Once upon a time—because that’s how things begin that didn’t happen, but should—a kingdom so boringly normative that even the stories were known by heart. In that place, the knights were strong, the princesses were delicate, and the dragons… well, the dragons were just excuses for men with swords to feel like they were doing something useful on Sundays.
But there was a boy. One that didn’t fit.
His name was Jordi. And yes, he was a gentleman. But not those who trained with swords at dawn, nor those who showed off scars in taverns full of testosterone and poorly cleaned piss.
Jordi collected feathers.
A peacock, a flamingo, a crow, an ostrich or his friend Lluis. He had a whole box in his room, each one with a handwritten label: “pen for sad poems,” “pen to write to the boy in the stable,” “pen to defend against boredom,” “pen to shine before everyone.”
—What is that for? —other squires asked him, laughing among themselves.
—So as not to become an onvre or an incel, like you, Jordi responded, without looking up from the parchment.
Because Jordi, although he was not the type to wield a sword, he did know how to use his pen. And that, although the kingdom did not yet know it, was much more dangerous.
One day, the dragon appeared.
It wasn’t exactly like in the stories. He did not burn villages or steal virgins. Rather, he had settled on a hill and from there roared single phrases of poetry, in forgotten languages, making the horses’ legs tremble and the nobles’ wigs fall off.
The king, who did not know how to distinguish a haiku from flatulence, was very scared.
—That dragon is a danger to morality and good customs! —he shouted in the square.
And as was customary, he offered his daughter in marriage to whoever killed the monster. The usual. Only this time, the princess—who was called Lía and was more lesbian than the lily—rolled her eyes and went to take care of her aromatic plants.
—I don’t need to be rescued, thank you. And even less to end up married to a hero without conversation.
When no one dared to go to the hill, Jordi volunteered. Not because he wanted Lía’s hand (in fact, they both tried on clothes together on Tuesdays), but because he had an idea.
He came up with his cape embroidered with wild flowers, his leather notebook and a violet pen. No shields. No swords. Just words.
When he arrived, he found the dragon dozing on a pile of books.
—Hello? —he said softly.
The dragon opened one eye. It was huge, covered in iridescent scales, with a piercing in its right horn and the most melancholic look Jordi had ever seen.
—Are you coming to kill me or criticize my poetry?
—I come to talk. And maybe… to read with you.
The dragon blinked. I was used to shouting, to torches, to patriotic speeches. Not the soft-spoken kids who knew how to use a subjunctive correctly.
—Do you know how to read?
—And write,” Jordi responded, taking out his pen—. Although I don’t have a publisher yet.
And so their friendship began.
For days, they shared verses, unsent letters, confessions. The dragon – whose name was Amanthé, with an accent on the “e” – had been expelled from the magic academy for writing erotica between magicians. Jordi, for his part, read him sonnets that he had secretly written about the town baker.
—And why do you hide them? —Amanthe asked.
—Because only what fits is celebrated here. And I never fit in.
—Well, maybe it’s time to not fit in on purpose —said the dragon, caressing the cover of Jordi’s notebook with a soft claw.
Meanwhile, in the kingdom, anxiety was growing.
Not because they missed Jordi (to tell the truth, almost no one had noticed his absence), but because the dragon didn’t make a sound. It didn’t roar. He didn’t attack. And that was very suspicious.
—If there is no violence, they are up to something,” said the defense minister, adjusting his corset.
So they sent a squad.
Thirty knights in shining armor and a lot of self-esteem problems.
But when they reached the hill, what they found was something no one expected:
A library.
Piles of books stacked. Benches to sit on. Roses growing between the shelves. No trace of blood. Just words.
And in the background, a dragon figure reading aloud, while a boy in a flower cape wrote things down in a notebook.
—That’s witchcraft! —one shouted.
—That’s art! —Jordi corrected, without raising his voice too much.
And since the soldiers didn’t know what to do with it, they left. Because against words, swords are of little use.
The library was called The Pen and the Book.
It wasn’t just a place to read. It was a refuge for anyone who ever felt a little outside the story. There came princesses with no interest in being rescued, dragons with social anxiety, queer peasants who wrote plays, non-binary fairies who wanted to create podcasts.
And yes, straight people also came. But only if they knew how to listen without interrupting.
The library grew. The roses multiplied. And every April 23, instead of battles, there were collective readings under the open sky.
Feathers were not used to decorate helmets, but to write happy (or tragic, but chosen) endings.
And the dragon, well… the dragon learned to sign autographs with glitter.
And the kingdom?
Well, it continued to exist. But it was increasingly difficult to ignore that people no longer wanted swords or castles or stories where there is only one type of love possible.
Even the king secretly asked to borrow books of poetry. Although he made sure to return them with a different binding, “in case anyone asked.”
They say that, over the years, Jordi and Amanthé traveled through many kingdoms. They founded libraries, rewrote stories, broke many spelling rules. They never married. Labels were never needed. There was only affection, laughter, complicity and many words written at midnight.
One day, someone asked them:
—Are you two a couple?
And the dragon answered:
—We are a poem without a title. And that is enough for us.
🌹 Epilogue
In that world, as in this one, books can be weapons. But they can also be a refuge, a mirror, a flag.
And on every page written with pen and truth, a rose blooms.
Although no one expects it.
Even if they don’t understand it.
Happy book day. Javier Kiniro.
