Page 142 of The Last Dragon
With a twist and a tear, the piece comes free in my hand. I stare at it for a long moment, feeling the weight of what it means. The symbol of loyalty I’ve sworn the moment I snuck into the general’s quarters at fourteen. I was too young to join the Corps, but I begged him to let me in.
I tie it to the Sarga’s leg, the patch darkened with rain but still bearing the symbol. I give it one firm tug to make sure it holds.
“Valous,” I whisper, brushing wet hair from my eyes. “Lead.” Sarga blinks, her talons gently digging into my arm. She tilts her head, as if confused by my words. I would be too. Why Valous, out of all people? For a heartbeat, I’m afraid she won’t leave, but then her wings snap wide, and she launches into the storm, vanishing into the black sky. She will lead him to me. She won’t leave unless he follows. I hope he follows.
I lean back against the tree, my heart pounding louder than the rain. There’s no turning back now. I have to keep going.
By the time I reach the cave’s entrance, the sky is painted with streaks of bruised gold and gray. I move quickly, gathering dry twigs and wind-snapped branches. Scattered leaves. A few berries I recognize as safe. I don’t break anything off the trees—not even a stem. Disturbed underbrush is a death sentence. One crushed fern, one missing vine, and I’ll have a blade at my throat before nightfall.
As I move deeper into the cave, the light from the outside fades until it vanishes completely. Darkness swallows everything. I reach out, fingers brushing over rough stone. Brittle, bone-like tree roots snake down from the ceiling, stretching out as if to grab me. A whisper of wind moves through the tunnel, stirring them just enough to make them look alive.
I take one more turn. Then another. It feels safe enough.
Dropping the bundle I gathered, I crouch and arrange the twigs and leaves into a crude nest. I grab a nearby stone, striking it against another until a few pitiful sparks flare to life.
The clicking sound of stone meeting stone alerts me. But I breathe through it, steadying my nerves. I’ve scouted the area. I’ve seen no tracks. No signs of movement. No dragon. No Redsnout. It’s just me. I should be safe. For a couple of hours at least.
This would be easier if I had the field handbook that Scouts usually carry with them. It has everything from surviving a cold night to a hot day. But all I have is Eryca’s bow and a handful of bolts I’d rather save for defending myself—not chasing down a rabbit.
The berries will have to do.
My soaked clothes cling to my skin like a parasite that refuses to let go. I have to get them off. With a swift motion, I unzip the jacket and peel the shirt from my chest, the fabric stickingstubbornly before coming free. Cold air brushes against my skin, but it’s better than the damp chill leaching into my bones.
I hang both pieces of clothing on the low-hanging branches near the cave wall, letting the fire’s growing warmth lick at the dripping fabric.
A sting pulses at my side. I glance down. My fingers trace the edge of a shallow but angry-looking gash along my left rib—flesh swollen, skin reddened, the edges crusted with grime and blood.
Infection.
Perfect.
If it’s not the venom, Grogol, or a dragon that kills me, it’ll be something as pathetic as a festering wound.
I dig through my pouch with growing frustration, fingers brushing over crumbs and lint—until they close around something small and hard. A bulb of garlic. Crushed and bruised, but still usable.
It’s not much.
But it’s something.
I smash the garlic against a flat rock, grinding it down with my palm until its oils seep into my skin. The sharp, pungent smell cuts through the cave’s damp air. I set the stone close to the fire, letting the heat warm the mashed clove into a sticky paste.
Minutes pass.
The smell grows stronger. Almost too strong. My nose wrinkles as I scoop up the paste, rubbing it between my fingers. The heat soothes the sting as I press it gently into the wound, hissing through my teeth.
Warmth radiates outward—sharp at first, then dulled. The kind of pain that tells you something might actually be working. The smoke from the fire and the sting of garlic dull the edge of the cold, but it doesn’t reach the part of me that aches the most.
Nida.
The memory comes uninvited. Her amber eyes glowing like the fire in front of me. Soft. Warm. Feels like home. Probably the one place I can call home. Was ever… my home.
The image swirls in my head like it’s happening this very minute. Her smile. Her dimples. And then the roar. The snap of branches. The fire in its breath.
The Redsnout.
I blink, and it’s like I’m back there. Dust stinging my eyes, the heat chasing the oxygen from my lungs. Her scream. Then silence. The smell of iron in the air. The venom.
My fists clench. I should’ve been faster. Smarter. I should’ve… done something. I bury my face in my arms, curling my back into a ball as I let out breath that shudders in my chest. I haven’t told the others about what the dragonsaid. Not about how its eyes looked almost… human. More human than my own.
