Free Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir by Sam Farren

her further. She was a Knight, likely trained to withstand all sorts of torture; I wasn't going to be able to force a preference between chicken and pork out of her.
    “I'll get more carrots,” I decided. “He seemed to like them.”
    Sir Ightham didn't answer me, as was her wont, and we strolled into what would've been the bad part of Praxis, if Praxis could be said to have a bad part. The houses around us had been replaced by taverns, doors and windows spread open to soak up the first hint of spring. A musician played a piano in one and a patron drunk enough to mistake himself for a musician played in another, sounds entangling in the centre of the street until you couldn't tell who was playing badly.
    Instead of looking around, I found my eyes fixed on Sir Ightham. Her expression was as neutral as ever, and I wondered what it would take to pry a reaction out of her; wondered how many questions I'd have to ask before she snapped and told me to shut up, rather than just fall silent. Realising I'd been staring for a second too long, I followed her gaze, and saw what everyone was already aware of.
    Outside of a tavern, perched on a stool with plenty of empty seats around them, was a pane.

CHAPTER IV
    Even seated, the pane was taller than me.
    I couldn't say how the seat beneath it – her – hadn't been reduced to splinters, but it was far from the most pressing thing on my mind. I wanted to run, but my feet were stone and I couldn't part them from the street.
    I expected pane to merely look like overgrown humans with horns and fangs, but up close, I saw how wrong I'd been. Thick tusks protruded from the pane's prominent lower jaw, each of them two inches long. Her skin was no darker than mine, but it looked more like soft, brown leather than flesh, and a ring of gold stood against the coal her eyes were made from.
    Sir Ightham inclined her head towards the pane in a respectful manner, and the pane's long, pointed ears perked up at the recognition.
    The pane rose to her feet, strange as they were – hoofed like a goat's, but shaped like a wolf's – rising up and up. I'd considered Sir Ightham tall, but she barely reached halfway up the pane's chest. The pane bowed her head as a formality. There was no real respect exchanged, and the pane returned to her full height easily, infinitely more relaxed than Sir Ightham had ever been.
    “Dragon-slayer,” the pane said.
    Her voice was unlike anything I'd heard before. Not quite human, but not quite a growl, either. It was like gravel sifting through fingers; gravel that had been left out in the sun to trap heat.
    It took me a moment to take in the weight of her words themselves. She knew what Sir Ightham was, even without her dragon-bone armour. Being called a dragon-slayer might've been a compliment from a human, but to hear it from a pane, I didn't see how it could be taken as anything less than a death sentence.
    Sir Ightham, entirely unperturbed by the pane knowing who – or what – she was, said, “And a good day to you, dragon-born.”
    The pane grinned. Her tusks were arrow heads, ready to be lodged into Sir Ightham's throat. I lost faith in the fact that I was a necromancer, for there was no way I could do anything to negate the damage caused by a pane. But the pane didn't strike. That was all in my head. Instead, she slipped a hand between the tough leathers and sash of bright orange cloth she wore, plucked out a letter with her great, clawed hand, and held it out to Sir Ightham.
    “Been hearing some troubling rumours, lately,” the pane said as Sir Ightham took the letter. “But as they say, a burden shared...”
    Sir Ightham scanned the letter, and I tried to imagine the pane writing, tried to imagine her holding anything as small as a quill between her fingers. When she reached the end of the note, Sir Ightham's brow creased, and she read over it for a second time; certain she'd understood it, she folded it in two and tore it down the middle, over and