Deep Existential Dread
Come for the scones. Stay for the fire.
Greetings Starfighters,
So here’s the thing—I’ve always wanted to write short stories.
Not just stories, mind you, but the kind of short fiction that sat crammed in the middle of a worn-out paperback anthology you borrowed from the library when you were twelve. The kind that made you look up from the page and mutter, “Wait… WHAT?” to no one in particular. The kind written by the sci-fi greats like Bradbury and Ellison, who made magic with not many words and left your brain slightly singed.
Well. Here’s me, swinging at that target with a slightly crooked bat.
This story, The Season of Scaleward, actually began as a humble little writing prompt from Reedsy a couple of years ago. “Write about a tradition gone awry,” they said. “Shouldn’t take long,” I said.
And then I set it down for two full years like it was a cursed object I wasn’t ready to touch.
Recently, something nudged me to dust it off; probably the ghost of Ray Bradbury whispering from an old YouTube video where he tells writers to “write one short story a week. It’s not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.”
Challenge accepted, Ray.
So here we go.
Let’s call it a first run. A sketch of a world I might return to. A story about fire, belief, betrayal, and a town that bakes scones like it’s a religious rite (because… it is). It’s a slow burn—pun very much intended—and I hope it leaves you with a little chill.
If you enjoy it, please let me know. And if you don’t, be gentle. I’m still sharpening the tools, one story at a time. Who knows, maybe one day there will be more from this world. Or another entirely.
Until then, enjoy Scaleward.
And maybe don’t trust anyone who tells you a tradition “just is.”
The Season of Scaleward
Dawn, the 19th of Macha, Fourth Cycle of Tellus
The dawnfrost glazed the cobbled streets of Snowmarble, catching the morning light like crushed emeralds. Ovens roared to life, warming kitchens with the scent of millberry and spiced mead. The day of Scaleward had arrived, and the entire village buzzed with the quiet, purposeful rhythm of tradition.
Lily Westhaven, age twelve and wide awake, took the stairs three at a time, her nightgown fluttering behind her like a festival banner. She landed with a skip, eyes bright, heart loud.
“Max! Max! Come quick! The scones are almost ready!”
Upstairs, a groan.
“Mama, make her stop,” Max moaned. “I’m trying to sleep in before the celebration.”
He appeared at the top of the stairs, hair a tangled mess, eyes half-closed. He brushed his bangs back with theatrical effort and trudged toward his room with the slouch of someone deeply aggrieved by being conscious. Down in the kitchen, Isa Westhaven was elbow-deep in dough. She slid a tray into the oven and glanced upward.
“Max, don’t be a spoil. It’s your sister’s first Scaleward. You were just as impossible when it was your year.”
She turned to Lily. “Come help me, love. We’ve got eleven more trays to finish before the gathering.”
“Yes, Mama!” Lily scrambled to the counter, nearly upsetting a bowl of sweet spice.
“Careful!” Isa caught it mid-air. “Break my bowls and we’ll be short for the council. And what would the gods say if I only brought eleven trays?”
Lily giggled. “I just don’t know why we have to wait so long. It’s just a fire. Singing, dancing, and... scones.”
“It's like you've never had a scone in your life,” Isa said with a smirk.
“Oh yes,” said a sleepy voice behind them. “Tragically scone-deprived. A tragic childhood.”
Max leaned in, stole a swipe of dough with his finger, and grinned at Lily’s look of horror.
“Maximillian Westhaven!” Isa snapped. “If you mess up my scones—”
“Just teasing. A young man’s got a right to annoy his little sister, especially once she hits the grand old Age of Warding.”
Lily slapped his arm. “Sometimes I hate you.”
“Better than being boring,” Max said, licking his finger. “Besides, we all know tonight’s just about overeating and pretending dragons care.”
Isa’s hands slowed in the dough. She wiped them clean, walked to the small shelf above the hearth, and pulled down the Book. It was thick, leather-bound, older than memory. The spine was cracked, the corners darkened by soot.
“Sit,” she spoke in an iron voice.
Max sighed dramatically but obeyed.
Isa opened the Book and read aloud, her voice steady, practiced:
“And so, each cycle, the People burned the scales of Dothus the White,
That the sky might remember what the mountains forgot.
Let the flames rise. Let the scales glow.
May the Fear of Dragons never fade.”
Max groaned. “Mama, come on. You've read that a thousand times.”
“But have you ever listened?” Isa asked, not looking up.
Max stood. “Dragons haven’t been seen in centuries. The scales don’t burn, they warm up. We light a fire, sing old songs, and call it sacred. That’s not belief. That’s habit.”
Isa shut the Book with care. “Your father believed. Until the very end.”
Max’s jaw clenched. “Don’t talk about him.”
Isa opened her mouth to say something more, but Max was already halfway up the stairs. Lily stood in the quiet that followed. She looked up at her mother.
“He doesn’t like Scaleward,” she said softly.
Isa nodded. “No. But he used to.”
Midday, 19th of Macha
Snowmarble wore celebration like a well-mended cloak—neatly, proudly, and a little too tightly. The streets bustled with preparation, though nothing was urgent. Pine wreaths were tied to doorposts with red thread, gar-fruit simmered in kettles, and voices murmured with the steady rhythm of tradition.
Lily wandered alone through the frost-bright village. She wasn’t sure if she was meant to help or stay visible. Everyone smiled at her the way adults do when you’re finally old enough for something, but they won’t tell you what.
Mrs. Crin from the bakery pressed a honeyed oatcake into her palm without saying a word. Lily murmured thanks and kept walking.
The Fire Circle lay at the center of town, bordered by old stones and soft earth. It looked more like a crater than a ceremonial ground—like the village had formed around an old wound.
The pyre was already built by the time Lily arrived: thick logs soaked in lamp oil, bound tightly and stacked with near-military precision. Five blackened scales crowned the top like iron feathers. They looked heavier than she remembered. Duller. Or maybe just older.
Councilor Tenreth, straight-backed and gray-bearded, moved through the workers like a conductor checking the tuning of his orchestra. He didn’t acknowledge Lily, only nodded once, which somehow felt weightier than a greeting.
She moved slowly along the edge of the circle, her hand brushing the trim of her ceremony cloak—dark green, newly hemmed. Max had sewn the lining himself. He hadn’t said much while he worked, but he’d made sure it fit perfectly.
She hadn’t seen him since breakfast.
Teenagers began to arrive in clusters, their sashes freshly tied, their expressions somewhere between awe and boredom. Parents followed with baskets of bread and warm jugs of cider. Children too young to understand were quietly ushered home. By twilight, only those twelve and older would remain.
Lily spotted Isa helping set lanterns along the path that circled the Fire. Her mother looked calm, as she always did. Maybe too calm.
The sun dipped behind the Skyshatter Mountains. A hush settled over the crowd—not silence, exactly, but a soft drawing-in of breath. The kind of quiet that always came before the fire.
Lily stood in the center now, torch in hand. The fire hadn’t been lit, but she could already feel the heat building, though she wasn’t sure if it came from the pyre or from somewhere inside her. Councilor Tenreth approached, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. His voice was low, meant only for her.
“An honor, Lily Westhaven,” he said. “May your light guide us.”
Then he stepped back.
The crowd formed a wide ring around the Fire Circle. Their faces glowed in the lantern light. Some smiled. Some didn’t. None looked away.
Lily stepped forward.
She touched the torch to the kindling. The flame caught instantly, racing along the oil-soaked logs with a hunger that made her flinch. Heat poured off the pyre as the fire roared upward, taller than the town hall’s spire, crackling and spitting embers into the sky.
The scales atop the pyre began to glow; not orange or red, but a deep, metallic blue. Then white. So bright they almost looked like glass about to shatter.
From somewhere behind her, Rowan Lightfoot began to sing:
“Remember the dragons of old,
Scales of red and green and gold,
Their flame burned bright,
But now out of sight,
Gone, but never unseen.”
The melody was old and simple, and the villagers joined in as if pulled by a thread. Their voices rose in harmony—gentle, measured, unwavering.
Lily turned, searching for Max. He stood near the back, arms folded, lips pressed in a hard line. He wasn’t singing. She worked her way toward him.
“Max,” she whispered. “Why aren’t you singing?”
He shrugged. “You lit the fire. That’s the big moment.”
“But don’t you feel it?” she asked. “The heat, the way the scales glow—it’s real, isn’t it?”
Max’s gaze was far away. “It’s real, sure. Just not for the reasons they say.”
Then he turned away from the fire. And the wind shifted.
The change in the wind was sudden and sharp—an invisible line crossed, like stepping from sun into shadow. Lily’s breath caught. The fire flared. Sparks rose in a spinning column and didn’t fall back. The air felt charged, like it might break open if anyone spoke too loudly.
And then the sound came.
It wasn’t a roar, not at first. It was deeper—more like stone groaning, like mountains turning in their sleep—a vibration, more than a voice. The villagers fell silent.
No one moved.
Lily scanned the crowd, waiting for someone to laugh, to gasp, to do something. But their faces had shifted. They weren’t confused. They weren’t surprised.
They were waiting.
Above the fire, something vast passed between her and the stars. Wings. Enormous wings. Silent as snowfall. A shape descended in slow spirals, each beat of its wings stirring the flames higher. When it landed, the ground shuddered. The lanterns swung on their hooks. The fire hissed and bent in its direction.
The white drake towered above them all, its body long and lean, its scales glowing like winter ice catching firelight. Its eyes burned like smoldering coals buried beneath frost.
No one ran.
They bowed their heads.
Everyone but Lily.
And Max. He stood frozen beside her, his face slack with disbelief. The dragon tilted its head, the long arc of its neck swaying with the weight of centuries. Its voice, when it came, rolled through the square like thunder slowed to a crawl.
“Is he the one?”
Lily turned to Isa. Her mother had already stepped forward. Her voice was calm. Final.
“Yes, Lord Dothus. He is my son. And like his father before him... he does not believe.”
Max’s breath hitched. And then he ran.
Max bolted, elbows swinging, shoving past a merchant and a boy in ceremonial robes. He made it as far as the edge of the Fire Circle before the wall closed around him.
Not a literal wall, just neighbors. People he’d known his whole life. The woman who sold him pencils for school. The man who’d taught him how to sharpen a blade. They didn’t grab him, didn’t shout.
They stepped in front of him. And stopped.
He tried to push through, but more figures joined them. A soft tide of arms and shoulders and quiet strength. They turned him, moved him, like the current of a river changing direction.
“No!” Max shouted. “No, what are you doing?!”
He fought. He kicked. But the hands that held him were firm, steady, unyielding. They weren’t angry. They were resolved.
He locked eyes with Isa.
“You knew,” he gasped.
She didn’t deny it.
“You’re my mother!”
“That’s why I’m here,” she said softly.
The dragon lowered its massive head, steam curling from its nostrils.
Max screamed. It wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t brave. It was the sound of a boy who had spent four years mocking something he didn’t understand and had just realized the cost.
Lily fell to her knees.
“Mama?” she whispered.
Isa came to her, crouching low, wrapping her arms around her daughter like she had a hundred times before.
“It’s alright,” she said. “It has to be.”
“What’s happening? What is this?”
Isa held her tighter. “Every five cycles, the dragons return. The old council made a pact. To stay here, to live safely in this place, we offer a sacrifice. Always a male. Always one who has… lost his faith.”
“But why him? Why Papa?”
“Because they stopped believing.”
Lily stared up at her, the firelight painting tears she didn’t feel yet. Behind them, Max screamed again as the dragon’s claw closed around him. The drake unfurled its wings. The flames bowed. The villagers knelt.
And it rose. Max’s cries trailed into the sky until there was only silence.
The night settled like snow.
The fire still burned, but no one tended it. The villagers stood quietly as the wind calmed and the heat from the pyre ebbed into the frostbitten air. Then, as if responding to an unspoken cue, they began to move.
Someone started to hum the final verse of the song. Others joined, voices soft and sure, like they were tucking something back into place. Like nothing had happened.
Lily stood in the center of it all, unmoving.
The firelight danced in her eyes, but she felt no warmth.
She turned slowly, searching for something—someone—who might still be pretending this was normal.
Isa stood just behind her, arms folded, face unreadable.
“You knew,” Lily said.
Isa nodded once. “We all do. After our twelfth cycle, we all learn the truth.”
“You chose him.”
Isa didn’t flinch. “He chose himself.”
Lily’s voice cracked. “You let me believe Papa died on the road to Dosteim.”
Isa sighed. “That’s what the younger ones must believe until they’re old enough to understand. Until they see the fire for themselves.”
Lily stepped back.
“And now I understand?”
Isa looked at her. “You’re still here.”
That wasn’t an answer.
The villagers began to drift away, murmuring to one another, some carrying baskets of food, others humming still. A few glanced Lily’s way—expressions unreadable, somewhere between pity and pride.
Rowan Lightfoot passed by and nodded at her. “You were brave,” he said. “The first time is always the hardest.”
Lily didn’t answer.
She turned her gaze skyward, to the place where the stars had returned.
And something inside her shifted.
Not loudly. Not violently.
But permanently.
That night, Lily did not sleep.
She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, the firelight still flickering in her mind. She saw Max’s face. The dragon’s eyes. The hands that had turned him back toward the center.
She saw Isa, calm and sorrowful.
“We all do,” she’d said.
But Lily didn’t want to be part of “we.”
Not anymore.
She rose before dawn and climbed to the loft above the kitchen, where her father’s old tools were still kept. A carving knife. A mallet. A box of wood shavings that smelled like cedar and soot.
He had built tables and chairs. Hope chests and doorframes.
She would build something else.
A truth.
A reckoning.
Snowmarble had followed the same path for too long. And the dragons were not the only ones who remembered.
See you next week, gang. Stay frosty,
MP