Chadwick Rye

The campfire hisses and pops as I scratch these words into my le

ather-bound journal, my quill moving by the amber glow that casts long shadows across our modest encampment. Beyond the circle of warmth, Korbak—my battle-scarred dire wolf—prowls the perimeter, his silver-flecked fur shimmering like moonlight on still water. Nearby, Thistle, a temperamental fairy dragon no larger than my forearm, curls atop my pack, her iridescent wings twitching as she dreams of whatever fairy dragons dream of. Probably setting something ablaze, knowing her.

Thirty years I’ve wandered the realms as Lysander the Beast Tamer, from the crystalline spires of Evermist to the bubbling tar pits of the Charred Expanse. In that time, I’ve broken bread with chieftains and kings, traded secrets with hermits and witches, and communed with creatures whose names most folk wouldn’t dare pronounce for fear of summoning something unpleasant. And always, always, the same question follows me like a persistent shadow:

“What beasts make the finest companions?”

If only the answer were simple as a village simpleton’s riddle. It isn’t.

Take griffins, for instance. Magnificent creatures, with the pride of eagles and the loyalty of lions distilled into one powerful form. When bonded properly—a process requiring three full moons, a handful of enchanted grooming implements, and nerves forged from the finest steel—a griffin will serve you until its dying breath. Their keen vision can spot a needle in a haystack from half a league away, and their wings can outpace the swiftest royal messenger.

Yet these same qualities make them impossible housemates. Try explaining to Lady Whitehill why her prized tapestries now decorate your griffin’s nest, or why the creature considers her lapdog a suitable afternoon snack. Even my colleague Bartholomew, who successfully tamed the infamous White Griffin of Thornwood, lost three fingers and his dignity when he neglected to properly secure the beast’s nesting chamber during its molting season.

Then there are shadow panthers, whose midnight fur absorbs light like a thirsty man gulps water. Beautiful, silent, deadly—and cursed with such aloof temperaments that they might acknowledge your existence perhaps once a fortnight if you’re particularly fortunate. I’ve seen hardened mercenaries weep after months of being ignored by their panther companions. Yet when danger threatens, no creature moves with such lethal grace to defend its chosen human. My old friend Veritax once watched his shadow panther, Midnight, dispatch seven armed bandits in the span of twelve heartbeats—only to spend the next month pretending Veritax didn’t exist because he’d purchased the wrong variety of smoked fish.

For sheer companionship, one might consider the humble pseudodragon. No larger than a housecat, with scales that shift color with their mood and a telepathic bond that grows stronger with each passing season. They require little maintenance beyond regular meals and the occasional polishing of their gem-like scales. Their empathic abilities alert you to danger long before it materializes, and their playful nature brings comfort during the coldest, loneliest nights on the road.

But the gods help you should you ever break their trust. A scorned pseudodragon will spend years orchestrating the most elaborate revenge schemes imaginable. Remember Lord Falconridge? Found himself mysteriously sleepwalking naked through the royal ball after his pseudodragon, Sparkle, discovered he’d been feeding premium treats to a neighbor’s familiar instead. The beast had spent three months gradually influencing his dreams, all for that single moment of exquisite embarrassment.

Perhaps the worst companions—despite their popularity among novice beast tamers—are the enchanted serpents of the Glittering Marshes. Their hypnotic patterns and gemstone eyes lure many a fool into believing they’ve found the perfect, low-maintenance travel companion. What these unfortunates fail to realize is that these serpents never truly bond with humans. They merely tolerate us while compiling a mental catalog of our weaknesses, waiting for the opportune moment to slither away with our most prized possessions. I’ve seen a man lose his inheritance, his boots, and somehow his childhood memories to one particularly cunning emerald constrictor.

As for the best… though it pains my professional reputation to admit it, I find myself increasingly convinced that the humble gryffin hound outshines creatures ten times more exotic. With the loyalty of a mastiff, the intelligence of a trained war scout, and just enough magical sensitivity to warn of arcane threats, they adapt to nearly any environment. My own Bramble—may her soul run forever through the Celestial Meadows—once tracked a shapeshifting assassin across three kingdoms by scent alone, saved me from poisoning by knocking a tampered goblet from my hand at a duke’s banquet, and still found time to befriend every village child we encountered.

Korbak growls now, drawing my attention from these musings. His ears prick forward, signaling not danger but curiosity. Following his gaze, I spot a pair of gleaming eyes at the forest’s edge—a young wyvern, its wings not yet fully developed, watching our camp with unmistakable hunger. Not for us, I suspect, but for connection.

The quill must wait. Some beasts choose us as much as we choose them, and in thirty years of taming, I’ve learned that these unexpected encounters often yield the most remarkable companions. Whether this one proves magnificent or maddening, only time will tell.

Perhaps, if we survive each other’s company, the wyvern will earn a page in this journal. Or perhaps it will earn a place by my fireside. Either way, another adventure begins.

—From the field journals of Lysander Thornheart, Royal Beast Tamer to the Court of Seven Crowns