THE THIRD REALM: YELLOW — Stolen fire

As she searched for a way out, several fugaíns began to close in around her. Until then, they had shoved her as they passed, too busy with one another to pay much attention. Now they sensed the flame she carried and came to take it from her.

Skyblue released the resin that protected her scales and tried to make her way through. One of them attacked again. The dragon remembered her dream.

“If you want a fight, you’ll get one.”

She drew out the torch.

As she swung it, the flame absorbed some of the nearest fugaín’s fire. The creature shrank back, diminished, and the torch grew. Skyblue stared at its glow in amazement.

The next attack ended the same way.

Suddenly, an extraordinary possibility opened before her: she could become so powerful that she would never have to fear anyone again. Every fire she seized would bring her closer to that safety.

At first, she used the torch only against those who attacked her. Then she began to seek them out. All it took was for one to pass nearby; she would imagine a threat and go after him. Before long, she no longer needed an excuse.

She liked the feeling of victory. In her imagination, she returned to the village and found all the dragons waiting for her. This time they neither laughed nor scolded. They bowed their heads, begged forgiveness, trembled before her.

Little Skyblue, who had never known how to please them, was gone. Now she would be impossible to ignore.

But each victory lasted less time than the one before. As soon as she seized one fire, she needed another. The pressure in her stomach grew, and the hollow she was trying to fill deepened.

She decided to put off leaving the realm. First she would gather enough power. Then she would go.

She built a solid shelter from the largest pieces of rubble she could move. She surrounded it with obstacles and left a narrow entrance that would be easier to guard. She was no longer looking for somewhere welcoming, but somewhere difficult to attack.

The torch always rested within reach of her paw. She wouldn’t let go of it even to eat. If she closed her eyes, she imagined a fugaín coming in, snatching it away, and turning all the fire she had gathered against her.

She slept in fits and starts, waking with a jolt. By day she searched for more fire; by night she thought of ways to keep it. The greater the flame grew, the smaller she felt behind it.

She couldn’t remember when she had stopped looking at the sky at dawn.