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Not sure if this is the very beginning, but it’s definitely in the first chapter.
The rub of metal around her wrists was what bothered Shyra the most. Not the standing with the others, chained on the back deck, exposed to wind and cold. Or the catcalls of the sailors, appraising each Dryad in terms of beauty and body. Or the pull of her home grove, dwindling with each mile of river the boat achieved. She wouldn’t die of that, at least until she rooted and became vulnerable. THe lack of food didn’t’ bother her either, as long as there was plenty of sunshine and water.
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"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."
(science fiction, flash story) Your kind didn’t make this Castle, only found it hundreds of years ago, and took it for their own. There are pictures of the original owners, who had silver eyes and dark scales and three long fingers on each hand, but they are long dead and gone. Now your people live here and the Castle serves them and those who are drawn to serve it know better than to cross any of you.
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