Page 1 of Sanctuary with a Dragon
Chapter 1
Everly
Ilooked out the window of my apartment. Anchorage, Alaska, in the spring. It was snowing. Because, of course, it was.
Tomorrow was my birthday, and I had been hoping for a bit of sunshine, though my luck with the Alaskan weather suggested otherwise. Elsewhere, it was sunny and in the 80s—but not here. The dreary weather, the endless cloudy gray, had been wearing on me more and more lately.
Or maybe it was just… my life.
I thought back to my doctor’s appointment this morning—the helplessness, the way I felt so small. Something was wrong with me. Something had been wrong for years. My health had started to deteriorate in my 30s. I had seen countless doctors and endured a parade of tests—bloodwork and beyond—but no one had answers.
Widespread joint and muscle pain, brain fog so thick it felt like the city of Seattle had taken up residence in my head, breathlessness from walking down the hall, constant nausea, and food intolerances that shrank my list of safe foods each year—I had become mostly vegan, not because I didn’t crave a hamburger now and then, but because my stomach couldn’t handle meat anymore—insomnia that made every night a battle, and lungs that struggled to keep up. The list went on, and each year felt heavier than the last.
There had been days I thought I should march into a hospital and refuse to leave until they figured everything out. But I didn’t have the energy to fight. I worked from home as a website designer, and even that was a struggle some days. The sad truth was that people like me—those too sick to fight—often fell through society’s cracks. We were told we were perfectly healthy, that our tests were normal, that it was all in our heads, or that it was just part of aging.
I snorted. Healthy. Sure. That’s why I could barely stand long enough to shower. Because I was perfectly healthy.
Most of us had been gaslit into doubting ourselves. And the worst part? We had started to believe it. If it was just aging, then why did I get lapped by ninety-year-olds on the local college running track?
I rubbed my temples, finally letting the doctor’s words sink in. At least there were diagnoses this time—fibromyalgia and chronic fatiguesyndrome. But there was no cure for either. Angry tears pricked my eyes, and I rubbed them away, clenching my jaw. I felt so… helpless.
Friends had drifted away over the years. When you can’t leave your house easily, isolation sets in. Invitations dry up. People stop calling. You feel like a burden.
I missed people.
I missed being active. Things like barbecues, spontaneous road trips, hiking, swimming... all the things I used to do, and now couldn't. I missed life itself. I felt trapped in a holding pattern while the world zoomed by, leaving me in my empty apartment, staring out the window—hungry for interaction and connection.
I took a deep breath, and then another. I could do this. I was a survivor. I was strong. Even so, the loneliness still pressed in, heavier since Gran passed. I missed her sassy, adventurous spirit, her sage wisdom, and the way she always knew how to make even the darkest days feel lighter.
I looked down at the kids playing two stories below, bundled up within an inch of their lives, laughing and shrieking as they chased each other across the still-green grass, heedless of the snowflakes gusting around them.
I smiled.
Children were proof that purity and goodness still existed.
I chuckled when a boy shouted at another for pushing his sister down.
“You tell ’em,” I whispered.
The boy who had pushed the little girl helped her up, and then they were off again, the incident forgotten, their laughter ringing out once more. Forgiveness—just like that. The world could learn a lot from kids.
I leaned back into my window seat, wrapping my lap blanket tighter around me, my spearmint tea steaming gently in my hands. The warmth seeped into my fingers, and my stomach rumbled, reminding me I needed to eat soon. I didn’t have the energy to cook, so I’d probably order something again.
A wave of familiar weight and darkness washed over me, settling into my bones. I thought I’d shaken this off for good last time, but here it was again.
Depression.
I gritted my teeth. No matter how hard I tried to improve my life, I just couldn’t seem to gain any traction—and I triedso hard.My work was the only area where I felt even somewhat successful, though that was only because I set my own hours. My clients knew I was a bit slow, yet they remained loyal, and word of mouth kept my business growing, even if only slowly. It didn’t matter; I made enough to cover my bills, and that was all I needed. I’d even saved enough to take a break from new clients for a few months, giving myself time to heal.
I’d done my best to keep going, but tomorrow marked a milestone birthday, and the strange feeling that my life was about to changehadn’t left me. At first, I thought it was just wishful thinking, but the feeling kept returning. And I began to wonder: what if everything I’d endured—the struggles, the isolation, the pain—had been preparing me for something I couldn’t yet see? The thought made my heart flutter with fragile, desperate hope.
I glanced down at the kids below, gathering their things as the snow picked up. Their laughter faded as they went inside, and I caught my own reflection in the glass. Medium brown hair, blue eyes, Roman nose, peaches-and-cream complexion—only my hair was tangled instead of the smooth and straight it normally was, my eyes were red from crying, and my face was all blotchy. I forced a smile at my reflection, but it was truly pitiful.
Two stars.
Normally, I didn’t indulge in wallowing. But a milestone birthday felt like a good enough excuse to me.
The doorbell rang, startling me. I set my tea down and checked the peephole.
