Scars and Confessions

The stench of dragon and blood still clung to the air, thick and cloying, even hours after the beast had finally fallen. The cavern, once a place of primal terror, now echoed with the softer sounds of labored breathing and the rustle of bandages. We were a sorry sight, the four of us who remained. Bowen, his arm swathed in rags, sat hunched against a damp rock, his face grim. Lyra, her usual bright eyes shadowed with exhaustion, moved among us, her touch gentle as she cleaned wounds and offered what little comfort she could. The silence was a heavy blanket, each breath a reminder of Roric and Keal, of the cost of this bloody victory.

I found myself staring at Addison. Even in the dim light, her strength was a palpable thing. Her bow lay beside her, its wood scarred from the battle, much like her own skin. A deep gash ran across her cheek, already beginning to scab, and her tunic was torn in several places. Yet, there was a quiet resilience in her stance, a steady gaze that had met mine more than once in the long, dark hours of the fight. My heart, still thrumming with the adrenaline of the kill, ached with a different kind of intensity when I looked at her. It was a familiar ache, one I’d tried to ignore, to bury beneath the more immediate concerns of survival. But now, with the dragon dead and the immediate threat gone, it resurfaced, demanding to be acknowledged.

Bowen cleared his throat, the sound rough. “We need to get back. Riverbend will want to know.”