TW: Strong language, violence, death, mental illness 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. The Carnyx. They couldn’t have picked something a little less menacing to alert the towns? Maybe a fucking bell instead? “Take cover!” someone shouts over the frantic screams that explode around me. People dash left and right. Shoulders and elbows jab into me as we all scatter into separate directions in the street. A woman stumbles, collapsing to the ground as the crowd tramples around her. I run, hooking my arm into hers and ripping her to her feet as we duck into an alley. “Come on!” I shout and she finally finds her footing. We skirt down to the dead end, turning left. I slam a fist into the familiar wooden door at the end of the alleyway. “Willard! Willard, please! Let us in!” I scream, my knuckles aching with each pound. I whip my head back to the main street where it falls eerily silent. I shove my shoulder into the door, pleading for it to open. “Stop,” the woman whispers and pulls me from the door. I freeze. A screeching roar thunders nearby. Shit. She rips me down to a crouch and we both fumble backwards, tucking into a corner behind a stack of wooden crates. My strained breath rattles in my chest, the rush of blood and pounding of my heart in my ears. I peek around the edge of a crate back into the main street. Her shaky hand grasps at my shoulder to pull me back. But not before I see it. A man races down the main street with a terrified scream, followed immediately by a blast of fire. Within seconds he’s engulfed in flames. His cries are cut short by the roar of inferno, the heat of which radiates even from this distance. I turn, tucking my face into my shoulder. A heavy beat of wings approaches. Against all my better judgment, I dare one more peek. A dark shadow looms over the flame-filled street. The silhouette is gone as quick as it came, its fiery breath the only evidence of its wake. Dragons. “What are we going to do?” the woman behind me whispers. “I have to go.” “Absolutely not! You’ll attract its attention!” she hisses. I rip my arm from her grasp and slink out into the alley. “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 have to get to my mother. The woman doesn’t follow as I edge closer to the flames. The heat of it blasts my skin as I approach. I pause at the corner of the alley and main street, searching the skies for it. And when I don’t see it, I shift my focus back to the street. My breath catches in my throat at the heap of ash where the man had stood just moments earlier. After a few heartbeats I slip between the dying flames lining the street and race for the northwestern border of town. Some townspeople peek out from the merchant carts, and from windows carved into the sides of buildings. Their wide stares hook into me, begging me to hide. “Katerina!” I hear someone hiss after me. 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 towards Padmoor and grows larger. And larger. Closer and closer. Close enough that I note it’s a red dragon, its scales glaring in the sunlight. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. My legs are locked into position, despite my mind screaming at me to run. I look left and right, but there’s nowhere to hide. It opens its jaw and roars, and the sound shudders the blood in my veins. The sunlight glints off of its daggered teeth as it dips low and towards Padmoor again. Steel bolts from the Padmoor outpost’s ballistae rocket towards the creature. From here, they look like slivers of metal in the sunlight. But I know that up close, they’re almost as long as I am tall. Thicker than the width of my arm, with multiple sets of metal barbs lining its column. Several of them sink into the thin webbing of the dragon’s wings, and its screech rips through the air. Its flapping falters as it struggles and careens towards the ground. The beast slams into the earth, rocks and dirt bursting into the air with its contact, and the ground shudders underneath my feet. The beast struggles to its feet as soldiers close in, swarming around the dragon with weapons raised as I look away. The eruption of their cheers is enough for a confirmation. I’m always curious what they do with the bodies. It would take at least two dozen men to drag something of that size. And to where? Nobody really knows. By the next day, it will be completely clear. The only evidence of the creature will be the crater in the ground where it landed. Perhaps the char marks in the streets of Padmoor. And the empty bed where that man used to lay. My heart sinks. It could have been someone’s father, brother, husband, or friend. It could have been me. Or Cole. My heart tumbles at the thought of him. The memories that threaten to crash and swarm me, and drown out every other thought I have aside from him. I force myself to move and walk west towards home, one foot in front of the other. It’s been months since I’ve seen or heard from him. The longest I’ve ever gone without speaking to him. It pains me to think it may even be the last. The military doesn’t allow letters of correspondence unless it’s a family member or you’re married. And had I just agreed to his proposition, I would have fit in that latter category. I shove the thought of him away. There’s too much to do and too much to worry about to spend any more time or energy thinking about him. In fact, I’m more pissed off than I am sad...or 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 and brushes at 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 to open the front door. “Mother?” I call out as I enter. It’s warm and stuffy in here, despite it nearing fall. Flecks of dust fall like snow in the rays of light streaking across the room. I make my way around the kitchen and living room, opening the creaky windows to admit fresh air. My gaze catches on the distant speck of the dragon. Where I know the soldiers are still gathered. I sigh in relief when I notice no trails of smoke to block out the sky. Nor flares of orange and red to indicate that the entire city of Padmoor was on fire. I set my satchel down in my room, before I clear the space across the hallway to my mother’s. I stare at the doorknob, debating whether or not to disturb her. I turn the knob, achingly slow. The door creaks open as I peer through the few inches of space. She sits on the edge of her bed with her back turned towards me, staring at the window facing the forest. She’s still. Animated only by the easy rise and fall of her shoulders. I wait for a second, maybe two, and walk towards her as she lifts a hand and points one finger towards the window. As I turn the corner of the bed I can finally see her expression. Her eyes are fixated—glazed and distant. The first time she did this it terrified me. So eerily still and quiet, yet somehow a warning. I set my hand softly on the top of her outstretched one. I crouch down in front of her, trying to hook her gaze with no success. “Mother.” It’s now a whisper. Soft and subdued, only a hair louder than a breath. Her hand begins to tremble until it shakes up her arm. “The one son,” she murmurs. I shake my head slowly, and brush my fingertips on the back of her hand, hoping the sensation is enough to break her concentration. “Mother, I’m here. It’s me. It’s Katerina.” “The one son. Chosen to lead them all. Wasn’t a son but maid,” she says again a little louder. I take both of my hands and hold her face, my thumb brushing back and forth on 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—” her voice rises louder and I know we are tipping into her hysteria. I turn towards her nightstand and rip open the top drawer. The cork is missing from the vial of her medication, with nothing but droplets left. “—IN DEATH BLOOD IS SHED—” I bolt for my room, scrambling through a crate stashed under my bed. I swipe the extra vial, uncork it, and run back for my mother. She’s now on her feet with her hands splayed against the glass of the window, her forehead pressed against it. Her wide eyes stare outside. “—BUT FROM BLOOD THERE IS LIFE!” She laughs, rears back, and slams her head into the glass. “Mother!” I cry out and pull her back towards the bed as she attempts to headbutt the window again. Something warm drips onto my forearm. I use one hand to pull her forehead back towards me as she wriggles. “No!” she screams and thrashes against me. I clench her cheeks hard enough to force her mouth open and pour the liquid in. I hold my grip firmly until I feel her swallow. “Restored by air and night to end allll…” she slows and begins to slur her words, “ssstrifee”. Her body slackens in my grip as relief floods me. Floods me enough to shift my attention back to my forearm, where I notice drops of blood. Her blood. The red fluid is smeared on my hand and her face. Her eyes flutter closed as her jaw relaxes into a lazy grin. Blood trickles down her forehead to her chin. Tears well in my eyes as I rock her back and forth. I grab a handkerchief on her nightstand and hold it to her forehead as I stare at the cracked window. In her last few episodes, she’s only pounded on the window with her fists. Fear creeps in at the realization of how much she’s escalated recently. How much more she might spiral. When I was a kid, she would have episodes of singing every now and again. My older brother used to tell me not to mind it, or not to interrupt her. She would sing as she watched the distant clouds, and sway in whatever had her entranced. I thought it was just an exaggerated song of the sun and night. But then I got older. And it got worse. It wasn’t until I looked back that I realized just how bad it had gotten. In the deepest parts of my memory, before she sang, she used to laugh. But with a clarity, slowness and warmth when I would ask childish questions—like where did clouds come from. Or how come some deer had sticks on their heads. She would be the one to hold me and rock me, the one to care for me and comfort me. We would share our wildest dreams, skip through the snow in the winter, and shout into the night sky how much we missed my father. Somewhere between then and now it fell apart, like the threads of an old blanket coming undone. To the point where it was nothing but a heap of string. And here I was, holding the threads between my useless hands with no knowledge of how to knit her back together. All I could do was hold her, and yearn. After some moments pass, I lay her down and pull the sheets up over her. The handkerchief is spotted with blood, but the cut on her head has crusted over. Inching out of the room and closing the door with a heavy sigh, I sink down to my heels and lean my head 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.