Vhorrak (Vor-rack) came to Tamsworth on Fourth Day.

Wolves, the largest pack the mountains of Tamsworth ever saw, slaughtered three children — ten were set to watch the sheep on the lowest pasture, believing it to be the safest of jobs. Every child learned all about sheep before they were seven years old. The three weren’t fast enough to outrun the wolves – none of the children were. But the pack concerned themselves with the slowest, easiest to catch and eat. After wandering through the lower deserts, yellowish sand still caked to some of the wolves’ fur, they were starving. None of the children survived, nor was anything left of their bodies. Maren knew it wasn’t normal for the wolves to come this close to human settlements, especially not this high up in the mountains of Tamsworth. She was one of the ten.

Residents also claimed to lose a handful of sheep. They either went missing or were presumed dead, though nobody found traces of entrails, wool, or bones to be sure. Tamsworth built three memorials to the children before Vhorrak’s first appearance. Maren’s mother never fully recovered after the attack, hovering over her daughter with a hawk’s eye, keeping her safe no matter what. So when Vhorrak swooped down and landed in the village square, Maren was behind her mother.

“Take cover!” Greybeard shouted. He was one of the oldest living souls in Tamsworth, having lived more than four decades, outlasting even his father’s father. “Everyone! Get inside! NOW!”

Vhorrak landed hard enough to rattle every home, every building, even the mill close to the river, the waterwheel bouncing with the blow. The size of the dragon dwarfed the village, the dust and dirt flying in all directions. From inside closed doors, villagers peeked out, looking at the monster now nestled neatly in the middle of the town square, wrapping itself around the only water source of Tamsworth, a freshwater well. It curled itself around the stone well, leaving enough room for a small woman to squeeze through. Nobody so much as breathed, not even Greybeard. Everyone was paralyzed, frozen where they stood. The beast didn’t say a word, if it could talk at all. Then Vhorrak closed its eyes, falling fast asleep.

Old Maren sat in her rocking chair, near the well in the middle of Tamsworth, doing what she did best: telling her story.

“Nobody understood a dragon that slept,” Old Maren hissed, the words strained through her teeth, emphasizing the slept, because it was the climax of the story.

The children at her feet, and two of the newest additions to Tamsworth: a seamstress, Hannah, who claimed to travel from the ocean shore, several weeks’ journey from the village, and a young man, barely old enough to grow a beard, but a hard worker and ready to help, who was never given a name and simply called ‘boy.’ Maren thought he needed a name, but as of yet, still didn’t have one.

“Three days it lay there,” Maren continued, “and we learned to live around it. Like you do around a boulder that’s always occupied space in your field. Ma kept me closer than usual, not knowing if the sleeping giant would wake.” Maren used her hands to retell the story she’d been telling for generations now. “We swept dust off our stoops each morning. Children, like me? We were kept closer than usual. But something about the beast in the square,” she made a small, almost full circle in the dust at her feet — “even sleeping, even doing nothing — put fear back into the same people who drove out the wolves years earlier. The beast had taken it out of them.”

The wolves came back on the third night. Maren said, “Ridge. We named the beast Ridge. And it woke up the next morning – slowly, like it was waiting for someone. Or something. Ridge lifted its head, blinked a few times, and stared toward the tree line. After taking a deep breath, it took off, launching itself into the air, straight toward the crags and the mountains overlooking Tamsworth. This time, as if Ridge was launched into the air via magic, nothing in the village was disturbed. No dust kicked up. Not so much as a wisp of air.” The children in the circle were too little for her to recount the entirety of the wolves’ destruction.

The watchtower, installed after the wolf pack’s brutal attack, had a giant bell hanging beneath it as a warning signal and to call any village meeting. Or at the first sight of a stranger. Uzi, the strongest woman in the village thanks to her blacksmithing, not only crafted the bell but also helped hang it. It rang out loud and long, the children scrambling back to their parents, shouting, ‘Bye, Old Maren!’ Hannah and ‘boy’ stared at Maren. “A stranger is coming,” Maren said. “Best get inside. Or you can stick close to me,” she said, grabbing her walking stick. “On second thought,” she grabbed ‘boy’ by the shoulder, squeezing hard, “you best get inside. Peek out if you wish, but stay hidden.” She pointed at Hannah. “And you, dearie, stick with me.”

“What about the wolves?” boy asked, protesting the abrupt stop in Maren’s narrative.

“Another time, boy. Right now. Go on, now. Get inside.”