The Lion & The Dragon | Medieval Fantasy Bedtime Tale

In tonight’s story, you are the long-lost heir to the throne of the powerful kingdom of Brenindor. After years of not knowing your true identity, you have come into your own, reconnected with your bonded dragon, and set about claiming your inheritance. But without support or connections to the capital, you find yourself unable to accomplish much. This, however, is all about to change with the arrival of an unexpected ally, who is also your greatest rival for the throne.

Includes a meditation for strength.

Transcript

Listen to the voices of a distant realm in tonight's medieval fantasy bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Follow along with my voice for as long as it serves you.

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and relax into sleep.

If you're still awake as the story comes to an end,

I'll guide you through some guided breathing for strength and transformation.

In tonight's story,

You are the long-lost heir to the throne of the powerful kingdom of Brennendor.

After years of not knowing your true identity,

You have come into your own,

Reconnected with your bonded dragon,

And set about claiming your inheritance.

But without support or connections to the capital,

You find yourself unable to accomplish much.

This,

However,

Is all about to change with the arrival of an unexpected ally,

Who is also your greatest rival for the throne.

This tale is part of an ongoing medieval fantasy narrative,

Set in the same realm across time and space.

You don't need to have heard all the other stories to understand this one,

But you may recognize some of the characters and story threads.

If you'd like to catch up,

I recommend starting with The Dragonrider or Tales by the Tavern Fire.

I hope you enjoy.

Wait and see.

The world is not always cruel.

T.

Kingfisher,

Nettle and Bone Gold is not the only currency in this world,

And a good thing since you have none of it.

The few coins that clanged in your pockets the day you left home,

What feels like a lifetime ago,

Are long since spent to sustain your wanderings.

But there are other currencies,

Other exchanges,

Which create value more lasting,

More impactful than gold,

Which only weighs you down when you'd sooner fly.

Chief among these currencies,

These treasures exchanged,

Is service,

And only second is information.

And if these are exactly the exchanges in which you dabble now,

At humble taverns and in market squares,

In village tanneries and blacksmith's forges,

You've learned to make yourself useful.

You offer your services at tending bar or hogging wares,

Doing whatever odd jobs need doing.

In return,

You ask not for gold,

But for barter.

Service for service.

A fresh hot meal at the end of the night,

Clothes laundered,

Boots holes patched,

Sword polished.

Behind this balanced exchange,

However,

You often feel you earn much more than contracted.

By embedding yourself in common spaces,

Slotting in among the people,

You see and hear things.

Only once in a fortnight do you glean some information that's worth anything.

But that worth is inestimable.

To think that only weeks ago,

You dwelt loftily among the mist-covered mountain peaks,

Far away from human voices,

Exiled in your own kingdom of wind,

Wings,

And pine whispers.

You've come both literally and symbolically back down to earth.

At least for the time being.

You couldn't stay in the mountains anymore.

Hiding from your destiny.

You're still hiding.

A low,

Bemused voice resounds in your head.

A voice that isn't yours,

But is so intimately linked to you,

That it might as well be.

.

.

It's the voice of night.

The dragon with whom you share a psychic and emotional bond.

In recent weeks,

You've honed that bond into a powerful technique through which you can speak to each other,

Across great distances,

Or share images and experiences with each other's minds.

Just now,

She's heard your thoughts as you polish steins,

Preparing for supper service at the local alehouse.

With her playful comment,

She sends you a visual.

A valley of evergreen trees.

A dragon's shadow.

Rippling on the surface of a lake.

Sunset glinting off the water.

You respond with a half-hearted admonition.

She should have waited till sundown to take flight,

If she is spotted by the wrong people.

Well,

You don't like to think what could happen.

But how do you tell a dragon not to do what comes naturally to her?

So,

Instead of chastising her further,

You offer the same,

Simple plea you do every day.

Be careful.

Check in.

Night is your sister,

Hatched from her egg on the same day you were born.

Together,

It was proclaimed you would come of age and one day rule the entire realm.

You were the firstborn child of the king,

After all,

And heir to House Mandragor,

The ruling dynasty of Brennendor.

But this prophecy shattered when,

As you lay sleeping tenderly in your crib,

A rebel army marched on the capital,

Intent on removing your father from the throne.

The coup was swift and successful.

Within days,

The rebel leader held the title of king-regent,

And the barons knelt.

Night,

Still a small dragon,

Was subdued and stowed in a cave beneath Mount Arden,

Where she waited for a rescue that might never come.

But in all the chaos,

No one saw the little boat leave the harbor.

No one saw the child,

Spirited away across the water and placed in the care of kindly farmers,

To be raised in obscurity,

Unaware of any great lineage or destiny.

There,

You were safe,

Loved and happy,

But always something tugged at you.

Always,

Dragons soared through your dreams.

Sometimes you wonder if they can see it in your eyes,

The people of the villages you've worked in,

Can they divine your true identity?

It's silly to think so,

You suppose.

You never even suspected yourself of some inner nobility until you knew the truth.

But things were different then.

You carry yourself differently,

Even if you feel like you're still the same person.

You've tasted flight now.

You've mastered swordplay and psychic communication.

Surely,

The townsfolk can see there's something special about you.

You line up the glasses on a sturdy oak table,

Mulling over what night said.

You're still hiding.

It's true in a way.

Even as you dally among the people,

Deeply entrenched in the everyday pursuits of life and labor,

You keep your true name and purpose ever secret.

You're hidden in plain sight,

Unsure who to trust and how to move forward.

It's as if you hover in an unbreakable holding pattern,

Afraid to take the next step.

To ride into the capital on your dragon and claim your birthright.

But that's why you're here,

After all,

Mixing with the folk of the villages.

Sometimes you feel like night's shadow,

The cool waters that dampen her fire to embers.

Other times,

You burn as brightly as she does,

Carrying the weight of all you've lost,

All you have to gain.

But you do not intend to take the throne by force,

Wielding night's fire breath like a weapon.

To do so would only continue a cycle of violence,

Which you yearn in your bones to break.

So,

Keeping night's fiery passions at bay,

You've chosen reconnaissance.

While night lies low in nearby forests,

Caves,

And crags,

You work and listen.

You aim to learn as much as you can about the goings-on in the kingdom's many provinces,

To build relationships and,

Eventually,

Gather support.

You've lingered here,

In the village of Brighthaven,

Longer than you intended.

The surrounding woods provide decent cover for night.

There's work to be found.

And above all,

The people are achingly decent.

Sure,

There was a bit of frostiness when you first arrived.

Most places are wary of strangers these days.

But once that thawed,

You found surprising warmth and welcome here,

Especially in the Bright Brew,

The tavern where you now tend bar in exchange for meals,

And a warm place to rest your head,

Claiming each day is the last that you must set off in the morning,

Only to find yourself unable to leave.

Daydreaming again,

Comes a voice from behind you,

Musical with laughter.

It's Hildy,

The alewife,

And owner of the establishment.

She's caught you in a reverie again,

Arms slack and mind wandering.

It's all right,

She says,

Cajolingly.

I know,

Dry in the glasses is fascinating work.

Here,

I'll do some.

She joins you,

Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked.

When you arrived in Brighthaven,

Hildy was the first person who made you feel welcome.

There's an air she has that's special in that way.

She's the kind of person who feels like home.

No lord or magistrate could compete with the kind of power she wields in the community.

Now,

Perhaps power isn't quite the right word.

She's looked to as an advisor.

A friend.

A confidant to nearly every person in the village.

In fact,

One of the reasons you can't bring yourself to leave Brighthaven is that Hildy is,

On this scale,

The kind of leader you might aspire to be.

Confident.

Compassionate.

Beloved.

You also have this sense,

Though it may all be in your head,

That Hildy knows much more than she lets on.

About her community,

Of course.

But also about the realm.

She's savvy,

Tuned in to what's happening beyond the borders of her own village.

And she seems,

Though she'll never say it,

To know that there is something special about you.

There is a little twinkle in her eye whenever you talk about growing up a farmer.

As if she knows there's something you're hiding.

As if she understands,

Deep down,

Who you really are.

Soon,

The sun begins its lazy journey down over the foothills,

Throwing a golden gleam through the alehouse windows.

It's time to open for supper service.

The locals pour in,

Ready to shake off the day's work and refresh with a pint of Hildy's best ale.

Or dig into a plate of the kitchen's new special.

As it is every night,

The Bright Brew is soon filled.

Not an empty seat to be found.

And it is alive with laughter and conversation.

While Brighthaven folk make up the majority of the tavern's patrons,

The village sits along the king's road,

And thus,

Always gets a few travelers on their way to and from the capital,

Or at some point along an adventure.

It's the travelers to whom you pay the closest mind.

They're the ones,

After all,

Most likely to carry useful information from elsewhere in the realm.

By listening to them,

You can get a sense of how people are feeling,

What's going on in the capital,

And what your next move ought to be.

It's not always gripping information.

A minor scuffle at the ports over trade,

A rumor about crop failures in the West.

But every morsel has value in its own way.

And then,

Every once in a while,

You'll hear something that alights the imagination.

Like a sudden appearance near the green forest,

Of a shimmering light in the sky at dawn and dusk.

A curtain of shifting purples and pinks,

Like a liquid ribbon of sunset,

Which no one can explain.

Or,

The repeated sightings of a large,

Winged creature in different parts of the country.

Mayhap the first dragon,

Spotted in nearly two decades.

And one,

Particularly juicy bit of information from the capital,

Which you learned just days ago.

A merchant,

Returning from the King Regent's long-awaited festival,

Shared that the city had descended into some chaos.

The rumor was,

He said,

That the heir apparent to the high throne,

Prince Owain,

Had been kidnapped.

Had you have been the Mandragore child,

The merchant had speculated?

Or haven't you heard?

The old king's offspring is back from the dead.

They went and found themselves the last dragon in the world.

And now,

They've come to get revenge on the King Regent.

Hearing this,

Across the threads of your psychic connection,

Knight had snarled and made a derisive remark,

Insinuating that revenge would be preferable to whatever it is you're doing now.

Tonight,

As you set flagons of frosty ales before tavern-goers,

You build rapport with the unfamiliar faces.

It is an exchange,

After all.

They must feel comfortable in your presence to give you the information you seek.

And when it comes to creating a sense of ease and comfort in an environment,

You've had the best teacher in Hildi.

It isn't long before you pick up the threads of a conversation at the table nearest the fire,

Where sit a party of gnomes and halflings.

They say he slew the beast of Merrymead,

Comes one of the voices.

Drew the ancient sword and struck it down with one blow.

No,

He didn't slay it,

Another refutes.

He tamed it.

What's this about,

You say with a charming smile,

Placing the party's meals before them?

What beast?

The beast of Merrymead,

The first halfling,

A scribe called Farron,

Says to you.

It's a little town hardly worth knowing about,

Except that it's the home of an ancient sword,

Stuck there in a boulder,

Waiting to be drawn by some worthy hero.

It's something of a pilgrimage for people who think they're better than everyone else.

This is met with a chuckle from the others at the table.

The halfling continues.

Then one day this hideous beast just wanders into the town and starts frightening the people.

They're just minding their own business.

They sent word to the king-regent.

To ask for aid.

But he wouldn't risk an army for a little town like that,

With nothing to show for itself but a stuck blade.

Night speaks down your bond.

All the more reason not to wait.

We can take the capital tomorrow and make the kingdom safer than the king-regent cares to.

You have to admit,

The halfling's account does nothing for your esteem of the king-regent.

So,

They're at the mercy of this beast,

Farron goes on.

It weren't some beast,

One of the halfling's compatriots interrupts.

It were a lion.

A lion?

In this country?

Laughs Farron.

It's not unheard of.

But you are hanging on every word of the admittedly meandering tale,

And you scramble to get the conversation back on track.

And what happened?

With the beast or the lion,

Whatever it was,

You ask.

Well,

That's when the night shows up,

Farron says,

A gleam in his eye.

A stranger arrives one day,

And he pulls the sword out of the stone and slays the beast.

It's the kind of thing you read about in the great stories,

Isn't it?

Nameless stranger,

Appears in a little town full of decent folk.

No one knows where he comes from,

But he's come to save them all.

Sound familiar?

Night's voice curls around your mind.

You try to shake off the comment,

But you must admit,

You were thinking the same thing.

Here you are,

Embedding yourself in the wholesome community of Brighthaven,

Shielding your true identity,

Your ambition to rescue the realm from tyranny.

But your dragon is right.

What is ambition without action?

This mysterious knight of Merrymeat,

If the story is true,

Has done more for the people of Brennendor with one swift stroke of a sword than you ever have.

What makes you more worthy of a throne you've never seen than any selfless stranger doing their best to care for others?

Only he didn't slay the beast,

The gnome retorts,

Bringing you back to the present conversation.

It's like I said,

He tamed the lion and rode off on it like a horse.

Farron laughs,

And the party breaks out into argument and contradiction.

But now another voice joins the clamor.

The knight with the lion,

A patron at another table,

A ranger clad in olive green garments,

Leans back in his chair to share his account.

I've seen him with my own two eyes.

Before long,

A low,

Scraping sound indicates that tables and chairs are being moved together to expand the conversation.

A consortium of voices all give different accounts of the events at Not two leagues from here,

The ranger claims,

Riding the lion just as you say.

Our company met him on the road through the woods.

We were prepared for a fight,

Armed with that gleaming sword riding that great creature.

We thought him a threat,

But he wanted no quarrel with us,

Only wanted to know whereabouts he was,

Looking for the fastest route to the foothills of the western mountains.

A chorus of voices entangle and overlap.

Everyone has a tale of the knight with the lion.

Each more implausible than the last.

That he's ten feet tall.

That he's one of the elves come back from fairyland.

That the lion is a fairy in disguise.

That he fought twenty men all by himself.

That he won't raise his sword at all.

You can't make heads or tails of the matter.

What's true,

And what's exaggeration?

But something about the subject gnaws at you.

Ever since you and knight escaped the caverns beneath Mount Arden,

You've been visited by a mysterious recurring dream.

And though the specific details may change,

The central spine of the dream always remains the same.

Nearly every night,

Your blade meets another in the forests of the dream realm.

Nearly every night,

You clash with a knight accompanied by a lion.

The dream has become more and more vivid since it first came to you.

So much so that its images often flash through your mind during waking hours,

Vibrant and real enough to make you question your reality.

Even now,

Grounded as you are in the rowdy tavern,

The cacophonous voices fade to a low buzz,

And dream visions dance in your head.

A strange and enchanted wood in the deep of night through the trees,

A bright burning light like constant fire,

Your sword drawn and gleaming in its throw.

A struggle between beasts,

One with crimson scales,

The other with majestic mane.

Fire and claw and tooth and tail.

With Hilde's hand on your shoulder,

You shake off the dream memory.

Everything all right,

She asks,

A note of motherly concern in her voice.

Fine,

You say,

Still unsteady.

You wipe a bead of sweat from your brow.

The heat from the fire,

I think.

Take a moment,

Why don't you,

Hilde says.

There's plenty to eat in the kitchen.

Grab a plate and get some hair.

I'll handle them.

Gratefully,

You take Hilde's advice.

You help yourself to some supper,

Sneaking a little extra food into your pockets for a night,

Then step outside.

In the brisk air,

Beneath the dazzling stars,

You regain your composure.

If there really is a night,

Wandering the countryside with a lion companion,

What does that mean?

Have you,

In your nightly visions,

Seen a glimpse of some possible future?

And why not?

This world contains,

As you know,

Many mysteries of which you cannot conceive.

And your own mind,

Capable of entwining with the thoughts of a dragon,

Has access to wondrous things.

Softer now,

Dampened by the freshness of the evening air,

The figures still swim in your mind.

Dancing swords,

Dragons,

Lions,

A faceless stranger.

All a swirl like liquid in a basin.

And then,

A flash,

Sudden as a lightning strike and with burning clarity.

There is the face of the lion,

Fresh in your mind as if it were standing in front of you.

It only takes a moment to realize that this is not merely an echo of your dreams.

It is a message,

Sent swiftly along the bond between you and your dragon.

You are looking,

Through night's eyes,

Into the face of a creature of flesh and fur.

Night,

You say,

Breathless.

And with but a moment's hesitation,

You are off.

Sprinting toward the mouth of the forest,

The glow of the tavern fire.

Dimming behind you.

Even in the dark of the woods at night,

You know the way to the secluded place your dragon hides.

Your connection is so strong,

So grounding,

That you can always find your way back to her,

Like a homing signal.

You duck under fallen branches and dart through holes in the brush.

You're almost there.

Night can hold her own,

You remind yourself.

She's strong,

Swift,

And,

Though it's best avoid it unless absolutely necessary,

She can breathe fire.

Still,

You'd rather be at her side,

Should conflict arise.

You want to protect her,

But that also means holding her back from harming others.

You hear the rumbling roar of the lion,

Before you glimpse night's scales through the trees.

And you move with fierce intention toward your winged sister.

About time her voice sounds in your head as you leap to her side.

Are you hurt,

You say tonight,

Across your bond,

Knowing well that if she was,

You'd feel it.

Not yet,

She responds,

But we've got company.

Taking the hint,

You retrieve your sword from the saddle and scabbard on night's back.

The blade gleams by infiltrating moonlight.

Mere feet from you,

There is the lion,

His muscles tensed as though preparing to pounce.

For the infinitesimal space of a moment,

You are conscious that this is certainly the first lion you have ever seen in the flesh.

And you cannot help but admire its majestic beauty.

This must immediately be set aside,

However,

As you rise to defend your dragon.

Lifting your sword aloft,

In an echo of your gesture,

When you first encounter the mighty dragon,

You ready yourself to fight.

But as you take the slightest movement to bring the sword downward,

Your blade meets resistance.

With a clash and a sparking of light,

Something physically stops your arm.

Another sword parries from the shadows,

Held by an unseen warrior.

Instinct overtakes you.

You're no stranger to the art of swordplay,

And your body,

Your very muscles,

Know the steps to the dance.

Blades clatter and clash in a blur of motion as you spar with your unknown opponent.

His movement is so swift that you cannot seem to get a good look at his face.

He's like wind skimming the surface of a lake.

Across the threads of your bond,

Night offers her breath,

But you respond with a passionate plea for peace.

No one gets hurt,

If you can help it.

He will yield,

You repeat,

Like a mantra,

Into night's mind.

He will yield.

Dragon and lion face off beside you,

With a bearing of teeth and earth-shaking growl.

Swords meet again in strikes and parries.

A fight with elegance and precision,

You find.

Better technique than you,

By far.

But you have the advantage of imperfection.

Your style is scrappier,

Less predictable.

You must have learned swordplay from a great master,

Behind the walls of nobility.

You learned in the fields,

In the skies,

Swinging your sword while dodging dragon fire.

He will yield.

Heat builds within you,

First from the effort of the fight.

And then,

You recognize,

From somewhere else.

Night,

You plead,

No fire.

But an ember seems to smolder in your belly,

Sparking and building.

Night's vengeance and fury are catching,

Like struck flint.

And if you don't do something,

It'll soon be too late.

You can understand it.

Empathize with it.

A whole life was taken from night,

And from you.

A whole world of possibility.

A whole childhood.

A family.

A future.

Sometimes the weight of that loss is more than you can bear.

And it burns,

Like the fire in night's belly.

Ready to lash out at any opposition.

Any symbol of the people who stole your lives from you.

As the lion is the symbol of House Tegid,

The house of the treacherous King Regent.

Your blades meet once more overhead.

And this time,

You hold steady,

Pushing against each other with shivering strength.

For the first time,

You glimpse the stranger's face.

His eyes,

Determined,

Steadfast,

Yet scared.

In a move so nearly imperceptible,

You almost wonder if it's in your imagination.

His eyes dart toward the lion,

Then back to you.

There's a well of concern there,

That you recognize.

The same fierce protectiveness you feel for night shines through the stranger's eyes when he glances at the lion.

Conflict only breeds conflict.

Violence is a cycle,

And fire consumes.

There is only one way out.

Your spark smolders.

Your muscles tense.

And then you breathe in,

Summoning a new kind of courage.

A new strength.

A new trust.

Your shoulders fall,

Softening down your back,

And your sword slips.

Gracefully,

You spin out of the trajectory of your opponent's blade.

Before he can respond,

You cast yourself between the lion and dragon.

Throwing your sword to the ground.

I yield,

You bellow.

Alchemizing the fire in your belly into breath and voice.

If you've learned anything from the dragon by your side,

It's that fire can do more than consume.

It can mobilize,

Change,

Create.

Your voice.

Your words.

Your surrender.

This changes the air around you,

Changes everything it reaches.

Even the moon and stars seem to blink back brighter in its wake.

I yield,

You repeat,

Quieter now,

Rooting your feet to the ground.

The stranger,

The knight of the lion,

Lowers his sword cautiously to his side.

The lion,

Sensing his master's relaxation,

Follows suit,

Sitting back onto his haunches and ceasing to bear his teeth.

You can feel a loosening of tension in your chest,

Like a taut wire giving slack or a knot coming unbound.

In this moment,

You do not know whether it is your own body softening or knight's furious flame receding once more to embers.

At any rate,

It does not matter.

There is for now peace between you,

Or at least quiet,

Forest quiet.

Woven with insects abuzz and a breeze through birch wood.

And you can at last behold,

Without fear,

The visage of the stranger.

Here is the figure from your recurring dreams,

The fearsome lion knight,

Chest heaving,

In time with your own.

He's only a child,

Really,

No older than you are.

He holds the hilt of his gleaming sword with wavering confidence.

It's new to him,

You realize.

Forged for someone else,

Long ago,

Retrieved by his hand from its place in the stone.

The stranger speaks.

It's you,

He says.

I thought perhaps I'd never find you.

That you were only a figment of my dreams.

But here you are.

I would know you anywhere.

Me,

You ask,

Puzzled.

You regard the young knight with mounting curiosity.

Who are you?

At this,

The stranger slowly drops to a knee,

Bowing his head and holding his sword toward you with outstretched hands,

A gesture of supplication.

I am Prince Owain of House Tegget,

He says with a practiced air of gravitas.

Then,

Still kneeling and with deep reverence,

He lifts his eyes to you.

And I am in your humble service.

Stars stutter in the firmament,

Fixed for only a moment to behold the strange scene below before they resume their wandering.

The trees gently bend their trunks to listen to the silence between beasts.

Just beyond the edge of the woods,

In the heart of Brighthaven,

A fire blazes in Hildi's alehouse.

Voices recount in bubbling disharmony the legend of the knight with the lion,

He who holds the sword of ancient heroes.

And under a pale and liminal moon,

With none to witness but the trees and the stars,

The lion kneels before a dragon.

Take a deep breath in,

Feel the air travel in through the nose,

Noticing the sensation and the temperature as it moves down the throat,

Deep into the belly,

And release,

Softening the body.

And continue taking slow,

Deep breaths,

And pay attention to the journey of your breath,

In and out,

How it transitions from inhale to exhale,

How it transforms within you,

And how it transforms everything without,

Everything it touches.

Breathing in,

Feeling how the breath inflates the belly,

And kindling a flame within,

Which grows brighter on each inhale,

And softens on the exhale.

Inhale,

Exhale,

Inhale,

Exhale.

Visualize that flame expanding and contracting.

Inhale,

Exhale,

Inhale,

Exhale.

The flame expands,

Exhale,

The flame contracts.

Feel the flame's warmth spreading outward through your body,

Softening you,

Lighting the corners of your body,

From your trunk to the tips of your fingers and toes.

Inhale,

Exhale,

Inhale,

Exhale.

Feel how your inhale brings you strength,

And how your exhale offers softness,

How a balance exists between them,

How they inform each other.

Now,

Follow the breath outward on the exhale,

And visualize the trail it follows as it leaves your body.

Let your mind paint this picture,

Watching your breath curve in painterly spirals or clouds of mist,

Dispersing into the ambient air of the room.

On your inhale,

Visualize the nourishing elements of the air twining,

Coalescing,

Braiding themselves,

Readying to be breathed in,

And feeding the flame of your strength and softness.

The breath is transformed.

The breath transforms.

You are transformed.

You transform.

You create change.

You are strong.

You temper the fire.

You tame the lion.

Let your body sink and settle,

Letting go of the visualization of your breath,

And simply allowing yourself to be,

To rest.

Let your breath breathe you now.

Surrender to its constancy,

Its rhythm,

Its strength,

Its softness.

Reviews

Fabulous as always. I love falling asleep listening to your beautiful words. I can't wait for the next one.

So incredible— an important story at this time and also so grateful for the continuance of this story! Thank you ✨🙏🏼✨

This easily deserves 10 stars out of 5! Excellent storytelling (I want my own dragon 🐉 ) Amazing narration- tone, pitch, pace were perfect. The storyline keeps me waiting excitedly. The biggest surprise: the final meditation on Kindling the Fire Within: visualizing your inner flame expanding and contracting with each in and out breath… so soothing, nourishing. Just Brilliant! ✨Thank you!

These always knock me out, and my mother and brother have similar experiences! We all love your
content, keep up the good work!

Thank you for sharing this story with me I really enjoyed your work. Is there a sequel coming? If so please let me know and I’ll be sure to check it out.
Ps I did listen to the first two episodes you mentioned in the beginning of this episode and enjoyed them also. You have a gift for storytelling ❤️😊

I very much enjoy all the sleep and sorcery stories, and am always thrilled when I come upon one that is new to me. I like the way they blend in elements of Harry Potter, Tolkien, traditional legends and fairy tales, and the Arthurian cycle without ever seeming derivative or overly "copycat". I would very much appreciate it if Insight Timer would provide a complete list of all the stories from this collection, so I can find them all. I would also like complete lists of other collections in a similar vein, such as THE HAVEN SHOP. Thank you

Marvellous 💗

Miss your slumber stories! This one was simply amazing! I love the colorful imagery you shared! Thank you 🙏 for sharing these!

This has become one of my favorite continuing stories. I was very excited to see the newest installment. I can’t wait for the next one! Thank you so much! I love your stories.

I've been away. I was delighted to find this next installment of deeply meaningful story I've loved. Equally delightful is knowing Lauren is back from her hiatus. Such a gifted and wise weaver of magic! Thank you!

I've been waiting 3 months for this!! ...kinda didn't help me fall asleep though, oops. ;') Excited for their eventual conversation, and hopeful for Prince Owain's(?) POV again! Keep it up!!

Here is another great story. I look forward to the continuation of the storyline.

Wonderful! I’m so glad that Laurel is back with her dreamy adventure stories! They are so well written and well performed that all the other bedtime stories can’t compare.

Thank you soooo much! I fell asleep before the middle of the take! Grateful. And love that I could follow and enjoy without knowing all prior episodes. 🙏🙏

A new favorite 💕 you have such a gift for storytelling! Thank you for sharing it with us.

So nice to have you back. Your stories help me to sleep 💤💤 each night. Thank you 🙏🏼

Glad you're back! Love your writing

Thank you, Laurel🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻So happy you’re back on IT with a new sleep story! And one I’ve been very curious about how it would unfold, still am…wishing you and your family all the best🙏🏻🌟🌟😴🌟🌟🙏🏻

I slept great.

This would make a great animated series!