Tyche | The Guardian
The midday dust motes were hanging lazily in the sunbeams of the apothecary, a place where everything usually smelled faintly of crushed dragon scale, dried blood root, and old paper. The atmosphere was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Especially For some.

The Guardian drifted somewhere above the shelves, winding lazily between bundles of drying herbs and bottles that caught the afternoon light. There was no great threat to chase from the apothecary that day. No darkness pressing at the door.

Nothing, really, that required a Guardian at all.

She dipped suddenly.
Nose first.
Once.
Twice.
Three times she tumbled through the air, her long body folding and unfurling behind her, mane and tail following a heartbeat too late.

With every turn, something gathered—
a spark,
a storm,
a sudden tightening of the air until the space between her paws hummed with a gravity of its own.

The clock ticked, stretching the moment between one breath and the next.

For one suspended second, she stared at what she had made, bright-eyed and utterly captivated.

Then something in her expression shifted.

Delight.

The unmistakable kind that usually meant someone else was about to have a problem.

DIMENSIONS
⥯ Height: 23 inches {at longest}
⥩ Width: 16 inches {at widest}

A CLOSER LOOK
Hand-forged details are coming soon!