Tela, with a Helping of Dragon

          The kingdom of Hearthshire is known for one thing, and one thing only: It dragons.

          “No, Tela, try again. Three things.” Garan sits in his chair in the corner of the kitchen, studying Tela as she zooms from drawer to drawer, gathering herbs and spices.

          “The kingdom of Hearthshire is known for two things, and two things only. Its dragons and its cooking.”

          “Tela, this isn’t a joke. Your acceptance ceremony is tomorrow.”

          “I know, Garan, I know. But it’s a simple exam. And I’ve done it a thousand times. I can do this.”

          “Tela, come here.”

          “Hold on, I just need—”

          “Tela. Come here.” Tela pouts over to him. “You’re going to do amazing. I know you can do it. The Chef’s Guild is going to be honored to have you. I just don’t want you to get turned away at the door just because of your nerves. So please, Tela. Just one more time.”

          “Very well,” she says with a sigh, and returns to her cooking. “The kingdom of Hearthshire is known for three things: Its dragons, its cooking, and its cooking of dragons. I am Tela, daughter of Garan, and today I’m going to be cooking for you une dragonne bourguignon, from field to table.”

          Garan looks up at his daughter, his eyes watery with pride. “You’re ready.”

          Tela does not feel ready anymore standing in front of the judges. She didn’t know the stage would feel this empty, that the faces in the crowd would look so expectant, so very much not like her father’s. Nonetheless, she’s delivered her lines perfectly, if somewhat timidly.

          “From table to field.” Almost perfectly.

          “And where is your dragon?” a judge sitting on a bench in front of the crowd asks, eager to find Tela’s flaws.

“It’s—it’s…” she mutters. Frantically, she whips her head back and forth in search of the dragon she knows she forgot, until Garan comes from stage right,

rolling a cage covered in a blanket. She gestures towards it. “It’s right here!” She turns to him and mouths a thank you.

          “You’ve got this,” he mouths back.

          She walks to the newly rolled in cage, tapping into a reserve of confidence she didn’t know she had. “Today, judges, we have—” She tears the blanket away to reveal a dragon. It’s smaller, only about five feet long, obviously a juvenile. Its teeth form a slight underbite, its two bottom canines travelling slightly towards its nose, which is being slightly tickled by its tail as it sleeps. Its head rests upon two large clawed, scaly paws, nestled under its wing, and most importantly, its scales shine with gold. “—a golden dragon.”

          The gathered crowd gasps in shock and the judges lift their head eagerly. Tela can’t believe her father managed this. Golden dragons are the rarest kind, impossible to breed for as they only appear by pure chance. Their meat is known to only be worthy of royal feasts. And now, apparently, Tela’s Chef’s Guild acceptance examination.

          Slowly she bends down and opens the cage. Generations ago, dragons were monstrous and fierce. Anymore, they’re bred to be docile, less lean and more fat for the sake of the plate. With a gentle hand, she guides it out of the cage and in front of the crowd. It looks around in wonder of how many people there are. Tela reaches over, grabs the axe from the edge of the counter of her cooking station, and lifts it over her head. The dragon looks to her rather than the crowd of people and stares at her for just a moment, and she does what any good chef knows to never do: She looks right back into its eyes. As she hesitates to bring the axe down, Goldy (the name she’d already foolishly given it) tilts his head, curious about the misty-eyed girl before him.

         Goldy’s first instinct upon seeing the crying girl falling to her knees is perhaps the cruelest.

          In the before times, a dragon would have seized the opportunity to make a meal of the girl for itself. It would have simply set the whole stage ablaze, perhaps the crowd as well.

          Goldy, however, meanders behind Tela, wraps his body around hers, and lays his head in her lap.

          Tela cannot kill this dragon.

          Garan, as worried for his daughter as any father would be, runs over and picks up the axe from his daughter’s limp hand. Goldy’s head still in his daughter’s lap, its long slender neck perfectly exposed at her side, Garan brings the axe down to do what his daughter could not.