All the Shapes We Have Ever Been
You have always guarded the tower, even before the king left the first orphan-daughter under the apple tree. Curled around its pearlescent moon dome, your black scales invisible against the night sky, your red eyes watch the courtyard where a little girl paces left then right and then stands in the middle, utterly lost.
Quasar links out; the story lives on Lightspeed, where the author gets the click.