The Castle with Towers Made of Ink

Castle Starwrite was not like any other castle.

Its towers were made of crystal — clear as glass but shot through with streaks of deep blue and violet, carved into the shape of enormous quill pens. On days when Storia's blue sun hung low, the whole castle shimmered like a jar of spilled ink held up to the light.

Penelope loved every inch of it.

She was cross-legged on the wide stone windowsill of her studio, her rainbow cloak pooled around her like a pile of autumn leaves. Spread across her lap was her current favorite sketchbook — thick, cream-colored pages already heavy with drawings of dragons, floating islands, and at least one very confused-looking knight.

"I'm going to draw something today," she announced to no one.

Her pencil case sat open beside her, sixty-four colors gleaming like little promises.

She tapped the pencil against her chin.

"Something big."

The Color That Shouldn't Have Moved

Penelope pressed her pencil to the page and drew fast — the way she always did when the idea felt urgent.

A dragon. Small, friendly, with folded wings and a wide grin.

She shaded it in quickly: orange body, green wings, yellow belly. One last line for the tail, and she set down the pencil.

She blew on the drawing to dry it.

Nothing happened.

She blinked. Then the dragon blinked back.

Penelope yelped and tumbled off the windowsill.

By the time she scrambled to her feet, the sketchbook lay open on the studio floor — and the dragon was gone from the page. A small orange hole, ragged at the edges, was all that remained where the drawing had been.

A crash shook the window.

She ran to it and looked down into the courtyard below. There stood a dragon the size of a farm cart, its scales the exact orange she had used, its wings a wild, crumpled green. It sat on its haunches, sniffing a fistful of her colored pencils.

Then it ate them.