The charred marks beneath Emmie’s fingers grew darker as tiny wisps of smoke curled up from the wood.

“We don’t know that for certain,” Gwen said, though the evidence was rather damning. Purple livery, magical lights scanning the countryside, arriving the morning after Emmie crashed into a field—it didn’t take a wizard’s education to put those pieces together.

Pepper suddenly piped up. “Is it the bad wizard? The one who made you human?”

Emmie’s golden eyes darted to the child, then back to Gwen. She gave a single, sharp nod.

“Perhaps you should tell us exactly what happened,” Gwen suggested gently, moving to block Emmie from view as Mint re-emerged from the pantry. “Mint, can you take those orders to the Rusty Flagon and tell them we’ll start preparing for lunch? And could you fetch the twins on your way back? We’re going to need all hands today.”

“On it!” Mint said, already halfway out the door. “Be back faster than you can say—”

“Just go,” Gwen shook her head fondly as her sister disappeared in a blur of motion. When she turned back to Emmie, the dragon-turned-human had drawn her knees up to her chest, perched precariously on the stool in a position that looked uncomfortable and defensive.

“He can’t find me here,” Emmie muttered, more to herself than to them. “Too many people. Too many smells. The magic will be confused.”

“Emmie,” Gwen said softly, “I want to help, but I need to understand what we’re dealing with. Who is this wizard, and why is he after you?”

Emmie’s gaze drifted to Pepper, who was watching with undisguised curiosity. For a moment, Gwen thought she might refuse to speak in front of the child, but then she sighed—a sound that carried a curl of steam with it.

“I will tell the tale,” she said formally, straightening her spine. “Once only, for it is… not pleasant to recall.”

Gwen nodded, pulling up a stool beside Pepper. The breakfast pizza sat forgotten on the table as Emmie gathered her thoughts, her golden eyes focused on something far away.

“I am—was—Khemmyra, eldest of the final-frost clutch,” Emmie began, her voice taking on a rhythmic quality that reminded Gwen of the storytellers who sometimes visited during festivals. “For three hundred and forty-two years, I guarded my territory, a range of mountains where crystal caves reflected starlight onto the peaks.”

Pepper’s eyes widened. “Three hundred years? That’s older than Granny!”

The corner of Emmie’s mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Indeed, small one. Dragons live… much longer than humans.” Her expression darkened. “Or they should. But I am getting ahead of myself.”

She drew the cloak tighter around her shoulders, the fabric straining against movements too expansive for human bones. “I had gathered a hoard, as all dragons must. Nothing so common as gold or gems—those are for dragons with no imagination.” There was a flicker of pride in her voice. “Mine was a collection of rare and powerful magical artifacts, gathered from across the realms. Items of knowledge, of transformation, of elemental binding.”

“Like a library?” Gwen asked, trying to map this strange tale onto something familiar.

“Yes, but with objects, not scrolls,” Emmie conceded. “Each piece acquired through fair trade or challenge—never stolen.” She seemed particularly insistent on this point, her markings pulsing with emphasis. “A dragon’s honour is tied to how their hoard is gathered.”

“Of course,” Gwen murmured, though privately she thought there might be different perspectives on what constituted ‘fair challenge’ between humans and dragons.

“Six moons past,” Emmie continued, “I heard whispered warnings of a human magic-wielder seeking dragon hoards. Not for gold—he had no interest in wealth—but for artifacts.”

“The bad wizard,” Pepper supplied helpfully.

Emmie nodded. “Magister Rigel, he calls himself. A human who craves what is not his.”

The name sparked a distant recognition in Gwen’s memory. She’d heard of Magister Rigel, though distantly—a respected wizard from the Northern Provinces, known for his research into magical theory and occasional benevolence toward towns under his protection. Not the sort of person she’d expect to be hunting dragons.

“He sent men first,” Emmie’s voice had gone flat, emotionless. “Humans in purple and silver, carrying enchanted weapons. They attempted to scale my mountain during my seasonal rest. I awoke and… discouraged them.” A ghost of satisfaction crossed her features. “Flame works well against armour. Makes it… uncomfortable for the wearer.”

Pepper giggled, then quickly clapped a hand over her mouth when Gwen shot her a warning look.

“When force failed, he employed trickery. A sleeping spell, carried on the wind into my cave. I did not detect it until too late. When I awoke, I was bound in chains carved with runes of binding, being transported in a cage pulled by twelve oxen.”

Her markings flared, and steam rose from her nostrils. “They thought me fully subdued, but dragons are not so easily contained. I broke free before they reached their underground stronghold, but—” She faltered, her hands rising to her face, tracing the contours as if they still surprised her. “He had prepared for that possibility. He had placed a charm upon me. When I fled, when I thought myself free, it… activated.”

“And turned you human,” Gwen finished.

“Not immediately.” Emmie’s voice dropped even lower. “It was… gradual. Painful. My wings were the first to go. Then my size. My strength. My scales…” Her fingers traced the patterns on her skin. “These are all that remain. That and a fraction of my fire.”

She fell silent, her gaze distant, lost in the memory of pain.

“And then I was there,” Gwen finished quietly.

Emmie nodded. “Then you were there. He—Rigel—will not stop. Wizards never abandon prizes that escape them.”

Pepper, who had been uncharacteristically still during the tale, suddenly launched herself forward, wrapping her small arms around Emmie’s waist. “Don’t worry,” she declared fiercely. “We’ll protect you from the bad wizard. Our family is really big, and Gwen is really smart, and I’m really good at hiding things, and the twins can do that thing where they talk without talking, and—”

“Pepper,” Gwen interrupted gently, seeing Emmie’s bewildered expression. “Maybe give Emmie some space. Dragons might not be used to hugging.”

“Oh!” Pepper immediately released her grip and stepped back. “Sorry! But we will protect you. Promise.” She held up her little finger. “Pinky swear.”

Emmie stared at the extended digit in confusion. “What is this gesture? Some form of magical binding?”

“It’s a promise,” Pepper explained seriously. “The most important kind. You hook your little finger with mine, and then it’s a sacred oath that can never, ever be broken.”

Emmie blinked, then cautiously extended her own finger—which bore a claw-like nail at the end—and awkwardly hooked it with Pepper’s.

“There,” Pepper said with satisfaction. “Now we have to protect you. It’s the rules.”

The solemnity with which this was declared brought a reluctant smile to Emmie’s face. “I… thank you, small one.” She turned to Gwen, her expression more guarded. “I understand if you wish me to leave. Harboring me brings danger to your… nest.”

Gwen’s mind was racing. A powerful wizard, searching for a transformed dragon, with guards already in town… this was far more serious than she’d initially imagined. The sensible thing would be to help Emmie leave town immediately, before Magister Rigel’s scouts could track her here.

But looking at Emmie, Gwen couldn’t bring herself to suggest it. The dragon was in no condition to flee, especially not with magical trackers on her trail. And something about the story bothered her—the casual way this wizard had treated a sentient being, transforming her against her will, all to steal her possessions—

“You’ll stay with us,” she decided. “At least until you’re stronger and more comfortable in your human form. The wizard won’t find you easily in town, especially if we disguise you properly.”

“You would shelter me? Knowing what pursues me?”

“You’re under our protection now,” Gwen said firmly. “Pinky sworn and everything.”

Before Emmie could respond, the back door banged open, and the twins tumbled in, already dressed for work and carrying baskets of fresh ingredients from their parents’ house, depositing them on the table.

“Morning, Gwen!” Sorrel chirped. “Mint said you need—” She broke off, spotting Emmie, who had gone very still. “Oh! Hello! Who are—wait, why are your eyes glowing?”

Sage elbowed his twin, his expression more cautious. “Sorry for barging in,” he said quietly. “Mint said it was urgent.”

Gwen cursed inwardly. In the drama of Emmie’s story, she’d completely forgotten that the rest of her siblings would be arriving soon to start the day’s work. And judging from the growing light outside, the first customers wouldn’t be far behind.

“Perfect timing,” she said, making a quick decision. “This is our cousin Emmie, visiting from… up north. She’s going to be staying with us for a while, learning the family recipes.”

Sage blinked, confusion evident on his face. “Cousin? What cousin? I don’t remember—”

“Distant cousin,” Gwen clarified smoothly. “On Mother’s side. You know how big that family is.”

“But her hair isn’t—”

“Not everyone in the family has red hair, Sage.” Gwen gave him a pointed look. “Remember Great-Aunt Marilla? Her hair was black as a raven’s wing.”

“Great-Aunt Marilla had a wart on her nose and smelled like cabbage,” Sage muttered, but he nodded anyway. “Nice to meet you, Cousin Emmie.” He glanced back at Gwen. “Can she do the fire thingy with the wood oven? The one where you get it extra hot for the stuffed crust pizzas?”

Emmie, who had been watching this exchange with growing confusion, opened her mouth—probably, Gwen realised with horror, to say something like ‘Yes, I can produce flames from my body quite easily’—but Pepper jumped in first.

“Cousin Emmie is REALLY good with fire,” she said with a conspiratorial wink that was about as subtle as a falling anvil. “But it’s a secret. Like her eyes. Which are definitely not dragon eyes. Because dragons aren’t real!”

Gwen resisted the urge to cover her face with her hands. At this rate, every one of their customers would know they were harbouring a transformed dragon by lunchtime.

“Right,” she said briskly, “we’ve got a busy day ahead, especially with that wizard party coming for lunch. Sage, Sorrel, can you start prepping the vegetables? I need to find Emmie some proper clothes.” She glanced at the dragon-woman, who was still wearing nothing but the borrowed cloak. “And perhaps give her a quick lesson in… human customs.”

“I have perfectly adequate coverings,” Emmie protested, clutching the cloak tighter.

“You’re wearing my winter cloak and nothing else,” Gwen pointed out. “That might raise some eyebrows.”

“Eyebrows should remain lowered,” Emmie agreed after a moment’s consideration. “Very well. I will accept these… ‘proper’ clothes.”

“I’ll show her your room!” Pepper volunteered, already tugging at Emmie’s hand. “Come on, Cousin Emmie! Gwen has loads of clothes that would look really pretty with your eyes!”

Emmie allowed herself to be pulled toward the stairs, though she threw a questioning glance back at Gwen, who hurried after them. This was going to be… interesting.

The cramped staircase leading to the living quarters above the pizzeria was barely wide enough for one person, let alone three, especially when one of them kept accidentally scorching the walls with stray wisps of smoke. Pepper chattered the entire way up, a constant stream of commentary about the building’s history (“it used to be where they made armour for the knights, but then they built a bigger one, so now we make pizza instead”), the various siblings who would be arriving soon (“Bay can make things float, but only when he’s excited, so don’t get him too excited or you might end up on the ceiling”), and the importance of their mission (“we need to make you look human so the bad wizard doesn’t find you and turn you into something worse, like a frog or a turnip”).

Pepper reached for the door handle, but Emmie suddenly froze, refusing to move closer.

“I cannot enter,” she declared, her tone suggesting this was an obvious and immutable fact.

“Why not?” Gwen asked, bewildered.

Emmie looked equally confused by the question. “It is your nest. Your private dwelling. To enter uninvited would be…” She searched for a word, her brow furrowing. “Presumptuous. Rude. Only the closest of kin or mates may enter another’s nest.”

“But I am inviting you,” Gwen pointed out.

Emmie shook her head stubbornly. “It is too soon. We are not kin, and certainly not—” She broke off, her markings flaring with what Gwen was beginning to recognise as embarrassment. “It would imply… intimacies not yet established.”

Gwen felt heat rising to her own cheeks. “Oh. Um. That’s not… I mean, human customs are different. It’s perfectly acceptable for guests to enter bedrooms for, um, practical purposes.”

Emmie looked deeply skeptical. “Are you certain? I would not wish to violate your cultural taboos.”

“Absolutely certain,” Gwen assured her, though she couldn’t quite meet those golden eyes as she said it. “But if you’re uncomfortable, I can bring the clothes out.”

Emmie nodded, visibly relieved. “That would be preferable.”

She slipped into her room, quickly gathering an assortment of clothes. Most of her wardrobe consisted of practical garments suited for long hours in a hot kitchen—loose tunics, sturdy trousers, aprons with many pockets. But she had a few nicer pieces, saved for festivals and rare days off.

When she emerged, arms full of fabric, she found Emmie examining the hallway with intense interest, her nose inches from a family portrait painted several years ago, when they’d only had nine children instead of twelve.

“These are all your… clutch mates?” Emmie asked, tapping a claw against the painted face of a younger Mint.

“Siblings,” Gwen corrected. “We all have the same parents, but were born individually. I’m the oldest.”

“Ah,” Emmie nodded sagely. “The dominant offspring.”

“I… wouldn’t put it that way. But yes, I’m in charge of the pizzeria, and I help look after the younger ones.”

Emmie seemed to accept this as reasonable. “And they all contribute to the… food-territory?”

“The pizzeria? Yes, in different ways. The older ones help with cooking and serving, the middle ones do deliveries, and the younger ones… well, they try to help.” Gwen smiled fondly, remembering Thyme’s flour explosion from last night.

“A working nest,” Emmie said approvingly. “Efficient. And you defend it together against rival food-territories?”

“We don’t really… there’s not much defending involved. Sometimes we have competitions with the bakery down the street about who can create the most interesting new recipe, but it’s friendly.”

This seemed to disappoint Emmie. “No territorial battles? No ritual challenges?”

“Sorry, no. Just regular business.”

Pepper tugged at Emmie’s cloak. “We did throw flour at the baker’s son once when he said our pizza was just fancy bread with stuff on top,” she offered helpfully. “And Gwen keeps secret ingredients in a locked box so no one can steal our recipes!”

“Hmm.” Emmie seemed to reconsider. “Perhaps there are battles after all, just more… subtle.”

“Let’s focus on getting you dressed,” Gwen suggested, holding up a deep green tunic that she thought would complement Emmie’s golden eyes. “You’ll just be my cousin Emmie, helping in the kitchen. Nothing suspicious about that. But we need to make you look like you belong here.” She hesitated. “Can you… control the glowing? And the smoke? And maybe the occasional flames?”

Emmie looked affronted. “Of course. I am not a hatchling, unschooled in basic fire containment.” A wisp of steam escaped her nostrils even as she said it.

“Right,” Gwen said diplomatically. “Well, best to stay in the kitchen anyway. Any accidental fires there won’t seem too out of place.”

The next half hour was a chaotic mix of impromptu dressmaking and crash courses in human behaviour. Emmie rejected the first three tunics (“Too confining around the shoulders. How do you humans move in these fabric prisons?”), hissed at a pair of leather boots (“Dead cow skin? Do you know how disrespectful that is to the animal?”), and nearly set fire to a woollen shawl when she sneezed unexpectedly.

They eventually settled on a loose linen shirt, a long skirt with ample room for movement, and a pair of soft cloth slippers. The clothing hung awkwardly on Emmie’s tall, angular frame, but it was a significant improvement over just the cloak.

“Now remember,” Gwen instructed as they made their way back downstairs, where the sounds of the twins preparing ingredients already filled the kitchen, “no mentions of dragons, hoards, or being hundreds of years old. You’re my cousin from… the Eastern Provinces.”

“Where the crystal caves reflect starlight onto the peaks,” Emmie supplied.

“Yes, but maybe just say ‘the mountains’ if anyone asks. And try not to stare at people too intensely—humans find it uncomfortable.”

“How will I assess their threat level without proper observation?”

“Just… trust that most people who come here just want pizza, not to threaten anyone.”

Pepper, who had been unusually quiet during the dressing process, suddenly piped up. “And remember to blink! Humans blink lots. And don’t sniff people to say hello, that’s weird. And if you feel fire coming, try to hold your breath until it passes!”

“So many rules,” Emmie muttered. “How do humans function with all these limitations?”

“We manage,” Gwen said dryly, pushing open the kitchen door.

The twins had made considerable progress in their absence. Vegetables were chopped and sorted into neat piles, dough was rising in covered bowls, and fresh herbs perfumed the air. Sage looked up from his methodical dicing of onions, his expression carefully neutral as he took in Emmie’s new appearance.

“Better,” he said simply, then returned to his work.

Sorrel was less reserved. “You look almost normal now!” she declared, circling Emmie with undisguised curiosity. “Except for the eyes. And the way you stand. And your fingers are still kind of… pointy.”

“Cousin Emmie has been ill,” Gwen improvised quickly. “She’s still recovering. That’s why she’s staying with us for a while.” She gave Emmie’s arm a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “She’ll be helping in the kitchen today, learning the family recipes.”

“Can she knead dough?” Sage asked practically. “We’ve got that big order for the wizard’s party, plus regular lunch service.”

“I am extremely strong,” Emmie declared. “Kneading this ‘dough’ will be a trivial task.”

Gwen tried not to wince at the emphasis Emmie had placed on the word “dough,” as if it were some exotic concept she’d just learned about. “Why don’t you show her, Sage? Start with the basic pizza dough recipe.”

As Sage began demonstrating the proper technique, speaking in his usual quiet, precise manner, Gwen took a moment to gather her thoughts. The situation was far more complicated than she’d imagined when she’d first found Emmie in that crater. Harbouring a transformed dragon was one thing; harbouring a transformed dragon being hunted by a powerful wizard who would be dining in their pizzeria in a few hours was quite another.

And yet… she couldn’t bring herself to regret her decision. There was something about Emmie—a certain vulnerability beneath the alien mannerisms and occasional bursts of arrogance—that tugged at Gwen’s protective instincts. The same instincts that had led her to take charge of her siblings from an early age, to build this business that kept them all fed and together.

“Gwen?” Sorrel’s voice broke into her thoughts. “There’s something weird happening to the dough.”

Gwen turned to find Emmie standing over a bowl of risen dough, her hands buried wrist-deep in it. The dough was… moving. Not just being kneaded, but actively rippling, as if something alive was trying to escape from within it. Tendrils of steam rose from where Emmie’s fingers worked the mixture.

“It’s too cold,” Emmie explained, apparently seeing nothing unusual about the phenomenon. “Dough needs proper heat to become malleable, yes? I am providing heat.”

Indeed she was. The dough was now bubbling slightly around her fingers, taking on a glossy sheen that Gwen had never achieved in her years of baking.

“That’s… not how we usually do it,” she said carefully.

“It is better this way,” Emmie insisted. “More efficient. Watch.” She lifted the dough, which now moved with an elasticity Gwen had never seen, stretching thin without tearing. “Perfect consistency for your flat bread circles.”

Sage and Sorrel were staring, open-mouthed. Even Pepper seemed impressed, and she’d already seen Emmie breathe fire.

“That’s… actually amazing,” Gwen admitted, examining the dough more closely. It was indeed perfect—smooth, elastic, with an airy texture that usually took hours to develop. “How did you do that?”

“Precise application of heat,” Emmie said with a hint of pride. “Dragons understand fire in all its forms, from the gentlest warming glow to the inferno that melts stone.” She stroked the dough with one talon-finger. “This required only the gentlest touch.”

Gwen’s mind was suddenly racing with possibilities. If Emmie could do this with pizza dough, what other culinary wonders might be possible? Special crusts that stayed crisp longer, dessert pizzas with perfectly caramelized toppings, new techniques that no other pizzeria could replicate…

No. That had to wait. Right now, they had more urgent concerns—like preparing for a wizard who might well recognise his escaped quarry, despite their hasty disguise.

“Right, everyone, let’s focus,” Gwen said, clapping her hands. “We’ve got a full day ahead. Sorrel, finish the vegetable prep. Sage, start the sauce. Pepper, go find Bay and the others—I’m sure they’re wondering where you disappeared to. Emmie, you stick with me. I’ll show you how we form the pizza bases.”

As her siblings scattered to their tasks, Gwen caught Emmie’s eye. The dragon-woman was still cradling the dough as if it were something precious, her golden eyes shining with an emotion Gwen couldn’t quite name—pride, perhaps, or the simple satisfaction of creating something.

“Come on,” she said, taking some of the dough from Emmie’s careful grip. “Let’s show you how we make pizza. You never know—it might be a useful skill, even for a dragon.”

Emmie’s lips curved in what might almost have been a smile. “Indeed. And perhaps…” Her voice dropped lower, a hint of something ancient and powerful creeping into her tone. “Perhaps I may yet have the opportunity to serve your special recipe to a certain wizard.”

The quiet menace in those words should have been alarming. Instead, Gwen found herself nodding in grim agreement.

“Let’s just hope he chokes on it,” she murmured, and was rewarded with Emmie’s startled, steaming laugh—the first genuine one she’d heard from the dragon-woman.

Outside, the town was waking up. Soon, customers would be arriving, the day’s routine would begin, and somewhere among them would be a wizard hunting for his escaped prize. But here in the kitchen, surrounded by the familiar smells of herbs and baking bread, with her siblings bustling around and a dragon learning to make pizza dough, Gwen felt a strange sense of rightness—as if somehow, despite all logic, this was exactly where they were all meant to be.