Read the book: «The geranium pot»

© Isla Marenwick, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0071-5283-9

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Chapter 1. A Dragon’s Respite

The war had dragged on for so long that even dragons were growing tired of it.

Gryf knew that better than most.

Once, the fire inside him would flare to life on its own the moment he spread his wings. Now it barely smoldered, keeping the piercing cold at bay for only a few precious minutes at a time. Six months at the Edge of Frost left their mark on a person. Up there, a single breath from an ice troll was enough to freeze the blood in your veins.

When his commander, the old dragon Ognecheshui, finally sent him on a ten-day leave, Gryf merely nodded.

The map was still blurring before his eyes, and even his golden dragon pupils struggled to keep their focus on the right point.

“Pick anywhere you like,” Ognecheshui grumbled. “Just, by my old head, make sure it’s at least three flights from the outpost. And don’t let me see your face until your wings stop creaking.”

At the moment, Gryf hardly had a human face to speak of.

He was in his true dragon form: forty feet from snout to tail-tip, copper scales dulled by frost, heavy wings, and an ache in every joint.

Gryf spread his wings with a quiet crackle, pushed off the ground, and rose into the cold northern sky.

He headed south — to somewhere the air wasn’t thick with smoke, blood, and frost.

On the map, he had found a tiny town with the cozy name of Flower Alley.

A backwater.

Exactly what he needed.

Beyond the town, Gryf descended into a quiet grove.

The transformation began almost immediately, familiar and practiced down to the smallest detail. Magic swept through his body in a warm wave. His bones shifted. His wings vanished. His scales gave way to human skin.

A few moments later, a tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the clearing.

The coppery tint of his skin remained. His short, dark chestnut hair looked perfectly ordinary, while the golden gleam in his eyes was barely noticeable.

A traveling cloak did little to conceal his powerful build. In one pocket were a purse filled with silver and a summoning crystal — the only thing he carried that still reminded him of the army.

He reached the town in less than an hour.

Flower Alley was exactly what its name promised.

The air smelled of damp earth, fresh greenery, and flowers. There were so many scents that they blended together into one thick, sweet fragrance.

There were no stone towers here, only low houses beneath tiled roofs.

No weapons shops — just flower stalls, pots of seedlings, and sacks of soil.

People talked leisurely as they chose plants and argued about the weather.

No one flinched at sudden sounds.

No one studied strangers, waiting for a blow to come from behind.

Only then did Gryf realize just how exhausted he was from living on constant alert.

The tension didn’t disappear all at once, but little by little, his shoulders began to relax.

Chapter 2. The Sky Geranium

On the second day of his leave, Gryf made a firm decision to do absolutely nothing.

He went outside, bought a warm cinnamon bun from a smiling old woman, and settled onto the low parapet beside the fountain. He simply wanted to watch how people lived when they didn’t have to fight for their lives.

Children raced around the square, laughing. Vendors called out to customers over one another. Bees buzzed above the flowerbeds.

For a while, Gryf almost managed to believe that this was what the whole world was made of.

Then a flowerpot fell on his head.

He had been prepared for anything: an enemy projectile, a chunk of falling rock, even a surprise attack.

But not an ordinary clay pot filled with a lush, fiery-red geranium.

It didn’t hurt, but it landed with impressive force. Soil showered down over Gryf’s shoulders and slipped beneath his collar. The flower itself got caught in his thick hair, its petals dangling directly in front of his nose.

Gryf blinked.

Everything inside him demanded that he roar, transform, and burn half the town to the ground.

But he was on leave.

And, after all, it was only a flowerpot.

“Oh-oh-oh-oh!”

A high-pitched, frightened squeak came from above.

With truly dragon-like self-control, Gryf removed what remained of the pot from his head. Soil spilled into his lap.

Only then did he look up.

A frightened young woman was staring down at him from a small wooden balcony on the second floor, directly above a bright sign that read Liza’s.

She had enormous brown eyes, chestnut hair tousled by the wind, and cheeks bright red with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry! I’m a thousand times sorry! I turned it the wrong way, and it slipped! Are you alive? Oh gods, you’re covered in dirt!”

Gryf silently stood and dusted himself off. A cloud of soil rose around him.

He picked up the broken pot and the geranium, its roots exposed.

“Alive,” he said at last.

Gryf hadn’t made much small talk in a very long time, so his voice came out rough and hoarse.

“But it seems your soldier has been wounded.”

The girl he had already mentally dubbed the culprit disappeared from the balcony.

A moment later, she burst out through the door of the shop.

She was short and dressed in a simple green dress, its hem stained with dirt. She hurried over to Gryf, wringing her hands.

“Oh, my poor Georgina! And poor you! Please, let me…”

She reached out to brush the dirt from his shoulder, but Gryf instinctively stepped back.

In his world, there were only two kinds of touch: healing and combat.

The girl froze, even more embarrassed than before, but quickly pulled herself together.

“I’m Liza. This is my shop. I’ll clean everything up, I promise! And I’ll pay for the damage. Maybe you need a doctor?”

“No doctor,” Gryf replied, studying the flower.

Geraniums were hardy. Resilient.

He had no doubt this one would survive.

“But you do need a new pot.”

“Of course!”

Liza nodded so enthusiastically that her hair fell across her face again.

“Please, come inside. I’ll bring you some water so you can wash up. And I’ll give you a flower, too — any one you want!”

She looked so genuinely remorseful that the corner of Gryf’s mouth twitched.

All of this was laughably insignificant compared with war.

And yet…

There was something strangely human about it.

“All right,” he said.

“Let’s go to your shop.”

Chapter 3. The Reluctant Gardener

The shop called Liza’s turned out to be a real jungle in miniature.

The air was thick with the scents of roses, damp earth, and fragrant herbs. Buckets of flowers crowded the walls, hanging planters dangled from the ceiling, and shelves were lined with neat rows of seeds, bulbs, and gardening tools.

For all that, the shop had the particular kind of disorder found only in places where something is constantly being grown, moved, and invented.

While Gryf washed the dirt off in the tiny sink in the back room, Liza darted between the shelves, muttering under her breath.

“New pot for Georgina, soil, drainage… And I still need the order for the Bronzovs’ wedding ready by tonight. And those monstrous oleander tubs still haven’t been delivered…”

She emerged from behind a shelf carrying two clay pots and looked at Gryf again.

He had already managed to wash most of the dirt off himself.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Liza asked cautiously.

“I’m on leave,” Gryf replied shortly.

“On leave?”

Liza’s face immediately brightened. Then guilt and desperate hope flickered in her eyes.

“Then… would you like to earn a little extra money? Help me with the tubs? They’re terribly heavy, and the deliveryman threw his back out today. And you’re so strong…”

Her gaze drifted over his arms.

“I’ll pay you double. And I’ll give you lunch!”

Gryf had already opened his mouth to refuse.

He had come to this town to rest, not to haul other people’s flower tubs around.

But Liza was looking at him as though the fate of the entire flower business depended on his answer.

Chaos reigned all around them, while his bag contained enough silver to fund a year of carefree living.

For some reason, he found himself saying:

“All right. Show me what needs carrying.”

The oleanders turned out to be two enormous tubs that reached almost to his chest.

They were filled with densely packed, damp soil, and lush bushes covered in pink flowers spilled over the top.

“They need to be taken across the square, to the bride’s house,” Liza explained. “Five minutes if you don’t rush.”

Gryf walked around one of the tubs, estimating its weight.

For an ordinary human, it would have been impossible to lift.

He crouched down, wrapped his arms around the wooden sides, and, with a breath, raised it.

The soil inside gave a dull, heavy slosh.

“Careful! The roots!” Liza squealed.

“I’m carrying it. I’m not shaking it,” Gryf muttered through clenched teeth as he squeezed toward the door.

The tub was awkward. Its edge pressed against his chest and blocked his view.

At the very first uneven patch of cobblestones, he stumbled, and the heavy container swayed dangerously.

“Left! Left!” came Liza’s voice from behind him. “There’s a puddle! Don’t step in it, you’ll slip!”

Gryf, a man who had once planned assaults on troll fortifications, felt the muscles in his cheeks twitch as he fought back laughter.

He carefully walked around the puddle.

“Now straight ahead, past the fountain, then right! The house with the blue shutters!”

Smiling, pedestrians stepped aside to make room for the powerful stranger carrying an enormous flowering plant across the square.

Children ran after him, giggling.

Gryf caught himself thinking that this was probably the most ridiculous “combat mission” of his entire life.

Once the first tub reached the bride’s house and Gryf had received a flood of enthusiastic thanks, he and Liza went back for the second one.

This time, she walked beside him, but she still didn’t stop giving him instructions.

“You know, you’re very strong,” she said thoughtfully. “And patient. Most of the townspeople would have already yelled at me for the pot falling on their head. And you’re actually helping me.”

“I’m hard to surprise,” Gryf answered honestly as he carried the second tub.

“A flower falling from the sky is far from the worst thing that can come down from above.”

Liza glanced at him curiously but didn’t ask any questions.

When the work was finished, she kept her promise and set out lunch behind the shop, in a small inner courtyard.

Cheese, bread, honey, and a pitcher of cold lemonade appeared on the table.

“So, leave-taker,” Liza asked cheerfully as she poured the drinks, “how do you like our Flower Alley?”

“Peaceful,” Gryf replied, taking a bite of bread.

He was silent for a moment, then added:

“And it smells…”

“It smells like life,” Liza said with a smile. “I think that’s the best scent in the world.”

Gryf looked at her.

At her lively, expressive hands. At the light that appeared in her eyes whenever she talked about flowers.

Before him was an entirely different world: fragile, bright, defenseless.

A world like this was supposed to be protected by people like him.

And yet there was usually no place in it for men like him.