away from Alice than where I put my teeth.

“Look, I got a message you wanted to see me,” Warden says with growing irritation. “An annoying raven which kept cawing in my ear.” He flaps a hand at his head, catching one of his short horns and tugging it.