The Spark of Whispering Crags

Oliver was the kind of boy who kept his pockets full of smooth river stones, acorn caps, and bits of colorful string. To Oliver, the world was a treasure map waiting to be read. Behind his backyard lay the Whispering Woods, a dense forest where the trees seemed to hum secrets when the wind blew. On a chilly Saturday afternoon in October, Oliver ventured deeper into the woods than usual, chasing a bluejay. That was when he saw it: a tiny, glowing puff of purple smoke rising from a pile of golden maple leaves. Intrigued, he crept closer, his boots crunching softly on the forest floor.

Peering behind a mossy log, Oliver gasped. Tucked into a cozy nest of dry grass was a creature no bigger than a teapot. It had scales the color of polished jade, a pair of wings that looked like delicate autumn leaves, and two large, golden eyes that blinked up at him with curiosity. The little creature shook its head, and a shower of harmless, glittering pink sparks drifted into the air. It smelled faintly of toasted marshmallows and woodsmoke. It was, without a doubt, a baby dragon.