Rain pours down. Drumming against the worn cobblestone street, it drowns out almost every other sound. Despite the weather, the street is full of people coming and going on business known only to themselves. Hooded and masked, and with their forms concealed by heavy cloaks, they each move separately from each other – small islands in a vast sea, never connecting. Tightly packed buildings rise up on either side of the road in mismatched lines of different materials and colours, some featuring broken or boarded-up windows. A battered wooden sign hanging above the door to a butcher’s shop creaks mournfully as it sways.

In a dark and narrow alleyway behind the shop, Titus peeks over the top of an old crate.

“Careful,” Rook whispers to him. He’s huddled behind him, tucked in between two barrels that smell of rot.

Titus squints, his eyes fixed on the mouth of the alley up ahead. “I don’t see them. Do you think we lost them?”

Rook inches forward and looks as well. There are no signs of their pursuers, the angry men in weird armour who wanted to put him and Titus in cages. The memory of the slam of the metal gate after one of the men had pushed another young dragon into a cage makes Rook shiver. “I hope so.”

With a huff, Titus drops back down behind the crate. He catches Rook’s eye, and grins. “Hey. We made it.”

Rook’s answering smile is smaller and hesitant. “Seems like it. What now, then?”

“Well, we should—…” Titus’ bluster falters. Rook can almost imagine his red mohawk drooping. “Uh…”

“The harbour, maybe?” Rook suggests, though he sounds unsure even to his own ears. There are many people, there. Dragons too, both free and not. The men could be there, waiting for them to try and escape the city.

Titus tilts his head, considering. But just as he opens his mouth to answer, they both startle at the sound of heavy footsteps.

Titus peeks his head over the crate, only to hastily drop back down with a curse. “They’re coming this way!”

Rook freezes, wide eyes locked on Titus. He can’t speak from the fear crawling up his throat.

“Come on!” Titus whispers, and grabs Rook by the elbow before setting off in the opposite direction. The sudden movement kicks Rook’s instincts back alive, and he stumbles a step before regaining his balance.

They sprint down the alley with the sound of their pursuers not far behind. Angry shouting and running footsteps follow at their heels no matter how many twists and turns they take. The heavy rain makes it hard to see, blurring both Rook’s vision and the world itself through a rippling curtain of grey. Dense, black clouds hang overhead, darkening the evening sky to the colour of lead.

It’s not long before Rook’s breathing is coming fast and shallow and his legs burn with exertion. The more resilient of the two, Titus slowly draws farther and farther ahead. The thought that Titus might leave him behind fills him with a cold panic. But the fear does little to bolster him, and instead just makes his legs shake even worse until he stumbles on a loose brick.

“Ah!” He hits the ground hard and rolls across the uneven cobblestones. Reflecting off a dirty window at eye-level, he sees the orange flicker of sputtering torches approaching.

Titus skids to a graceless halt. “Rook!”

“I can—” Rook tries to get back up, but his right hind leg buckles when he puts weight on it, and he falls back down.

“Rook,” Titus says again as he’s suddenly by Rook’s side, looking at him with worry. “Come on, you have to get up.”

“I don’t—ow—think I can.”

Titus’ eyes dart towards the approaching hunters, then back at Rook. His voice shakes when he says, “You have to. I’ll—I’ll carry you! I’m bigger, I can do it—”

Something small and fast streaks through the air straight past Titus’ head and lodges in a plank of wood leaning against a wall: a dart, it’s bright yellow tail quickly beginning to the fall as the rain soaks it through. Not too far away, a man in that same strange armour as the others walks slowly towards them, coming from a different direction than his fellows, and is already loading another dart into his small crossbow.

“Titus, just go!” Rook shouts, and pushes at him. His fur is cold and flattened by the rain, but his skin underneath is warm under Rook’s paw.

Titus doesn’t budge. He’s turned toward the newcomer, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Rook glances between them as he struggles to get back on his feet.

Strangely, the newcomer’s arrival seems to have stopped the other pursuers in their tracks. They’ve stopped a good distance away, holding torches and swords at the ready. Still shouting and stomping, but waiting, perhaps realising two sedated dragons are easier – and less dangerous – to capture.

Rook looks back at the other one. His wide-brimmed hat puts his face in shadow, though Rook doubts he’d be able to see any emotion on his face anyway. The other hunters were all wearing full face masks made of a dull metal; this one probably is, as well. But his movements are slow, far too slow for someone aiming to capture two runaway dragons with nothing but sedative darts.

Noticing Rook’s attention on him, he tips his head at the other pursuers as he slides the dart into place with a low click.

Titus is baring his teeth, a glow forming between them. A single spark of fire flies from his mouth, burning bright for only a moment before the rain kills it.

The man raises his crossbow.

Titus opens his jaws wide.

In a split-second decision, Rook grabs Titus around the neck and hauls him around to face the group of hunters instead.

“Not him – them!”

There’s no more than a confused blink from Titus before his brows lower in a furious snarl, and fire erupts from his mouth with a dull roar.

It lights up the alley even in the rain as it rushes towards the hunters at breakneck speed. They’re slow to react, not expecting the danger to be turned on them so suddenly, and only leap back from the flames at the last second. They scatter, ducking behind debris or simply running back the way they came, none of them looking eager to continue the hunt.

The other man appears at their side and frantically waves his hand in a gesture that quite clearly means go, his other hand clutching the crossbow.

Steadier on his feet than before, Rook wastes no time following the order. Titus is right behind him, looking over his shoulder at the chaos he’s wrought amongst their pursuers.

“Did you see that?” he yells, delighted.

Out of breath, Rook manages to call back, “I saw it, Titus.”

The hunter with the crossbow runs alongside them, and points for them to take a left turn through an opening Rook never would have spotted on his own. As soon as they’re all through, he pulls a loose cover of some kind over to block the entrance, plunging the space into an even deeper darkness.

Rook and Titus huddle close together. They can only hear the man move around, not see him. Rook silently wonders if he was right to trust him – after all, he wears their armour. He may be a single man against two dragons, but Rook is well aware of his own lack of fighting experience. Titus is better but just as young, and with far more hubris.

Then something clangs loudly, and a doorway on the other side slides open. Warm light spills out, and Rook has to blink a couple of times before he’s able to see what’s inside.

It looks like… a nest? If humans made nests, that is. Only a small corner of what definitely looks like a larger space is visible, but what he can see is full of furniture and rugs, and a handful of seemingly pointless decorations.

Behind them, the man sets his crossbow in a clip attached to his belt. With a smirk audible in his voice, he puts his hands on his hips.

“Welcome to the family, little ones.”