Guardians, Ghosts, and the One-Footed Dance

🤠Thursday Roundup!🪢for July 3, 2025.

Jul 03, 2025

Welcome to another edition of 🤠Thursday Roundup!🪢, the newsletter that gathers up the most interesting fiction of the week and present it to you.

I don’t usually give a majority of the newsletter to one person’s work, but this week, the good

Father Roderick

wrote a four part Dragon story that I want to share.

I’ll present it piece by piece and give the follow along links at the end of each section.

The Dragon Rider’s Code - #1

The girl began with the tail—always the tail. You started at the edges, her instructor had said, and worked your way in.

She ran a cloth soaked in sage oil along Sable’s scales, tracing each one like a prayer bead. The dragon lay still, eyes half-lidded, exhaling warm breath in steady bursts that steamed in the crisp morning air. His tail flicked once as the cloth tickled a tender spot.

Kaelin smiled.
“I know. But you want to shine, don’t you?”

Sable grumbled softly. He did.

Polishing was more than tradition. It was trust. You learned a dragon’s body the way you learned a river’s current—by touch, not maps. By mistakes, not diagrams. She had made plenty of both.

But today, there was no room for mistakes.

Today was the exam.

Long ago, before the Code, dragon riders were kings in the sky.

Their dragons were unstoppable—living siege weapons with wings and fire. Riders torched rival villages, toppled stone keeps, and turned entire harvests to ash over petty disputes.

Kaelin had read the records in the Great Library: The Thirteen Plagues. The Soot Wars. The Culling of the Green Lands.

It wasn’t that dragons were evil. They were natural. Wild. Powerful. It was people who failed.

Until Spike.

A farmer’s son turned sky-lancer, Spike rode the most feared dragon of all: the Black Blessing. Towering, ancient, coal-eyed and coal-hearted. When Spike rose to challenge the rogue clans, no one dared defy him.

But instead of conquering, he wrote the Code.

A dragon defends. Never provokes.
A dragon restrains. Never retaliates.
A dragon does not dominate, even when it can.
A dragon is never owned, only accompanied.

From that day on, a dragon was not a weapon, but a guardian of the realm. And riders? They would be tested. Thoroughly. (To continue, click here)

The Dragon Riders Code #2

The examiner climbed into the rear saddle with practiced ease.

“Kaelin, daughter of Mareth, what’s the name of your dragon?”

“Sable.”

He nodded once, then adjusted the cord binding his gauntlets to the saddle ring. “Three tests. You’ve studied them. But I’ll repeat them anyway. Nerves rattle memory.”

Kaelin swallowed and nodded. She could feel Sable’s heartbeat through the saddle.

“First is the Gauntlet. Technical flight. Canyons, arches, tunnels—tight enough to scrape your skin off if you sneeze wrong. No contact. Not a trace. Got it?”

Kaelin nodded. Her pulse kicked. Sable tensed beneath her.

“There may be surprises.”

“Understood.”

“Good,” he said, voice suddenly gleeful. “Now show me the sky.”

Sable leapt.

The wind screamed past them as they climbed. Cliffs flashed beneath. Kaelin leaned low into the dragon’s neck, becoming one with the streamlined form. The saddle creaked under pressure.

The canyon opened like a cracked jaw—ragged cliffs yawning into a winding maze. Sable tucked his wings and dove.

Kaelin’s world turned grey and stone. (To continue, click here)

The Dragon Riders Code #3

The plateau shimmered with morning haze. Below, the valley curled like a sleeping beast—mist draping its back, sun warming its flanks.

Kaelin sat tall in the saddle. Her pulse had steadied. Sable’s wings rose and fell with calm, rhythmic grace. The technical trial was behind them.

But the second test would be different.

“See that ridge?” Solas said, pointing across the valley. “Your opponents will launch from there.”

“They’ve trained for this?” Kaelin asked.

He nodded. “As much as you have. This isn’t about surprise. It’s about control.”

They descended into the valley slowly, coasting on thermals. Trees rustled below, tall and old—a forest older than the code itself. Kaelin scanned the sky.

Nothing yet.

She tugged once on the reins, and Sable responded, banking left, scenting the wind.

Then—movement.

A blur to her right.

“Left!” she shouted, and Sable twisted midair. A second dragon dove from the canopy, claws out, aiming for the underside of their saddle.

Sable barrel-rolled, narrowly avoiding the impact. The two attackers split—one rising, one vanishing beneath the trees.

“They’re working together,” Kaelin muttered. (To continue, Click here.)

The Dragon Riders Code #4

The examiner’s whistle still rang in her ears—sharp, rising, echoing off the cliffs. Then the world began to shake.

Below them, the water convulsed. A circle of lake turned black, bubbled, and exploded.

A second rock monster rose from the depths.

Twice the size of the first, its mouth stretched open like a cathedral gate. Jagged stone teeth dripped with slime and moss. Its roar was deep—felt more than heard. Water streamed down its face like tears.

Kaelin froze.

That lake—she’d swum there as a child. She remembered splashing in the shallows, daring herself to dive deeper. Her father had built their cottage nearby. That water had always been her haven.

Not anymore.

The monster surged upward, its mouth yawning wide, right beneath them.

“Up!” she cried.

Sable responded instantly, beating his wings with a power that made the air shudder. They rocketed into the sky in a vertical climb.

Kaelin’s eyes slammed shut from the speed and wind. The world blurred, air screaming past her ears. Behind her, the jaws snapped shut with a thunderous crack.

The monster bellowed in frustration, sinking back into the depths.

They had escaped.

But something was wrong. (To continue, Click here.)

Our Next author has returned to continue a story told in a Fragment.

Nathan Slake

“To return to a fragment” picks up a story started in another fragment.

“Jisa!” a man calls, grabbing my arm. I whirl and try to twist free, but then stop. In front of me stands Zinn’s friend, the one he calls Cloud.

“Cloud,” I manage, finding my words and dropping my guard. “Trying to mug me?” I shake free of his grip, sidestepping a torrent of water that spurts from a gutter above.

“Sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t sure where you lived.”

“So you just walk the streets expecting me to cross your path?” I look at him. He’s soaking. Shivering, possibly.

“Something like that.” He shrugs, then smiles, a smile coy and wry and like so many of those flashed last night, a secret exchange when the three of us met. The same smile that kindled a fire still burning within.

For a long moment we remain like this. People from the evening rush jostle past, their movement a flash of washed-out colour as they transit beneath the endless glow of the city.

“Strange,” I manage finally. “Why not just ask Zinn? He could find his way to me blind drunk. Has done many times.”

Cloud shrugs again. “I…” he begins.

I see something in his eyes. Nervousness? I wonder. I could mock him for it—to do so would come so easily—but something makes me bite my tongue and just raise my eyebrows.

“I didn’t want to ask him,” he continues. “I, ah, how can I put this? I didn’t want him to know I would see you. If I saw you, that is.” Cloud runs a hand through his wet hair, bounces a little from foot to foot. “I was beginning to think standing here a stupid idea, but Zinn told me one time that you lived in Dridok, so I just picked a busy intersection and, well …” he motions towards me, then pockets his hands back into his coat. (To continue: click here)

“Underworld: We all have our price,” is chapter fifteen of

Katharine Kapodistria

’s underworld series. I haven’t yet read the other chapters, but if they are as good as this one, it should be a good read. It appears to follow the story of Persophoni from the old stories, not just the greek version. This could very well be the far older “Dread Persephoni”

Ekáti’s house is the same as before—a warm and welcoming place with a fire burning in the hearth. I stand before it, feeling the heat on my skin, as she looks over my body, touching with impossibly gentle fingers the scratches and bruises, the blistered skin on my palm and a lump on the back of my head that I hadn’t even realised was there. She doesn’t make a sound all the while, but her kindness and gentle silence shatter something inside me that I have desperately been trying to hold together. My eyes fill with tears at the thought of things I can’t remember. I bite my lip and swallow hard to stop them spilling over, but Ekáti has already seen them. She pulls me to her and holds me tight, and I cry into her wild hair. We stand there a long time in front of the fire, her arms around me. I feel as if they are the only thing keeping my misery from swallowing me whole.

Ekáti helps me into a bath that is somehow the perfect temperature to ease my battered body, even though I didn’t see her filling it, and I sink gratefully into the water, trying to block out everything else.

I stay there for a long time, and still she doesn’t speak to me. I watch her going about her business in her kitchen. She looks as if she’s making tinctures, like Ánitos and I used to make for the mortals of the valley. Eventually, I get out of the tub and dry myself with a cloth she’s left on a chair. My scratches are already beginning to fade away, and my blistered palm is healing fast. I dress in a white shift that’s also laid on the chair. My body feels clean now, but I don’t think I ever will.

I lower myself into a seat at Ekáti’s wooden table and she places an infusion in front of me. I smell lemon balm and skullcup, and something I don’t recognise. I sip it, hoping I can trust her, thinking of winter evenings with Ánitos in Arkadía. The memories hurt my heart, but they are comforting too. It’s a strange feeling.

Ekáti sits down opposite me and fixes me with her storm-grey eyes.

“She will never let you go,” she tells me, and I don’t need to ask who. “You are too valuable to her.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Don’t you know why she brought you here? She visited the Pythía.” I nod—this I know already. “She was told that, without you, her name would one day be dust, blown away on the wind and forgotten. With you by her side, she will attain true immortality.”

Of course. How very like a god. How very like my mother. Her name enduring through the long years is all that matters. My freedom for her glory—it’s a choice she wouldn’t think twice about making.

“That’s why she brought me here, so that she can live forever?”

“Live?” Ekáti asks. “You make the same mistake as your mother. The Pythía may seem mad, but she chooses her words carefully. She did not say Dímitra would live, only that her name would survive through the ages.” (To continue, click here.)

The next selection is Chapter two of “The Phantom Train” by

David B. Corder

Like the previous story, I haven’t read all of this one, but from what I gather, it’s about a missing girl and a train. It has the solid foundations for a good mystery story.

Dad dropped Connor off at the elementary school first, then he dropped me off at the middle school. I beelined straight for my locker, passing through the crowd of kids as they were scuttling about the halls, trying to enjoy every free moment that they could before being confined to the depressing walls of a classroom. It was only my second week of school, and I had only made a few friends, so I mostly kept to myself as I went to my locker and started getting my books out.

There was one girl in particular I wouldn’t have minded getting to know. She was a couple of lockers down from me, and I thought that her name was Mallory. She had this pretty chestnut brown hair that framed her face just right and these big dark eyes. I had a couple of classes with her, but she was really quiet, and always drawing in her notebook. She was putting stuff in her locker and I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Just as I got the courage to go up and talk to her, Ky’Rique stopped me in my tracks.

“What’s going on, Wesley?” he asked. Ky’Rique was a really short kid with a really high pitched voice, almost like he was always sucking helium. He had connected with me on the first day of school and he was nice to me. I was glad to have made a friend fairly fast, but now I watched in disappointment as Mallory walked the opposite way down the hall.

“Hey, Ky’Rique,” I said crestfallen. “How’s it going?”

He looked at me. “Bruh, you look like a zombie. You sleep okay?”

I rubbed at my eyes furiously. “Not really. Stupid train down the street woke me up.”

“Oh, I gotcha. I live near the tracks too. But I don’t notice it since I lived there my entire life. You’ll get used to it.” (To continue, click here.)

I seem to be catching all of the stories in the second part this week, and

Daniel O’Donnell

‘s “Lucifer’s Lieutenant,” my luck holds true.

This appears to a well done murder mystery.

“He’s dead. Ramirez is dead.”

MacLeod took a breath.

“Did you or the boys kill him?”

Devlin had a crew that he always worked with. The two assigned to this job were professionals. If something had went south then that was surprising.

“No!” At least Billy still had the wherewithal to look offended. “He was dead when we got there. Sliced open from balls to throat.”

“Jesus,” MacLeod muttered, gathering his thoughts. “Were there any signs of someone else having been there?”

Billy shook his head, paused for a second, placed the books onto the desk and wiped his shovel like hands on his jeans, as if they were dirty.

“All the windows and doors were locked. No sign of forced entry.”

The big man shook his head and looked up at his old friend.

“Something isn’t right about them,” he said, pointing to the books.

MacLeod glanced at Billy and then at the two volumes. One looked like a simple moleskin note book you could pick up in any stationery store, but the other looked much older. Even though he wasn’t a literary man, Robert could tell it was ancient, with its brittle yellow pages and strange material that enveloped the bindings. What was that? Could it be …?

He found himself reaching out his hand to lift them up, before Devlin spoke again.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

The words shook him from his reverie, and when he looked up Billy was standing next to him.

A flash of anger contorted his face and he was ready with a sharp rebuke, but after a moment he remembered who he was talking to, and nodded.

“Tell me.”

“Ramirez was supposed to be out at some function last night. That was from a good source. However, when we saw that there were lights on, we knew it’d be trickier. Sure, folks leave lights on when they go out, but you can never tell. Anyway, when we got in, there wasn’t a sound, so we headed for the study, and that’s where we found him. Sitting in his chair. Torn apart. It was some mess.

The heating was on full bung. Even had a fire burning in the grate. The rest of the house was roasting, but in that room, it was freezing cold. Could see our breath. Weirdest damn thing I’ve ever felt.

You asked me if anyone else was there. You know, we couldn’t see anyone, but it felt, just for a second, as though someone was in that room with us. I don’t believe in ghosts and all that shit, well I didn’t …Christ, I don’t know.” (To continue, click here.)

Isha Jain

returns this week with another quirky tale, this one is called, “The hopping men of Bhagpur”

No one knew why the men in the Bhagpur village hopped around on one foot.

But as soon as a male child learnt to walk, he would hop on one leg only. Some mothers tried forcing the other one down to teach them how to walk properly in the beginning. But the poor children stumbled with both their feet on the floor.

The men barely went out of their ground floor houses, taking care of it while the women dealt with the outside matters.

The women drove vehicles, constructed the buildings, worked on farms and went on trading trips to neighboring villages and towns. They taught children in schools, ran the market and were the political heads of the village. It had become one of the rare matrilineal societies in world.

There were many stories people believed in for the village’s predicament. A drunk man relieving himself on the sacred tree inviting its anger, a monstrous man who broke a leg of his wife in rage, cursing the whole village, and the one mostly seen as the truth and told to the outsiders.

One day, a man had started dancing on one foot, admired by all. The professional dancer called by the village headmen felt insulted and she cursed the whole lot of men and their blood born on the land to dance on one foot for their whole life. (To continue, click here.)

Our last tale is a continuation of

S.E. Reid

’s Latest Ivy Tale. “Follow the White Rabbit.”

Ivy slept fitfully that first night, simply too excited to relax.

Around her, the little old house on The Row stretched its elbows and knees in the cooling summer dark, a snap and thunk like bones and joints. Ivy lay awake for a long time after Bailey had slipped off to sleep in the upper bunk. The night noises, no less familiar than the ones she heard every evening outside her own bedroom window, felt closer here: a benevolent surrounding of frog-songs and rustling passage of prey-animals through the brush.

Before saying goodnight, Maia had given the girls their marching orders. They were to report to the groundskeeper at the cabins by eight-thirty in the morning to help with last-minute cleaning before the counselors arrived for lunch to kick off orientation. Ivy always griped about doing her chores at home, but something about being entrusted to clean the camp, to prepare it for campers, felt different. It felt important.

In the dark, staring up at the underside of Bailey’s bunk, Ivy’s mind flitted from thought to thought until she landed on the rabbit, stumbling away into the woods after she had freed it from the wire. The way it screamed, and the way it calmed under her touch. Normally she felt she had an affinity with animals, but something about the way the rabbit had looked at her chilled her.

It had calmed because it wanted to, not because of anything she had done.

Caroline up at the General Store always told Ivy that Ferris Island was alive in a way that other islands in Puget Sound chose not to be, that it was awake and aware and needed to be respected, or it would lash out in unexpected ways. Caroline knew that firsthand; she had made it her life’s mission to learn about the island’s hidden corners and help other people who live on it understand it, too.

Ivy wished she could ask Caroline what she would make of the situation with the rabbit. Was there something else Ivy could have done? Something else she should have done?

It doesn’t matter. Just stop thinking about it. (To continue, click here.)

Crann na beatha

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