The Night Markets glittered beneath the moonlight like tears, like stars, like gemstones in a crooked crown welcoming Acton home.
For a long moment he only stood in the darkness, an autumn wind running fingers through his hair, carrying the scents of smoke and spice, perfume and incense. It was so achingly familiar that he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and berated himself as the worst kind of fool for ever thinking he could leave this behind. This was home. No king, no girl, no gods could change that. Each winding alleyway and crooked street (and grimy bar) was as familiar to him as the black spots freckling his skin. And Acton knew that –
Yank.
The buckskin’s eyes flew open, his ears already pinning, a hind leg readying to kick whoever had dared to pull hard on his tail. But when he glanced back, there was nothing there – until a bright streak darted between his legs and sat up in front of him like a cat, neat rows of teeth showing in a very satisfied grin.
It was not a cat. It was nothing that Acton had ever seen, except for one version that was much, much larger.
“The hell are you?” he said, but the magician couldn’t stay angry; already his ears were back forward, and he lowered his head to huff a breath at the miniature dragon, moonlight-blue and nearly glowing in the dim. In response it flicked its tongue at him, and then sneezed: a tiny plume of flame that singed a few of Acton’s whiskers. He drew back very swiftly, and with newfound appreciation. “Careful, buddy. You’re cute, which is lucky for you.”
The dragon only considered him, and he sat back a little on his heels, considering him back. It seemed not everyone had made themselves scarce after the Big Dragon had been set up as a guard. Slowly a little crooked grin bloomed on Acton’s mouth, and with a bit of concentration he conjured up another dragon, blue as a sapphire, which snapped its tiny jaws at the first.
The true dragon cocked his head and lashed his tail, then pounced at the imposter. But of course its claws closed on nothing, and it went rolling on the glittering pavement to the sound of Acton’s laughter. When it sprang up again, it was to stare at something just beyond the buckskin – and then it fled into the shadows beneath an empty stall.
Acton turned and his matchlight gaze fell on a mare the color of moonlight and shadow, with antlers a neat arch. He remembered her from that awful day – but he’d never known her name.
Still, he tilted his head toward her, a slanting sort of nod, and his grin did not waver. “’Lo,” he said. “Nice night, eh?”
@Jezanna hope this suits!
you're italic, I'm in bold
