1. ONE

one

THE CARNYX

I don’t know a lot of things. But one thing I do know, is that once you hear it, you fucking run.

The distant cry of it splits the air. A deep, haunting bray. An alarm as hollow as any nightmare could conjure.

The Carnyx.

They couldn’t have picked something a little less menacing to alert the towns? Maybe a regular fucking bell instead?

“Take cover!” a voice shouts over the frantic screams exploding around me.

Men and women dash left and right. Shoulders and elbows jab into me as we scatter separate directions in the cobblestone street. A woman stumbles. She collapses to the ground, and the crowd tramples over her. My breath catches and I freeze, the seconds ticking by painfully slow as I wait for her to resurface. Despite my instincts screaming at me to run for my life, I push against the urge and race toward the woman. Shoving my way through the crowd, I find her on her hands and knees, struggling to get up. I hook my arm through hers, pulling her to her feet with all of my strength. She finds her footing, and her wide brown eyes meet mine.

“Come on!” I tug her arm and push through the crowd.

We break away from the main street and skirt down a shadowed alley ending in a dead end. I turn toward a familiar door on my left and slam a fist against the wood.

“Willard! Willard, please! Let us in!” With each slam of my fist, my knuckles scream in pain. The main street falls eerily silent. I whip my head over my shoulder to scan the now empty road, then turn back to the door and ram my body against it. Pleading with everything I am for the man inside to open it.

“Stop,” the woman whispers and pulls me from the door.

A screeching roar thunders nearby.

I freeze. Shit.

The woman yanks me down to a crouch, and we fumble backwards, tucking into a corner behind a stack of wooden crates. My strained breath rattles in my chest, my heart pounding in my ears. I peek around the edge of a crate toward the main street, but the woman’s shaky hand grasps my shoulder, pulling me back.

But not before I see it.

With a terrified scream, a man races down the main street, followed immediately by an explosion of fire. Within seconds, he’s engulfed in flames. His cries are cut short by the roaring inferno. Even from this distance, the heat radiates over me. I turn, tucking my face into my shoulder. A heavy beat of wings approaches as loud as distant thunder.

Against my better judgment, I dare one more peek. A dark shadow looms over the flame-filled street. The silhouette disappears as quickly as it appeared, its fiery breath the only evidence in its wake.

Dragons.

“What are we going to do?” the woman whispers.

“I have to go.”

She grabs my arm. “Absolutely not! You’ll attract its attention!”

I rip away from her grasp. “And you’ll be trapped if you stay.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“But not a risk I can take.” I slink out into the alley.

I have to get to my mother.

The woman doesn’t follow as I edge closer to the flames. The heat of it warms my skin as I approach, and sweat trickles down the nape of my neck. I pause at the corner where the alley meets the main street, searching the skies for the dragon, but it’s nowhere in sight. I shift my focus back to the street. My breath catches in my throat at the heap of ash where the man had been moments earlier.

After a few heartbeats, I slip between the dying flames lining the street and race for the northwestern border of town. A few townspeople peek out from behind merchant carts and from windows carved into the sides of stone buildings. Their wide stares hook into me, begging me to hide.

“Katerina!” a voice hisses at me.

Ignoring it, I pass the last few buildings of Padmoor and reach the town’s outskirts. The land gives way to the familiar rolling hills that stretch from here to the distant Northern Forest. Tucked into those hills is the faint roof of my home, a speck against the landscape this far out.

A dark figure glides in and out of the clouds above the Northern Forest. I stiffen as it turns back toward Padmoor and grows larger.

And larger.

Closer and closer.

Close enough that I note it’s a red dragon, with scales shimmering blood-red in the sunlight. Monstrous twisted black horns crown its head, with smaller spikes outlining its face. The creature parts its jaws, and daylight gleams against rows of black daggered teeth the length of my forearm. The thick scales armoring its chest glow a soft orange, its black talons flexing open and closed as it gathers its strength.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

My legs freeze in position, my mind screaming at me to run. I glance left then right, but the vast open space leaves me no place to hide. The red dragon releases a high-pitched roar, a cacophony more terrifying than any beast known to humans. My ears ring, and my blood shudders in my veins.

The beast’s molten yellow eyes lock with mine.

My breath is stuck in my throat.

I’m as dead as the man in the street.

I drag my gaze away, looking down at my feet and accepting my fate. A wall of solid wind hits me, knocking me off balance. I fall backwards, landing on the ground with a splitting ache in my head. Blinking open my eyes, the scaled underbelly of the beast bullets past me. The air around me stills.

I shift up to my elbows and toss a glance over my shoulder.

The dragon dips low and glides toward Padmoor again.

Steel javelins from the Padmoor outpost’s ballista rocket toward the creature. From this distance, the sharp slivers of metal are no bigger than the size of a child’s arm. But up close, they’re as tall as a doorframe, with multiple sets of metal barbs lining its column.

Several of the javelins sink into the red webbing of the dragon’s wings. The beast screeches, and I clap my hands over my ears as its high-pitched cries reverberate within me. The dragon falters mid-flight, the flap of its wings becoming erratic as it careens toward the ground. It slams into the earth, rocks and dirt bursting into the air on contact, and the ground shudders underneath my feet. The dragon attempts to rise, its thick talons sinking into the ground for leverage, but with its wings punctured, it’s unable to maintain balance.

Soldiers close in, swarming around the beast, their weapons raised and aimed on their target. I look away as a strained roar dies, and triumphant cheers ring out across the land—confirmation of the soldiers’ success.

I’ve always wondered what they do with the bodies. It would take at least two dozen men to drag something of that size, but to where? By the next day, there will be no trace of the animal. It will be as though it never existed. The only remaining evidence will be the crater left behind where it landed, and the char marks in the streets of Padmoor.

And the empty bed where the dead man used to lay.

My heart sinks. He was probably someone’s father, brother, husband, or friend. He could have been me.

Or Cole.

My heart tumbles at the thought of Cole. Memories crash and swarm around me, drowning every other thought aside from him. I force my steps forward, walking west toward home, one foot in front of the other.

It’s been months since I’ve seen or heard from Cole—the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking. Knowing we may never speak again pains me. The military doesn’t allow correspondence except from family members or spouses. Had I agreed to his proposal, I would have fit in that latter category.

I shove the thought away. I have too much to do and too many worries to spend additional time or energy thinking about Cole or what could’ve been. In fact, I’m more pissed off than sad—at least that’s what I tell myself.

The ground beneath my feet rises and falls as I trek through the hills. The sun warms my back, and the wind picks up, brushing against my clothes. As I near the familiar angled roof of my home, free of any flames or scorch marks, I loose a shaky breath. The doorknob squeaks in my hand as I twist it and open the front door.

“Mother?” I call out as I enter. My gaze sweeps across the kitchen with our rickety wooden table and chairs, to the makeshift fireplace in the opposite corner of the room. Despite the season nearing fall, the room is uncomfortably warm. Flecks of dust fall like snow in the rays of light streaking through the windows across the room. I walk toward the windows, cracking them open to admit fresh air. My gaze catches on the distant speck of the dragon and the swarm of soldiers. I glance toward the sky and breathe out a sigh of relief. No trails of smoke nor flares of orange block out the sky. The city Padmoor will survive another day.

I set my satchel down in my room then walk across the hallway to my mother’s bedroom. I stare at the doorknob, debating whether to disturb her. I turn the knob, achingly slow, hoping she might be asleep. The door squeaks open, and I peer through the few inches of space.

Mother sits on the edge of her bed, back facing me, and her attention focused out the window at the forest behind our house. She’s still, animated only by the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders.

I wait a second, maybe two, then walk toward her as she lifts a hand and points one finger toward the window. As I turn the corner of the bed I scan her face. Her skin is pale, the sockets of her eyes deepening with each passing day. Even her long, blonde hair has lost its luster. But what haunts me most is the glazed vacancy in her eyes and the way she fixes her gaze at the window. The first time I discovered her this way was terrifying, her body so eerily still and quiet, yet somehow a warning.

I lay my hand on her outstretched one, then crouch in front of her. “Mother.” My voice is only a hair louder than a breath.

Her gaze remains focused on an invisible something in the distance, and her hand trembles, the shaking rising up her arm.

“The one son,” she murmurs.

I shake my head and brush my fingertips over the back of her hand, hoping the sensation will break her concentration. “Mother, I’m here. It’s me. It’s Katerina.”

“The one son.” Her voice grows louder. “Chosen to lead them all. Wasn’t a son but a maid.”

I cradle her face in my hands and stare into her blue eyes as I brush my thumb over her right cheek. “It’s okay, it’s just a dream. I can get your medicine. Did you take it this morning?”

“Until binds of death did that grave deed bade…” With each word, her tone tips toward hysteria.

I turn toward her nightstand and pull open the top drawer and retrieve her bottle of medicine. The cork is missing and nothing but droplets are left inside.

“In death blood is shed!” she screams.

I bolt for my room, bursting through my door and dropping to my knees near the bed. My chest tightens as I rip out the wooden crate stashed under my bed. I rake through other empty vials until I find a full one. Swiping it, I race back to my mother.

Standing near the window, now she splays her open palms to the window, her forehead pressed against the pane. Her wide blue eyes stare outside.

“But from blood there is life!” She explodes into maniacal laughter then rears back and slams her head against the glass.

“Mother!” I jolt forward, grabbing her shirt.

Once again she rears back, slamming her head into the window a second time before I can stop her.

Wrapping one hand over her forehead, I pull her back toward me. A warm, sticky substance drips down my forearm.

“No!” She thrashes against me.

Bracing the back of her head against my chest with one hand, I clench her cheeks between the fingers of my free hand, forcing her mouth open and pouring the liquid inside. I hold my grip until she swallows.

“Restored by air and night to end allll ssstrifee.” Her words slow and morph into a slur.

Her body slackens, and relief floods me. I shift my attention to my forearm where blood—my mother’s blood— stains my skin crimson.

Mother’s eyes flutter closed, her jaw relaxing into a lazy grin as a trickle of blood drips down her forehead toward her chin.

I grab a handkerchief from her nightstand and press it to the wound on her forehead. Swaying her back and forth, tears well in my eyes. My gaze moves to the cracked window and the dark green pine trees of the Northern Forest it frames. It’s over—for now, at least. Though she’d begun pounding her fists with her last few episodes, she’d never done this kind of damage. A shiver shoots down my spine at the realization of how her episodes have escalated and how much more she might still spiral.

When I was a kid, her episodes consisted of her singing as she watched the distant clouds roll by, swaying to whatever had entranced her. At the time, I thought it was an exaggerated song of the sun and night. My older brother told me to ignore it and not to interrupt. But then I got older, and the episodes got worse. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how bad they had become.

In the deepest parts of my memory, before she sang, she laughed. But laughed with a slow, warm clarity at my childish questions like where clouds came from or why some deer had sticks on their heads. Back then, she was the one who held and rocked me, the one who cared for and comforted me. We shared with each other our wildest dreams. We skipped through the snow in the winter and shouted into the night sky how much we missed my father. Somewhere between then and now everything fell apart, like the threads of an old blanket unraveling until there is nothing but a heap of string.

Now, I’m the one holding the threads of what she once was between my useless hands with no knowledge of how to knit her back together. All I can do is hold her and yearn for the mother she once was.

After several moments, I lay her on her bed and pull the sheets up to her chin. Removing the bloodied handkerchief, I survey the gash on her forehead and breathe a sigh of relief that the wound is crusted over. Inching out of her room, I close the door and sink down to my heels with my head leaning back against the door.

I have nothing left.

Nothing left to eat.

Nothing left to trade for more medication.

That vial was the last I had.