The Dragon's Maw

The stench hit us first, a putrid wave of sulfur and something acrid, like burnt hair mixed with old cheese. It clung to the air, thick and cloying, making my stomach do uneasy flips. We’d followed the scorched earth, the splintered trees, the unnerving silence that fell over the land as we neared Agnes’s lair. Riverbend felt a million miles away, a hazy memory of normalcy. Now, there was only this desolate, rocky expanse, pockmarked with ominous caves and shadowed crevices.

“Smells like my uncle Barnaby after a particularly enthusiastic cheese-tasting,” Lyra muttered, pinching her nose. Even her usual bubbly demeanor was subdued, her eyes wide as she scanned the grim landscape.

Bowen grunted beside me, his grip tightening on the haft of his axe. “Barnaby never faced a dragon, Lyra.”