Pain was supposed to focus the mind. In the stories, pain brought clarity—a sharpening of the senses, a distillation of fear into purpose.
But as blood poured from Lara's mangled arm, pain threatened to blur the world into a wash of red and gold, thunder and fire. The taste of iron filled her mouth, and each breath scraped her lungs raw.
Still, she stood. Sword in her left hand, wounded right pressed tight to her chest, Lara faced the dragon as it roared again, the sound rattling leaves from the trees and sending crows shrieking skyward.
The beast's scales shimmered in the moonlight, broken only by the blood-dark gash Lara had already carved along its flank. Its wounded eye wept molten gold, half-blinded now, but hate burned ever brighter in the other.
She could see it—behind the rage, the hunger. The dragon wanted to go back to the village. It would finish what it started, burn homes, crush children beneath its talons, turn every hopeful thing into ash. Lara could not let it pass.
She drew on every ounce of stubbornness in her battered body.
With her demonic magic thrumming under her skin, she let her yellow fire swirl, fierce and wild, pooling in her gut and crawling down her working arm until the air around her pulsed with heat.
Her vision narrowed. For one perfect second, Lara was all fury and focus—a single line drawn between death and survival.
The dragon lunged, massive jaws opening to unleash another wave of fire. Lara darted aside, rolling through the mud, then spun and slammed her palm to the earth.
Her fire shot upward, a yellow column splitting the night, forcing the dragon to rear back and swat at the light as if it were a swarm of bees.
It snapped at her again. Lara dodged, though slower this time; blood loss was stealing her speed.
The beast's tail lashed out, catching her across the ribs, and she felt something crack—pain flared white-hot, nearly sending her to her knees.
No time to check. No time to breathe.
Lara called deeper, down where her demon blood ran thickest, where childhood memories of pain and fire became power.
Her horns prickled with heat, small but unmistakable. Her eyes flickered red for an instant. She let go of restraint—let her true self, the side that terrified others and made her kin, rise up and roar.
The dragon bellowed again, swinging its head for another killing blow. This time, Lara met it head-on.
She hurled a spear of yellow fire, dense and pulsing with her rage, straight into the dragon's open mouth.
The heat burst in its throat, and the beast reared, shrieking, clawing at its own jaws. The clearing lit up with molten flame, the trees shivering under the onslaught.
Lara stumbled, one knee in the mud. She let the pain fuel her. "Not today," she spat, words ragged. "You're not getting past me."
The dragon charged. Lara ducked under its claws, then leapt, using her uninjured arm and every scrap of demonic speed to vault onto its foreleg, climbing as if she were born for it.
She scrambled up its scales, clinging with fingers slick with her own blood, drawing on strength she didn't know she still possessed.
She reached the wound she'd left earlier—an ugly slash at its side. Lara raised her sword high, yellow fire running down the blade, and drove it deep into the gash, all the way to the hilt.
The dragon's scream shattered the air. It bucked, throwing Lara to the ground, but she landed on her feet, staggering, somehow holding on to consciousness.
The dragon thrashed, blood pouring from its side now, black and steaming. It tried to turn back toward the village, desperation overtaking rage. Lara couldn't let it.
Gritting her teeth, she raised her good hand, let fire flood her palm, and poured every last drop of her magic into one final strike.
"Look at me!" she roared.
The beast turned. For a moment, in its burning eye, Lara saw not a monster but a force of nature—ancient, magnificent, doomed. It lunged. She hurled her magic.
A tidal wave of yellow fire crashed into the dragon's chest, blasting away scales and boiling flesh.
The beast convulsed, staggered, then crashed to its knees, the earth shaking beneath its weight.
It slumped forward, jaws snapping weakly, and Lara limped closer, sword in hand, flame still running down the blade.
With a grunt of effort, she drove her weapon through the soft patch beneath the beast's jaw, piercing up into its skull.
The dragon's body convulsed. There was a final, shuddering gasp a gush of gold-black blood and then the giant beast stilled, its massive head sinking into the churned earth.
The forest went eerily silent, the only sound Lara's ragged breathing and the faint hiss of cooling scales.
For a moment, she stared down at her work, unable to process what she'd done. She had killed it.
She had stopped the threat, saved the village, done what no ordinary human or demon could have managed. A laugh half relief, half disbelief escaped her lips.
But then the pain returned, crashing over her in waves. Her vision swam. Her arm, a mangled, bleeding ruin, pulsed with agony; her ribs screamed with every breath. She stumbled, clutching at the nearest tree to keep herself upright.
She needed to get back—needed to send word. Needed to see Sarisa, Aliyah, Kaelith, anyone whose face wasn't bathed in fire and blood. But her body refused. Her knees buckled.
She fell, face-first, into the churned mud, her cheek pressed to the earth still warm from the dragon's death throes.
She tried to move, but her limbs were leaden. Everything ached. Each breath grew shallower, fainter, distant.
Somewhere in the darkness, she heard voices faint at first, then sharper, more urgent. Villagers, maybe. Or soldiers. Or ghosts.
"She's over here! Gods, look at her arm—"
"Get the healer! Hurry!"
Strong hands rolled her onto her back. The world was a flickering blur of torches and pale faces, voices rising and falling.
Someone pressed cloth to her wound, others tried to rouse her. Lara blinked, trying to focus, but the faces were all strangers, silhouettes against the stars.
She tried to speak, but only blood bubbled at her lips.
Someone squeezed her hand. "Hold on. Just hold on, demon lady. You saved us—just hold on—"
She wanted to laugh, or curse, or ask if anyone had saved the honey cakes for her return, but even that effort was too much.
The world grew thin, pain and cold fighting for dominance. The torchlight faded, replaced by the memory of yellow fire dancing on the backs of her eyelids, then by a deeper darkness still.
But as she slipped into unconsciousness, Lara felt—not fear, not regret—but something like hope, burning bright and stubborn in her chest.
Not done yet, she thought, as the world slipped away.
I have to get home.