Heavy footsteps shook the earth—a guttural roar promised violence. The monster appeared from the darkness, and the soldiers froze. Under the visor of her helmet, Matilda snickered. This was the wicked monster? Reports of a creature terrorising the outlying villages had come in a mob of sweaty peasants and singed hay carts. Naturally, and out of courtesy, the King dispatched a small rally of young knights, believing the task trivial. The court expected them to return valiant—a bloodied, severed head of a gorgon or the golden mane of a chimaera tucked beneath their arms. Yet, what returned was not a triumphant party but the pink-fleshy husk of Sir Elizabet. Not a single hair remained on the knight's body. Her clothes and armour had melted away, and her skin gave the appearance of a crispy Crème brûlée. Her mind had long fled her, leaving only the mumbled ramblings of madness. She was the only survivor—if indeed you could call it that. Monstrous tales of the beast spread like a pitch-fueled wildfire around the remaining villages. The lower citadel soon filled with frightened, half-baked peasants and concerned nobles, and the King—hateful of how the new visitors destroyed his sea view—ordered more soldiers to rid the creature from his land. Matilda stood knee-deep in tall grasses and wildflowers with the rest of the soldiers at the meadow's edge. Sweat slicked her skin beneath her armour, and her head pounded, ringing like a heavy church bell. If it weren’t for the stunned silence of her fellow knights, she would have believed it to be a vision brought about by dehydrated delirium. A slate-scaled wyvern bounded about the grassland like a young hare. Toothpick fangs protruded from its lower jaw, and on each tip of its wings—its forearms—was the equally slight curve of talons. It looked like it could do about as much damage as a kitten, and at the sight of the stumbling, docile reptile, Matilda lowered her steel shield. “Keep your guard up,” Officer Randall hissed, his words muffled behind his visor. “I would not relax yet.” An extravagant red-feathered plume drooped from the top of his helmet, and he shifted his shield a little higher. “Why, Sir?” Matilda asked. She watched as the little wyvern bumbled forward, the pearls of its teeth snapping at a passing butterfly. Tin-muffled awes ricocheted around the battalion, and despite the officer's orders, Matilda lowered her sword also. “It’s titchy, sir,” she added. “A pathetic creature, sir. It can't even kill that dumb butterfly. Sir Elizabet—” “Watch your tongue, knight!” Officer Randall spat. “We do not speak ill of the dead.” The Officer straightened, flicking the red feathers behind him. “That one may look unassuming, certainly. But it is not him I am anxious about. It's the other one.” As if on cue, the wall of trees encircling the meadow parted. Branches snapped, a flock of birds dispersed, and the baby wyvern bounced away, disappearing in the grass. A tremor shook the ground as a snout emerged through the curtain of golden leaves. Cerulean smoke spiralled from the beast’s crater-deep nostrils, and as the beast stepped forward, scales of polished onyx glinted in the sun. Matilda caught herself before her jelly legs caused her to fall. Never had she seen such terrifying eyes, like two burning balls of sapphire. The beast unfurled her wings, and a surge of wind whipped across the meadow, striking Matilda’s armour. Red feathers whipped from Officer Randall’s helmet, and a chorus of unsteady whoa’s rippled amongst the other knights. Metal bodies stumbled back, their sabatons digging trenches in the dirt. Another rumble rippled the ground, and the beast took to the air. Darkness engulfed the meadow as the wyvern soared higher, the bulk of her belly and length of her wings blocking the sun. "But that's… Scientifically impossible,” Matilda breathed, squinting through her visor. The beast beat her wings again, and a further wave of wind ravaged the battalion. “A body that big should not be able to fly." “Just be thankful, Sir Matilda,” Officer Randall offered, “she hasn't started spewing yet. Who knows how long we will survive.” Static intensified the air—an uneasy vibration prickled Matilda's skin. Viscous black ooze began to seep from the beast's mouth, descending her jaw like molten magma. A glob fell. Matilda watched, frozen, as it landed, striking a cluster of knights. Spine-chilling howls split the static as the bodies crumbled, and Matilda tried not to think about how she could smell the kitchens after a feast of barbecued pork. She hoisted her shield above her head. "Good shout, Sir Matilda. Soldiers!” Officer Randall yelled. “Testudo formation!” Metal clanged as the knights scurried close. Shields blocked the sky like a gleaming, protective mosaic, the stench of sweat and hot agitated breath becoming their new companion beneath the formations dome. “That’s right, soldiers.” Matilda could just make out the red of Officer Randall’s plume in the dark. “Everyone stay tight,” He added. “Any weak link and our defences will be broken. The King may not care, but I certainly do. I do not want anyone else to get killed or eaten.” The Testudo defence lurched, and the knights surrounding Matilda fumbled. “What was that?” Someone gasped, but a sudden, horrific outcry from above said it all. The wyvern had snatched someone, Matilda realised. A sharp, jaw-clenching crack silenced the knight's howls. Her shield recoiled, and Matilda scrunched her eyes as something soft thumped landed on top. She didn't want to think about what part of the knight's body it could have been. Matilda swallowed. “Perhaps, Officer Randall, sir,” she offered unhelpfully, her voice small, “you should keep your mouth shut... Sir.”