Hugh J. O'Donnell

The Dragon Knight looked down from her tower. Below her, she could see the peasants working desperately in the fields, building sand walls and digging for water.
Her heart ached, but what could she do? Drought couldn’t be beaten with a sword. And she’d paid her own price.
A dragon’s life force is puissant and eternal. She was constantly surrounded by blue and silver wraiths. She’d had to isolate herself to protect the kingdom. She didn’t mind, it was part of the duty.
She went back inside, never considering the link between the dragons and the land that spawned them.

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The door seemed rather ordinary, if out of place. It was solid, heavy oak, and it stood in a stone arch frame in the middle of the forest. The magic was in the keys.
They hung from every bare branch of the dead trees, and each was guarded by a raven that stared down at her with fearsome intelligence. She just needed to find the right key, and appease its keeper. Then she could unlock the door, and it would take her she needed to be.
She finally understood what the old man had meant. Not all labyrinths were mazes.

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The Death’s Head Moths were attracted to the faeries’ light, and thus the fragile creatures became endangered. There was no malice in the insects’ attacks. They merely sensed light and magic and were drawn in.
Initially, the mages built the lanterns as refuges, places the faeries could safely hide when the swarms were on the wing. It was a kindness, and the faeries gratefully accepted their hospitality.
But once the mages had them, they couldn’t help but notice the faeries’ beauty, and how plentiful and useful their magics were.
It does not take long for refuge to become a cage.

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“Please,” the mermaid asked the Sea Witch. “Change my tail into legs like a human’s so I may walk on land.”
“Tell me, child. How many legs has a human?”
The girl concentrated. “Oh, I should know this. I think three?”
The witch smiled and presented her with a potion, along with warnings and instructions she was satisfied the girl would ignore in her haste.
When she was gone, the witch’s minion slithered out of hiding. “I thought you were going to steal her voice.”
“I was,” the witch said. “But this is going to be so much more amusing.”

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Tiger prowls through the jungle, searching for her next meal. She stalks from tree to tree, padding on silent feet. Her striped fur blends into the shadows falling from the canopy.
The rest of the forest cowers from her. From the smallest rat to the mightiest boar, they all know better than to risk Tiger’s swift claws. She hunts by stealth because no one else is a match for her.
She does not believe in astrology or even keep time in a way that is compatible with such thinking. But never the less, it is going to be her year.

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