The days came and went, filled with simple rhythms of dawn and dusk, planting and pruning. They were like soft melodies of plucked strings and tender humming. An occasional knight made their way to the orchid house, but soon Thorn came to see them as little more than caterwauling tin marionettes. They were pretty things, but largely empty puppets dancing on invisible strings they didn't understand. They all made the same powerful arguments, the same pompous claims. Even the ones that were different were the same, those who came without armor, or boasting some strange gift, even the weak ones. They all sought power to do great things, and they all believed Ater could grant them this power.

As days drifted into weeks, Thorn became certain of two things. She now knew that she had indeed found Ater the Herowright and the Font of Strength. And she also now knew that she had no idea what a hero was anymore, or even strength itself.

"Ater?" Vannel's clipped voice sounded with a knock on the heavy wood doors. Thorn watched the old man stand from behind a shrub inside the orchid house and rub his lower back as he stretched. "There's news!"

Ater paused on his way to the door. His lips pursed into a line and he squared his thin shoulders, then opened the doors for Vannel.

"Come in and sit," the old man said, then turned without waiting for a response. Vannel wordlessly followed, and they settled on two stools at the potting bench. The youth fidgeted with the fringe on his shirt, his eyes on a broken pot Ater had set aside the day before.

"Out with it," Ater mumbled after a long silence.

"There was a battle and... the Dynasty lost," Vannel said carefully. "The Incendiaries have put out a call to arms, as have the Dynasty. It's... uh... it's heating up," he finished lamely.

Thorn wasn't certain if Ater was even still breathing, he was so still.

"Why tell me?" the old man said after far too long. Vannel just fretted at his shirt. Vannel looked away.

"They are coming here, aren't they? "the old man's voice was haggard. "They want me to train their men. Fools."

"Lanisti sent a runner to warn you," Vannel blurted out. "She made it to the inn, then passed out. Who knows how long she ran or the last time she slept. A Dynasty Elite squad is only a few days behind, no doubt. Lanisti wants you to..."

"Lanisti can come herself if she has something to say to me," Ater cut him off. "I will not join her army or the Dynasty's. It would be pointless."

"Maybe it would help!" Vannel stood suddenly, his stool toppling backwards. "Maybe you could train the Incendiaries and it would change everything! How do you know it would be pointless?"

Ater sighed, his shoulders drooping. "What would you have me do? Teach them how to tend the roots of a flower? Or how to test soil moisture? You know better than most that I am no warrior."

"But I also know better than most the deeds your children have done. And the others from our village," Vannel scowled. "You cannot deny this, old man. They have changed the course of history, like the heroes of old!"

Ater slumped further and turned away from the youth. He leaned against the potting bench, his head in his hands.

"My children...," he began, but his voice broke. Thorn crept closer through the rafters. "...My children left. Two I will never see again, nor even be able to bury. The third will not last long in her battle against the dragon's Dynasty."

"Are you not proud of them?"

"Of course," the old man whispered. "I'll never be not proud of them. But they are gone. Like the heroes of old. Like you will soon be gone as well."

"Me?" Vannel blurted.

Ater straightened, wiping his eyes with grubby hands.

"Yes you. You are the next Hero of Font, of course," he smiled weakly. "You will follow in the footsteps of my children and so many others of our village, I'm sure."

"But I'm not like them!" Vannel took a step back. "I'm not special or strong! I'm a nobody. I have nothing to offer."

"Exactly," Ater stood. "And I expect you'll soon leave, like the others did and change the world."

"I can't do that!"

"Oh stop it," Ater waved the boy's incredulity away. "Not by yourself, of course. Don't be like one of those pig-headed knights who think they are the hinge-pins of history. If you wish it, and I expect you do, you will leave and be yourself and that will be enough. Or you can stay and be yourself and that will be enough. Either works."

With that the old man turned away and shuffled back towards the shrub he had been pruning. Vannel stood frozen, stunned.

"Are you sending me to Lanisti in your stead?" Vannel asked slowly.

"I said nothing of the sort," Ater chuckled. "But the some bards will likely assume as much."

Vannel swallowed awkwardly. "Is this how it went with the others, when they left?"

Ater paused, then gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Wordlessly, the old man knelt beside the shrub and continued his work.

"Do you want me to stay?" Vannel asked. Only the quiet sound of a gardener's shears could be heard.

Vannel closed his eyes, taking in the gentle babbling of the spring and the merry birdsong. The humid air swirled about, tinged with the scent of brimstone, dancing with the brisk mountain air near the double doors. Thorn watched the young man stand a bit taller, squaring his shoulders. No spells were cast or divine rites given, yet he seemed to transform before her eyes as he came to a decision.

"Thank you," the man said. "I will return, I promise."

Ater did not answer as the newborn hero made his way from the orchid house and down the path. Ater did nothing for a long moment, then quietly began to weep.

"Little Bug," the tired voice woke Thorn that night in her broken pot bedroom. She blinked at the unexpected light that fought off the Shadow. Curiously, she poked her head through her crack of a door and was met with the gentle flickering of dozens of candles. He was sitting on the path, as he had so many weeks ago. But now the small space was crowded with candles and dancing light.

"I made light for you," Ater smiled wearily. "We really should speak in the daylight, but the night is time for foolish things, is it not?"

"Indeed," she said and took several steps towards him. "What foolishness do you have in mind?"

"I dream of seeing the Tangleweed Run of the Crescent Heights," the old man said.

"Oh," Thorn nodded noncommittally, not knowing anything of the place. "Tell me more."

"I've heard legends of the wonders of the Fleyfleyt underlands, the endless caves that never reach the surface. I've heard how they are lit by hanging glowers that make the caverns bright as day. The books say that any plant can grow there for it never frosts and the falls provide endless fresh water."

She blinked.

"I was wondering if you... well you know," the old man laughed nervously. "Could you..."

He lapsed into silence as she understood his request.

"You want me to carve a portal to another world so you can run away," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes. I want to die in peace, " he held her gaze. "That will not happen here. I want to go to a place where I can tend my flowers and not hear of my daughter's horrible death. Or Vannel's, or any youngling I helped raise."

Thorn wasn't going to tell him she had never carved a portal, and she certainly wasn't going to let him know she yearned to try it. But she would not, for how could running away be heroic?

"How do you know your heroes will die?" Thorn challenged. "Have you so little faith in your students?"

"All things die. Especially heroes."

The stump of one of the candles sputtered out. They both looked at it as a thin wisp of smoke twisted away into nothingness. And then all grew still.

"So you will flee like a coward?" she finally found the words.

"Would you rather I charge in like a fool?" he huffed. "Or be dragged off in chains then hung as a charlitan when they learn the truth?"

"The truth?"

"That I am only a gardener!" he buried his head in his hands. "There is no great secret to teach. I tend the children like my flowers, that's all. I cannot transplant decades of caring for humble folk into a few months of battle training for arrogant nobles. It will not work! The best I can do is tell the proud no and hope they will learn something from the insult."

"They might."

"They don't."

"You're afraid," she said. Thorn felt the words ring true and was proud of her cleverness. The old man paused, hanging his head. He gave a little sigh.

"Of course I am," he said softly without looking up. "Anyone who is paying attention is afraid. Only the ignorant, fools, and tyrants live without fear. Which are you, little dragon?"

Her confidence evaporated. She knew she was ignorant of many things, but she was no fool. Was she? And she couldn't be a tyrant, for what power did she have? Of course she was a dragon, but she was still so very young with no name or territory. Yet she knew she was not afraid. Or, at least, she thought she wasn't afraid. Was she afraid? Was she afraid of admitting she was afraid?

"I have misspoken," Ater stood with a grunt. "It was wrong of me to ask such a gift of a dragon. Who am I to make a request that kings fear to speak," he laughed and shook his head. "Good night, beautiful Little Bug. Forgive my selfish coward's heart."

Taking a single candle, he left the rest flickering in their warm circle around Thorn's broken pot. She listened to him make his way to the cot at the far end of the building. The little orchid dragon did not move. She sat where she was and thought strange and dangerous thoughts to herself as the ring of candles slowly melted away. With time, only one small flame remained in the darkness of the Shadowed orchid house. She watched it slowly and silently dwindle, sputter, then wink out.

The Shadow pulled on her soul. She knew it was there, the darkness behind every light, the night behind every day. It was the death that always followed birth. She knew she should flee to her bed, that no dragon could stand against the madness of the Shadow. It would break her mind, she knew. She knew the warnings and the stories by heart. The flexible little peoples might be able to withstand the Shadow's twisting, but the great strength of the dragons meant they would snap instead of bend. She tried to flee, to return to her small shelter and hide by sleeping. But she could not force her legs to move. The Shadow had frozen her marrow and she could not escape.

Time ceased to have meaning as terror upon terror assaulted her mind. Truths she thought she knew disintegrated in the darkness. Heroes and villains traded places, as the strong became beasts and mighty monsters. Where was hope to be found, when the powerful were not good and the weak were so helpless? And what did this mean for her and her kind? Did this logic mean that all dragons were doomed to become horrible creatures? Evil things that must be destroyed? Was this her future?

Words of so many Yenyi people haunted her. Their fear of the dragon's might, their anger at the dragonic control. She had thought they were only misguided, that the dragons watched over the little peoples for their own good, like any loving parent might shepherd children. But she had also believed that knights were all strong and good heroes. Now she knew better, for she had seen their evil actions toward the gentle people of Font.

But even the humble people of Font were not good. Some were drunkards. Others were gossips or sluggards. Yet they were not evil either. Were they?

A bird beyond the windows greeted the first light of dawn with a trill of delight. Thorn gasped, suddenly aware of her surroundings once more. She took in the pink light of a new day that gently blushed the flowers of the greenhouse. The morning dew filled the air around her tiny feet with the smell of wet earth. The peacock colors of the hot spring slowly blossomed out of grays as the light grew.

Exhaustion flooded her mantis body and she knew she had spent too much time in this insect form. She needed to get out and stretch. She need to go somewhere and go fast and be big and...

She knew what she needed to do.

The little mantis hurried down the path, not attempting to hide among the shrubs. Ater should be going about his morning routine by now, as was his way. He was where he always was at this time, bringing in a pail of fresh water from the well behind the shed.

"Ater Herowright, follow me," she said firmly, then hurried out the doors he had just come through. The old man turned curiously, then followed the tiny mantis that looked like an orchid blossom out into the morning light.

She stretched in the small clearing before the orchid house, growing. Thorn grew and stretched, then stretched and grew. Twisting and reaching, she pulled herself out of herself until she could pull no further. She gave a good shake that traveled from her sharp snout, down the crest of spikes along her long neck and through the heavy trunk of her body. With a snap of soft wings the size of sails, she whipped the last of the shake out through the tip of her thorny tail. The young dragon was only the size of a warhorse, but Ater gasped at her beauty. The orchid dragon still felt closer to a flower than a reptile, with petals in place of scales, all white with blushing edges of pink. A powdery yellow lined her belly scales, and her eyes flashed a vibrant violet flecked with gold.

Ater took a hesitant step from the safety of his orchid house. Thorn smiled a dragon's smile, knowing how easy it would be to splinter those doors and shatter all the glass.

"Let us see your Tangleweed Run," she purred. His eyebrows shot up and the old man wavered.

She had never carved a portal, but she had been trained well and knew the way of it. The dragon closed her eyes and searched inward, reaching her mind towards the idea of Tangleweed Run, in the Alai caverns far away in the buried world of Fleyteyt. It felt like leaping across spider's web, vaulting from thread to thread as she searched for the right resonance in the Collective. It was all connected, she just had to...

There.

She felt it, the village on the river beneath the soil and sand, where the weeds ran tangled. Without opening her eyes, she took a step forward and heard the old man swear under his breath. The dragon continued forward, pushing through the thick mud of reality. Two steps. Three. On the fourth, she broke through and felt no resistance.

She opened her violet eyes to find a pristine village of low thatched huts standing on the banks of a river. Lush farms filled a narrow valley, framed by steep cliffs. Instead of a sky, the cliff walls merged with the overhanging cavernous ceiling that arched over the entire landscape. Far above, what looked like thousands of blinding stars flecked the cavern's roof. Thorn couldn't look at them for longer than a second, but she knew they were the legendary hanging light-flowers which gave the Fleyteyt caverns daylight.

With a laugh, she turned and looked behind her. On the riverbank, a roundish circle hung midair, and through it she could see the dim morning light of the orchid-house. Ater peered back through at her with his mouth hanging open.

"Well?" the dragon smiled merrily.

Ater picked up a stick at his feet, then poked at the portal with a shaky hand. Thorn spun, bit onto the stick, then yanked both the stick and Ater through the opening. The old man stumbled forward, but she steadied him with her shoulder.

Wide eyed, he took a step back from the orchid dragon, his eyes darting from her to the portal. Then the old man looked up and brought his hands to his mouth in awe. He slowly turned, tears welling up in his eyes.

Everything was green, save for the steepest walls of the rusty cliffs. And even there, mosses laced across the surface is a confusing latticework of emerald brilliance. A distant and constant rumble of tumbling water came to them both. Thorn looked downriver and saw a billowing cloud in the distance, and another bank of mists at the base of the cliffs behind the nearby village.

"There must be more falls upriver," Ater murmured, looking at the low hanging mists that shrouded the narrowing valley in the opposite direction.

"Shall we go and see?" Thorn asked, taking a few steps towards the mystery.

Ater stood frozen, watching the distant forms of two people working in the fields. They clearly were focused on their task and hadn't noticed the strange happenings on the shore of the river.

Ater looked back through the portal. His orchid house and the surrounding trees seemed to be made of gray mud and dingy muck compared to Tangleweed Run's assault of vibrancy.

"No," Ater said. Thorn watched him pry his eyes from his orchid house to take in the tumult of color in the underground valley. He spun about several times, soaking in the vision. Then the old man's eyes drifted closed. He stood still and listened to the roar of the falls, breathing deeply. After a moment, he opened his eyes, then reached down to scoop up a fistful of dirt.

"I am satisfied," the old man said simply, then turned and walked through the portal without a backward glance. Curiously, Thorn followed him through and let her first portal wink closed. She trailed him to his workbench and watched over his shoulder as he meticulously deposited his fistful of soil into a glass jar.

"Thank you," he whispered, not taking his eyes from the oddly over-saturated dirt. "I now know that I must stay."

"Why?"

"Who else would care for my flowers?"

The old man smiled at Thorn with tears threatening to spill from his eyes, whispered "thank you" again, then turned back to his orchids. Thorn nodded, uncertain if she understood, but hoping that she did. She shuffled her wings, her long, nearly iridescent tail twitching as she watched him. She shuffled her wings again, yearning for... something.

He removed a pot from its hanging and made his way back to the potting bench. The old man continued just as he always had done, dragon or no dragon. She watched him go about his rhythm of steady care, and wondered how the flower felt to be so loved. What would these flowers do if they could love the old man in return?

Everything suddenly burst into clarity and she understood. The dragon spun and rushed out the double doors. With a running leap, her wings snapped open and launched her into the sky.