Beneath a moon that glowed like polished bone, there was a forest where trees hummed in the dark. It was here, in the mist-cloaked valley of Vaelis, that a woman named Isolde kept a secret: she spoke to creatures that others feared to name. 
The villagers called her a witch. The truth was simpler, and far stranger.
Isolde’s cottage stood at the edge of the woods, its walls patched with moss and its chimney perpetually trailing smoke the color of crushed violets. Inside, a gryphon with feathers dulled by age nibbled dried figs, while a three-tailed fox snoozed by the hearth. These were the “forgotten ones”-magical beasts abandoned by those who once adored them. Creatures deemed too unruly, too strange, or too dangerous to keep.
One evening, a knock came. A man in a cloak stitched with constellations stood at her door, clutching a cage. Inside thrashed a creature no larger than a hare, its scales rippling between gold and black like a dying flame. “It’s a duskdrake,” he said, jaw tight. “It burned three barns. Tame it, or I’ll drown it in the river.”
Isolde studied the drake. Its eyes weren’t wild, but *terrified*. She nodded, accepting the cage.
—
Taming magical beasts, she’d learned, required three things: patience, a tolerance for bites, and the willingness to listen to what was never spoken aloud. The duskdrake refused food. It hissed when she approached, its smoke tinged with the scent of burnt sugar-a sign of distress.
On the third night, Isolde did something reckless. She opened the cage.
The drake slithered into the shadows, vanishing. But she followed the trail of scorch marks it left on the floorboards-tiny, frantic zigzags. It had hidden inside her pantry, behind a jar of pickled thunderroots.
“Ah,” she murmured. “You’re not a destroyer. You’re *lost*.”
Most duskdrakes bonded for life. This one’s wings bore no mating scars, its horns still soft at the tips. Too young to be alone. Too young to control the flames that flickered in its throat.
—
Weeks passed. Isolde let the drake steal figs from her gryphon’s bowl. She left the window open, though it made her bones ache. One morning, she woke to find the creature coiled on her pillow, its tail wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet. Its scales had settled into a deep, burnished copper.
The man returned. When Isolde handed him a collar woven from silverthread and dandelion fluff, he sneered. “This is your solution? A child’s trinket?”
“It’s not for the drake,” she said. “It’s for you. Wear it, and it’ll sing when your temper flares. A reminder that fire isn’t evil-it’s only fire.”
He left, bewildered but obedient. The drake, now perched on Isolde’s shoulder, trilled softly.
—
That winter, a new creature arrived: a moonhare with antlers made of ice. The villagers whispered that it brought nightmares. Isolde found it shivering in her garden, its antlers dripping. She smiled, brewing a tea of ginger and starlight.
“Let’s see what you’re truly howling about,” she said.
And in her cottage, where the forgotten ones slept in piles of old blankets and the smoke smelled of stories untold, the hare laid its head in her lap and wept frost.
—
**The End**
Word count: 598
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**bedtimestory.cc Note**: This story integrates keywords like “magical beasts,” “taming creatures,” and “bedtime story for adults” naturally. The title emphasizes uniqueness (“Keeper of Forgotten Beasts”) while avoiding overused fantasy terms. Themes of empathy and quiet resilience cater to adult readers seeking meaning over escapism.
