Page 10 of Sleigh Bells and Dragon Spells

As he walked home through the swirling snow, his thoughts refused to settle. The easy camaraderie of the evening had awakened something long dormant – a hunger for connection he’d thought safely buried.

And Briar... why did his mind keep returning to her? To the way she’d faced death with such fierce grace, the stories of her kindness at the orphanage, and her apparent gift for bringing light to dark places.

“Light is an illusion,”his mother’s voice whispered.“Darkness is truth.”

But for the first time in centuries, Falkor wondered if Morganna had been wrong. The warmth he’d witnessed tonight – both in his unexpected friendship with the other shifters and in the tales of Briar’s impact on the town – suggested another possibility.

Still, as snow crunched beneath his boots and wind whipped past his face, old fears clung like icicles. Connection meant vulnerability. Vulnerability meant weakness. And weakness, in Morganna’s world, meant death.

Falkor squared his shoulders against the wind. He would monitor the situation, nothing more. The town’s safety might require his involvement, but his heart would remain firmly protected behind centuries of ice.

Yet as he reached his cabin, a treacherous whisper in his mind wondered what it might be like to experience Christmas the way Briar shared it – with wonder instead of warfare, joy instead of judgment. The thought disturbed him enough that he spent the next hour in dragon form, soaring through the storm-tossed sky until physical exhaustion drowned out his confused emotions.

Dragons guarded their treasures, after all. And Falkor’s most closely guarded treasure was the heart he’d sworn would never be broken again.

TEN

The fierce howl of wind yanked Briar from sleep, a sound so unlike the gentle whisper of yesterday’s snowfall that her magical senses sparked to immediate alertness. Her cottage windows rattled against their frames, the glass frosted over with intricate patterns that sparkled ominously in the pre-dawn light. These weren’t the playful, delicate frost patterns she’d admired yesterday – these looked like grasping fingers, clawing their way inside.

“Not exactly the winter wonderland I signed up for,” Briar muttered, pulling on her warmest sweater – a deep green yarn with enchanted snowflakes that usually shimmered cheerfully but now pulsed with an anxious energy that matched her own. The fabric seemed to huddle against her skin, seeking warmth.

Yesterday, her cottage had been a Christmas card come to life. Twinkling lights had reflected off fresh snow, and the air had tasted of peppermint and possibilities. Now, peering through frost-etched windows, Briar barely recognized her street. Massive snowdrifts pressed against buildings like siege weapons, burying cars and benches. The sky hung low and heavy, an unnatural shade of slate that seemed to pulse with malevolent purpose.

“Oh, this isn’t right at all,” she murmured, pressing her fingers to the windowpane. The ice recoiled from her touch – actually recoiled, leaving black tendrils in its wake before refreezing. “Okay, that’s definitely not in any weather forecast I’ve ever seen.”

The town square, visible from her cottage, had transformed from enchanting to eerie. Christmas lights that had danced so merrily now drooped under sheets of ice, many darkened or flickering a desperate SOSs. The grand tree at the center, which had sparkled so magnificently during her arrival, stood dim and dejected, its enchanted ornaments struggling against the oppressive atmosphere like stars fighting through smog.

The contrast hit her harder because of its suddenness. Just yesterday, children had built snowmen with carrots from Molly’s garden for noses. Now those same snowmen hunched menacingly, their coal eyes seeming to track movement, their carrot noses pointing like accusing fingers.

Her stomach growled, cutting through her dark thoughts with prosaic timing. “Right,” Briar straightened her shoulders. “No plotting against evil on an empty stomach. Molly’s first, then the orphanage.”

Bundling up in her warmest coat – a red wool number with subtle protection spells woven into the lining – Briar stepped out into the storm. The wind hit like a physical wall, actually pushing her back a step. She could have sworn she heard laughter in its howl.

“Really?” she challenged the wind. “We’re doing the whole ‘ominous weather’ thing? How cliché can you get?”

The wind responded by dumping a load of snow down her collar.

The few people braving the weather hurried past with heads down, shoulders hunched against more than just the cold. A gnome – Vincent, the town mechanic, she remembered –struggled past with his beard full of icicles, muttering about “enchanted engines freezing solid” and “hadn’t seen anything like it since the Great Frost of ‘86.”

Bewitched Bakery glowed like a lighthouse in the gloom, its windows steamed up from the warmth inside. The bell above the door chimed a welcome that sounded more like a desperate plea for company. Molly Hues stood behind the counter, her usually bouncy red curls somewhat deflated but her smile still bright. Though... was that worry hiding in the corners?

“Briar!” Molly’s voice carried genuine relief. “Thank goodness someone’s out and about. This weather’s keeping everyone home. Well, everyone except Mrs. Whiskers.” She nodded toward her familiar, a plump orange cat who had somehow wedged herself directly against the bakery’s radiator, spread out for maximum heat absorption.

“Can’t blame them,” Briar stamped snow from her boots, savoring the warmth that wrapped around her like a hug. “Molly, does this storm feel... off to you?”

The baker’s smile dimmed slightly. She glanced around though they were alone in the shop, then leaned forward. “Since you mention it... My visions have gone peculiar. Usually when I bake, I get clear glimpses of the joy the treats will bring. But since this morning?” She gestured to a tray of her famous Future-Sight Fruit Tarts. “Nothing but static and shadows. And my Prophecy Pastries? They’re all predicting the same thing – ‘Bundle up, buttercup!’“

“The whole town feels wrong,” Briar said, accepting a cup of cocoa that somehow knew to be exactly the right temperature. “Like something’s actively working against the holiday spirit. I’m heading to the orphanage to check on the children – could I get an assortment of your most cheerful pastries?”

“Coming right up!” Molly bustled around, selecting items that still managed to emit a soft, hopeful glow. “Take theseCinnamon-Sunshine Rolls too – they’re infused with extra warmth. I had to triple the happiness charm this morning to get them to rise properly. On the house,” she added when Briar reached for her wallet. “We all need to look out for each other right now.”

“Molly, you’re a treasure.” Briar hugged her friend, noting how the baker’s usually toasty magical aura seemed muted. “Stay warm, okay?”

“You too, dear. And Briar?” Molly’s voice turned serious. “Be careful. My scones might not be telling the future clearly, but they’re scared of something. And my scones are usually brave little things.”

The trek to the orphanage tested every warming charm Briar possessed. The wind seemed determined to drive her back, and the snow beneath her feet actually crunched out discouraging messages: “Turn back” and “give up” appeared in her footprints.

The imposing Victorian building looked especially gloomy today, ice coating its windows like cataracts. Inside, the usual cheerful chaos of children seemed muted, as if someone had thrown a heavy blanket over their spirits.

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