Page 50 of The Last Dragon
She listens attentively, watching my hand and her own, but her eyes stray for a moment. Like she’s doubting.
“Focus,” I say, snapping her back to me. She gives a quick nod.
“Power comes from your hips, not just your arm. You twist your hips and shoulders into it—like you’re turning your whole body into the punch. That way, you don’t tire out your arm, and your punch hits harder.” I turn to the bag, focusing on the worn-out midpoint where most punches occur.
“Watch,” I say, curling my fingers tightly, adjusting my stance and putting my hips into it. I keep my wrist straight and firm, not letting it flick or bend. My feet shift slightly, weight balanced between heel and ball, knees soft but ready. I twist my hips, driving all the power from my core. Then I throw the punch, feeling the pressure between the bag and my knuckles—solid against the bag. The metal chains creak as the bag swings upward, nearly reaching the ceiling before falling back into my palms.
“Like that,” I say, breathing steady. “You try.”
She lifts her brows, then clicks her tongue. “Alright.”
She squares up to the bag, curling her long fingers into a tight fist. Properly. I reach out before she throws the punch, my hand landing lightly on her hip to steady her. She shifts her weight, hips moving just a bit under my hand. I feel her body tremor—just for a moment—then her muscles relax. Her breath catches, but steadies just as quickly. I lift my fingers from her hips, but my hands still hover in the air, inches away from her. Warmth radiates from her. I still feel it weaving between my fingers, followed by the scent of soil and rain. Then I step back, a sudden chill filling the gap. She steadies and then throws the punch, knuckles hitting the bag with a solid thud.
“Better,” I say, my hand twitching as I step closer, eager to fill that cold gap.
She grins and throws her hair back. “I knew how to do that.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure you did. But I think practice would be better during the day. Right now you’re probably worn out.”
She glares at me, then rolls her eyes. “No, I’m fine” she says cockily, coaxing a laugh out of me.
“Alright then.”
She throws a few more punches as I sit at one of the benches, watching them become more and more stable. Eventually, she wears out.
It’s way past midnight, but the large windows in the ceiling let the moonlight in. I glance up, the cracks from the dragon attack barely noticeable in the now covered ceiling—patched by on-duty Defenders and blacksmiths and masons.
Nida approaches, wiping sweat from her forehead with a towel, and sits beside me. Her eyes aren’t focused on me, but on the dark veins twisting all over my arm and neck. She stares at it in awe, as if unable to grasp it all.
“It’s the venom,” I say, flexing and stretching my hand as my left arm rests on my knee. “That’s how much it spread in just a few seconds before Sayna found me.”
“So she stopped it?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, she didn’t stop it. She only delayed it.”
She furrows a brow in thought and then lifts her gaze again, tracing the scars on the side of my head and the cloudy white eye. “So with your eye. You can’t see?” she asks.
I look away and focus on the rusty door handle right across the room, eyes narrowing.“That’s the thing,” I say in a low voice. “I see perfectly fine.If not better.” I look at her as she adjusts uncomfortably. I always hid them—the scar, the veins. But the more it spread, the harder it was to keep it away from prying eyes. People still noticed it. They either pointed in awe or disgust. It made me feel self-conscious about how I looked.
She clears her throat. “Can I see them?” Her voice is soft, a whisper even, as if she’s hoping I wouldn’t hear it. I hesitate at first, but there’s nothing really to hide. Everyone knows.
I remove my shirt. The soft fabric slips from my shoulders and pools in my right hand, twisted tight into a ball. Dark lines snake across my skin—veins turned black like ink running beneath fragile glass. They trace the map of my ribs, winding from the left side of my neck down toward my heart. Ironic. The heart is what gives life, but it pumps death beneath my skin.
Her breath catches. I catch the shift in her—fascination mixed with something sharper. Fear, maybe. Reverence. Gently, she presses her finger on my skin, circling blackened lines—hesitant, like touching ice. Then she pulls away.
“It’s… incredible,” she breathes. Her trembling fingers hover above my skin. Only a flicker of warmth radiates from her movement.
I glance down at my hand—fingers pale—no marks creeping over. Just pale, white, normal hands. The type of normality I can only wish to have all over my body.
She halts, taking in a deep breath, her eyes full of sorrow. “Is it spreading fast?”
I shake my head. “No. Slower than what it usually does.”
Her face lights up with something. Something like hope. “Maybe they’ll find a cure—an antidote.”
I smile at her optimism. “No, this thing is part of me now.” I pull the shirt over me again, gently tugging on the sleeves to hide my veins. Why did I choose a short sleeve? Out of all days…
“They’ve studied me for years. Like a test-animal.” I sigh. A distant memory of the chambers where I was kept for days creeps in. “I didn’t mind it. Anything to help humanity move forward. But nothing they’ve done has yielded any results.” I bite the inside of my cheek, watching the lines of my palms as if they have some answers. The weight of exhaustion presses down like a stone on my chest. Nida pulls back, but I catch her gaze, the quiet understanding in it. We both know the venom isn’t just lines on my skin. It’s a countdown.
