Page 16 of Level Up for Love

*She is not touching the blade.*

Sindra speaks aloud. “Moss, here, hold this—”

*TURN AROUND.*

The warning sounds like a gong inside Sindra’s head, echoing painfully against her skull. Sindra pivots immediately, raising the sword and standing in front of Moss on instinct.

If she had waited even a heartbeat longer, the dragon’s teeth would have severed her arm as it lunged forward.

Impossible. We killed it.

*Not this time. I sense the curse on this one.*

The curse?

As Moss shouts behind her, Sindra readies herself for battle for the second time.

Unsteadily, the dragon rises to its feet and roars loud enough to send the leaves in the branches above shivering. Its empty eye socket still weeps blood from where Sindra was certain she pierced through to its brain. Burning red light shines from the pit of the dragon’s remaining eye as it bares its teeth in a snarl. It shambles forward, and though it has difficulty keeping its feet given its mortal wounds, the crimson glow of unholy magic propels it.

“How?” Moss cries. “It was dead.”

*Decapitate it.* Brightmorn’s tone is fierce in Sindra’s mind. *It is the only way.*

Sindra nods and quickly tosses her long braid over her shoulder. “Once more, Aramoss,” she pants. “Follow my lead.”

Luckily, Sindra and Moss have fought together often, whether sparring at the enclave or volunteering for every excursion they can. They move in flawless synchronization, with Sindra distracting the dragon and making herself the primary target of its aggression while Moss chips away at it with claws that sprout from her fingertips or thorned vines that burst from the earth to trap it in place. This time, Moss focuses all her energy on guiding the roots of the surrounding trees to twine around the dragon’s limbs, pinning it down to give Sindra the perfect opportunity.

With her old blade, it would have taken her several swings to carve the dragon’s head from its body, but with Brightmorn, it’s like a knife through butter. Immediately the great beast crumples to the ground, and Sindra falls to her knees to catch her breath.

Moss hunches over, her palms braced on her thighs. Her green skin somehow looks greener as she takes deep breaths to avoid being sick. “What the fuck was that?” the druid says, gasping. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I have no idea. But you should…Here.” Sindra grabs Moss’s wrist and lays her hand on the sword’s pommel.

*Hello!*

Moss shrieks. Sindra smiles grimly and waits as Moss darts a bewildered look toward her before delicately touching her fingertips once more to the sword.

*Terribly sorry, I keep doing that. I am Brightmorn. And where I hail from…the dead do not always stay dead.*

Moss asks the obvious question. “And where is that?”

*The kingdom of Moros.*

Sindra and Moss share a look. They know little of Moros, which isn’t unusual—no one knows anything about Moros. It may be their neighboring kingdom, but its closed borders means it rarely welcomes visitors, and when it does, they rarely return.

“Are dragons common there?” Sindra asks, continuing to speak aloud for Moss’s benefit.

*Not at all. But dark magic has recently taken root, and my kingdom is suffering from a deathly curse.* There’s a tense moment of stillness before Sindra hears Brightmorn’s voice again, whisper-soft in her mind. *We’ve been able to contain it, but there are some who worry that it is beginning to spread outside of our borders. The dragon may have wandered too close—close enough to catch it.*

Sindra and Moss both take a large step back from the dragon’s headless corpse.

*You must take me back home. Back to Moros.*

“I mustn’t do anything,” Sindra huffs. “How long have you been here, anyway? It may already be too late.”

*Please,* Brightmorn stresses. *You must return me to my master; they can solve this. I’ll reward you with your heart’s desire. Gold, riches, a castle, a title—name it and it’s yours.*

“And who is your master?” Sindra asks.