Chapter Three

Instinct told him that this was the last straw.

A bloodied cloth and whatever grim implications it held were beyond what Petra’s tired mind was willing to handle. He took a step back from the object. Shaking his head he said aloud, “no. No—not tonight.” There was a lot to consider here, and it was important to not jump to conclusions.

Petra hesitantly turned and continued on in the direction for home, (this time wide awake). But his head was now swimming with more thoughts than ever. Along the way, he ran through every explanation for his findings. The most viable one seemed to align with what he already knew. Cockatri didn’t just ignore humans, they had a biological fear of them. They were also “nest pests.” As in, creatures that stole small objects in order to furnish their dens.

These facts lent him some ease. It was entirely likely that the scrap had just come from the nest, and was stained by whatever animal the cockatrice had eaten for lunch.

Petra slowed his pace. Eventually, he stopped and turned to stare at the dense woods once more. Of course—it still didn’t explain where the cloth was torn from, or how it was done. Either way, at one point it had belonged to a human.

Petra felt the stir of creeping dread begin to sour the pits of his stomach. He began to recall a tavern story he’d overheard not long after he had first arrived in Cresswoven. An incident that took place in the neighboring town of Bluebeak, some ten years ago around the Emblazen national holiday.

Allegedly, a toddler had become separated from its mother during the waning hours of the town’s festival. The child had found a crawlspace to slip into at the base of an old trading post, which connected to the building’s lower storage area. This same crawlspace had enticed a horde of wild cockatri, who had grown comfortable in a dark haven where tasty rodents and snatchable objects were plentiful. Up until then, reports of cockatrice attacks had been almost nonexistent, and no one had expected to even see a cockatrice during the brightest and noisiest time of year. Now the intrusive thought blared deafeningly in his mind—that a child was out there in the woods, being torn to pieces just as the last one had been.

Adrenaline lifted each wrought-iron leg off the ground until he felt like he was flying. And as Petra ran, the dead leaves filled the forest with a pounding “crunch” that droned in his own ears. In this case, he wanted to be heard, though it was the brightness of his lantern that would frighten off the cockatri best.

One of the things he did appreciate about Cresswoven: the road lanterns were meant for situations like this. They hung freely from their poles and could be unlatched if a person needed to borrow one.

Petra had no idea where exactly he was running to. All he could do was cover as much ground as possible while hoping for a sign—blood, feathers, more torn bits of clothing.

Something. Anything.

The pounding of his steps became so monotonous that Petra forgot he should be listening too. When a low-hanging branch came into view that looked sturdy enough to hold his weight, he scrambled up and sat. Trying to regain control of his breath.

He had long since considered that maybe all this was a waste of time. If a small child had been attacked by a cockatrice, would they surely not have been dead by now? Not even by just one cockatrice. They almost exclusively hunted in packs. Where there was one nest pest, more were certain to be lurking. But after sitting with his lantern doused for what felt like an eternity, out of the shadows it came.

Just as he had predicted, the single cockatrice was tailed by four others. They circled about in a strange, disjointed manner. It was as though they were searching for something, but the trail had gone cold.

A shiver ran through Petra’s body. Not from fear, but from hope. Which was a far worse fear. Because suddenly, he knew where to go. A place he hadn’t thought to look before. His ears had been deaf to its presence while he was crashing through the woods in haste.

The creek.

Now Petra was certain that if the child had made it that far, the water would’ve obscured its scent. And maybe, just maybe—there was a chance.

Easing his way back down, he struck another match and watched the glow scatter the cockatri like insects. A few of them turned to hiss at him grudgingly, but Petra wasn’t concerned about concealing himself. It was a full sprint to the water’s edge. And either he’d return with a child, or return what was left of one.

With the creek drawing nearer, the frantic patter of footsteps became more noticeable. So far, at least half of his intuition had been correct. The cockatrice were gathered in this area. But just as Petra had noticed back at the tree, they were not in a usual, orderly formation. The sounds of their withered cries were scattered in different directions. His eye caught a blur of a few as he ran. They seemed confused, restless, angry.

When the leaves finally turned to shale under his feet, Petra slowed to a halt and secured his footing in a spot that let him shine his light at the water.

“Hello?” He called out. “If you need help, make a noise! I need to know where you are!” There was no reply but the steady rush of the stream. Petra tried again, simplifying his words further with the child in mind. “You’re safe! No more bad monsters! Come home—” his voice faltered.

Words were failing to describe how helpless he felt. Though Petra experienced it often. As a child himself many years ago, he learned that saving people was the one thing he couldn’t do. At least, not in the way he was designed to. He wasn’t born with the special ability that his people held sacred.

There were many in the world who debated whether Petra’s kind even were human. Azurites certainly looked human enough, but with a single touch, they could do things most humans couldn't imagine.

Thinking about the lost child’s mother had made Petra recall something his own had once said: “If you want to find something, try looking for something else.” Murphy’s Law, as someone might have coined it. Though it went by a different name in the dragon world, the idea existed.

It was a good thing Petra had spent so many hours into the night searching for a mortally wounded child. For if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have tripped and fell over something partially submerged in the creek.

The truth was, there was no child. Nor was there the “rotten log” he’d thought he had tripped over. But there was a girl. And a cockatrice suddenly crouching nearby with a bloodstained beak.