Page 118 of The Last Dragon
This won’t take long.
One by one, the soldiers begin to fall as Nida’s daggers find their marks between their eyes. I guess I have Alex to thank for that.
A grin stretches my face. Almost excited to see what’s going to happen. I’m almost…thrilled. They’re frantic. Scared. Unable to control their panic. Making them predictable. Obvious. Weak.
As two soldiers lunge, I step aside and slash low with the dagger behind their knees. They drop instantly, howling as they hit the stone. I don’t stop. Before I reach the others, an arm locks around my throat, crushing tight. I twist, slam my elbow back into his stomach, and drive the dagger into his side. He gasps in pain. I reach up, grab him and I throw him over my shoulder, slamming him on the jagged stone floor. He lands witha sickening crack. He screams, limbs twitching, spine shattered. I step over him. My boot hovers above his face, heart pounding. He begs and pleads and screams. But his words do not reach me. My boot crushes his jaw, and blood splatters across the stone.
I roar, hurling myself toward the remaining soldiers, taking their lives one by one. Several of them try to escape through the large door, but I don’t let them. They beg me to stop. But I won’t stop. I don’t want to stop.
I will bury this world in…
“Zel.”
A faint whisper. I inhale. A familiar, gentle voice washes over me, like it’s giving me the air I had longed for all this time.
Everything begins to feel cold like…
“Zel.”
…Ice.
I gasp for air, inhaling dust particles as I blink back to reality. It’s like waking up from a dream—or a nightmare. Warm hands caress me, shake me. I raise my eyes to the gentle fire flickering in hers.
Nida.
She’s calm despite being covered in fresh splattered blood, a key in hand she snatched from the guards. She unlocks the cuffs, freeing my wrists. I scan the room—and the horrors I created. The walls that were once sandy brown are painted with crimson. Deformed bodies litter the floor. Some… not even whole.
I didn’t know I was capable of this.
My hands are covered with dark, sticky fluid. My heart pounds, blood rushes in my ears. I attempt to swallow. The room spins, and my knees collide with the red stone. I try to get up, but my legs feel weak again. This is exactly how it happened at the Gate. The same sensation, the same thrill I had when I killed those dragons. And then numbness. Like something is missing—like my soul escaped my body and left a hollow shell.
Nida’s hands gently trace to mine, wiping off the blood, squeezing my fingers tightly—steadying me. Every breath feels like inhaling smoke. The kind of smoke that clings to your throat—the kind that only comes from burning flesh.
I look at Nida, bracing for fear. Disgust. Confusion. But all I see is sorrow. Her eyes plead for answers I don’t have—because I’m asking the same question.
What am I?
CHAPTER 40
We spent hours clawing our way out of that cave—bloodied, bruised, breathless. And another hour stumbling through a thin forest, guided only by instinct. The sky had long since turned black, the stars smothered behind clouds. We didn’t know where we were. On our way, Nida found a bow and a few bolts for me. I won’t be hunting with it, but at least I have something to defend us besides my bare hands.
By some stroke of luck, we found a patch of ground scattered with supplies, hidden beneath a thicket of ferns and stones. Scout gear. A bundle of leaf-woven blankets. Dried meat—rat. A tin container sealed with wax, holding more of the same. This will do, for now.
Now, we sit in silence beneath a sky on the verge of autumn. The smell of drying leaves clings to the air. The fire flickers low, its light catching on dewdrops holding on to the grass, and its warmth barely holding back the creeping cold. Nida leansagainst a boulder the size of a carriage, her eyes half-lidded as she tends to the gash on my arm. The herbal paste she mixed burns the cuts like hot coals—but at least it means I’m still alive enough to feel.
We don’t speak. We just watch the flames, both of us too aware that their light could draw eyes we don’t want finding us. But without it, the cold will take us. Or the fever. Or worse.
A small knife sits heavy in my hand. I drag the blade slowly across a branch, carving a crude point. Something to fish with. Hunt with. Defend, if it comes to that. Every sound feels like it’s Grogol’s footsteps.
The night grows darker, and the wind turns cruel. We let the fire die to embers, red and glowing and cold. Nida shivers. She stirs the coals with a stick, coaxing out what little heat she can. The blanket over her shoulders blends into the landscape—Scout camouflage—but it does little to keep the chill out. She curls into herself, arms wrapped around her legs, clinging to the heat her body still holds.
Now and then, she glances at me. I sit with blood still caked on my hands, scrubbing at it with damp grass, but it clings like guilt.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. The silence grows louder than any scream. Neither of us are ready to speak. Feelings, thoughts, and emotions completely shut off. I sense a question lingering on her lips, trying to find the right moment or muster the strength to ask it.
“What happened?” she finally asks, her voice laced with doubt—as if she wants to take back the question the moment it leaves her lips.
“I wish I could tell you,” I say, pulling on the grass.
