Most people think dragons guard gold. Some dragons do. But the oldest dragon of all, whose name was Orrin, guarded something far more precious.
Orrin guarded the stars.
Every night for a thousand years, he had flown the long slow circle of the sky, checking that each star was in its place. The Bear. The Hunter. The Seven Sisters. The little one near the horizon that nobody had ever named. He knew them all, the way you know the freckles on your own hand.
And every morning, when the sun came up and the stars faded, he would settle on his mountain, close his great amber eyes, and sleep until dusk.
But one night, as Orrin began his circle, he stopped.
There was a gap.
Right in the middle of the sky, where the small bright star called Willow should have been, there was nothing but dark. Orrin flew closer. He looked and looked. But Willow was gone.
A thousand years, and he had never lost a star.
Far below, in a village at the foot of the mountain, a girl named Tamsin could not sleep. She had gone to the window to count stars, the way she always did, and she had counted them twice, and she was sure — sure — that one was missing.
And then she saw something glinting in her own back garden. Down in the grass, by the apple tree, something small and silver was shining.
Tamsin crept downstairs, out the back door, and into the cool grass in her bare feet. And there it was. A star. Fallen. No bigger than an egg, warm as a hen, flickering weakly like a candle nearly out.
“Oh,” Tamsin whispered. “You’re lost.”
She cupped it in both hands. It was so light it could have been made of moth-wings. And she looked up at the mountain, and the great dark shape circling above it, and she understood.
Getting to the top of a mountain is a long story. But Tamsin was brave, and the star lit her way, and by the time the moon was high she stood on the flat black stone at the summit, holding her hands up to the sky.
Orrin landed so softly the stone barely trembled. He lowered his enormous head until one amber eye was level with the girl.
“You found her,” he said, and his voice was like wind in a canyon. “I have looked for a thousand years and never lost one. I did not know what I would do.”
“She was in my garden,” said Tamsin. “She’s very tired.”
“Then we must put her back before she goes out.”
Orrin bowed his neck low, and Tamsin climbed up between his shoulders, still holding the star, and he rose into the sky. Up past the clouds. Up past the cold. Up to where the air was thin and the other stars were close enough to hear — a soft, endless hum, like a hive.
When they reached the gap, Tamsin held out her hands, and the little star lifted from her palms all on her own, drifting gently into her place. She flickered once. Twice. And then she burned steady and bright, and the sky was whole again.
Orrin let out a breath he had been holding for a thousand years.
On the way down, Tamsin fell asleep against his warm scales, and he carried her home so gently she did not wake, and laid her in her bed, and tucked the blanket up with the tip of one claw.
Then he flew back up to finish his circle. The Bear. The Hunter. The Seven Sisters. And Willow, home again, shining down on the garden of the girl who found her.
If you look out your window tonight and find a small bright star you don’t know the name of, that’s Willow. She’s never fallen since. But she still looks for Tamsin, every night, and now she’s looking for you too.
🌙 The End 🌙
Sweet dreams, little one.
✨ The Sunday Story Club
A brand-new bedtime story lands every Sunday. Join free — no spam, ever.
