The Dragon’s Mage

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Morgan was in the meadow laughing when she felt it.  Her eight-year-old brother with the same dark hair and grass green eyes was buried under two of his sisters.  The girls shared the eyes, but had their mother’s fiery red gold hair that flashed in the sun.  Currently they were rolling about like puppies and shrieking in fright as Morgan pretended to be a great hernbeast after them.  In the middle of tickling Clare to hysterics, she stopped, a strange awareness creeping up.  Something was coming.

“Danger.”  She said quickly.  Her siblings, from the youngest at eight summers to the oldest at nineteen, all froze and looked to her.

“Up.  Quietly.”  She said, “Quietly.  Melly can you sense anything?”  She was whispering now and all of them were staying low to the grasses and heading for the tree line.

 “Nothing.”  Melisande whispered, Melly for short.  She was five years younger than Morgan and six inches shorter at five feet two inches.  She had always been the calm center of the family.  She moved with the rest of them, keeping her head down even as she expanded her senses.  “I don’t sense any danger.”

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