Once I've put some distance between myself and the camp, I start to look for signs of the dragon.
It's not exactly a difficult trail to find or follow; the smears of blood alone would be enough to track it. But there are alsodrag marks,placeswhere its broken wings and erratic,shamblingsteps havedisturbed the leaves and left telling marks in the dirt.
I can still hear the chaosbehind me.
The smoke from the fires is thick on the wind, itching my throat.
I don't doubt Briar's ability to get away from the mess we made, but I'm still eager to finish this and get back to her side, so I pick up my pace, pressing my way into a small grove of treeswithout any thoughts aside from everything I know about killing dragons.
Despite how often I've fantasized about the act, I've never actuallydoneit. Both because of how poorly man-made weapons fare against the beasts, and because of that Ashwalker code Briar threw in my face earlier—we reallydon'tmake a point of trying to slay dragons. We just survive them.
But I still know their weak points. Where to aim. I also know this forest well; it's one of the fewplaces that providessome measure of shade and substance along this route, so I’ve stopped to rest within it several times before.
Deeper and deeperI go,following the trail of blood and the occasional desperate mark clawed into a spindly tree trunk. Luckily, the moon is bright tonight, lighting my way toward the small stream I know flows through the center of this area. I spot fresh tracks in the mud, confirming my suspicion that the wounded creature was seeking water. I continue down the trickling stream, until finally…
There it is.
The dragonhas collapsed in a shallow pool. Its eyes are closed, its narrow head resting on a smooth rock, just barely lifted out of the water. Fresh blood blooms into that water with every slow, labored heave of breath.
I stare for longer than I mean to, the weight of the moment settling. The surreal nature of it—how rare it is to find myself in a position of power over one of these creatures. Howlucky. It’s a small victory, a meager recompense after everything that dragons have taken from me.
I’m still going to enjoy it.
I withdraw my blade.
The most vulnerable part of a young dragon is said to be its chest. In the right lighting, you can supposedly see their hearts beating right through the thinlayer of scales that haven't yet hardened.
I’ve never seen a hatchling in person, so whether that’s true or not, I couldn’t say. And it’s too dark to confirm it now, especially in the position it lies in.
But I still intend to aim for its heart.
A single, well-placed strike should be enough.
Most wouldn’t expect a one-eyed Ashwalker to becapable of such aim, but the blade I hold is like an extension of my own body; I've spent hours practicing with it while blindfolded, learning to compensate for what I lost five years ago. I can't rely fully on my eyes the way most people can, so I've learned to guide my strikes through other methods, sharpening my other senses to make up for what I lack.
As the night seems to close in around us, I can hear the beating heart of the dying dragon with a loudness that makes every nerve in my body flare with awareness. Even over the whisper of the stream and my own pounding pulse, I can count each beat with a calm, focused accuracy.
I canfeelthem like a second heart fluttering inside my own chest.
Thedragon opens its eyes to watch me approach, but it makes no move to defend itself. Not at first. It shouldn’t bother me that it doesn’t have the strength to fight back—so few dragon victims are ever given the opportunity to fight back.
So I don’t know why I hesitate.
In the stillness, it decides to move.
Slowly, it lifts its head and arches its broken body. Its front feet come to rest on the rock, black claws scraping and clicking as it shuffles for balance.
As it steadies itself, the lighting shifts, as if the creature is controlling the clouds over the moon itself. A beam of silver light shines down upon it, illuminating enough to show me that the stories I’ve heard are true—because there it is: that beating life-force in its chest, pulsing like a faint star underneath translucent scales.
My breaths slow as I stare at it, waning to match its dying rhythm before I realize what I’m doing.
I give my head a hard shake.
Somewhere far behind me, I hear Briar calling my name. Something she wouldn't risk doing unless the situation is getting out of control and retreatingis the only smart option left.
My mother's sword hangs heavy butsteady in my grip. Oddly, the stones on it aren't glowing the way they usually do to warn me of dragonproximity; whatever magicis woven into the blade, it apparently doesn't see this dragon before me as a threat it needs to warn me about.
But it will be a threat, if you let it live.
