A 150-word exercise: Orval and Lily and Death, the last dragon

 

THE LAST DRAGON

Death.

The only dragon not destroyed.

The monster flew over this valley, the evening we returned.

Orval’s breath rushes across my face. “How did Death escape? I merged souls with him.”

The blade under my chin trembles. I reach out, latching my fingers through Orval’s as the dagger clatters to the floor.

“Does it matter?” I say, gasping in relief. I brush my knuckles against Orval’s slate-hard face.

“He must have called the Dracoisi.”

“We are all one people, now. They will not destroy us.” I will myself to believe this, and to believe my feelings for Orval will make him well again.

My sweetheart loses faith in our love. Something tainted flickers in his eyes, and he pulls away.

“My grandmother. They took her.”

The red sky fades to purple, the color I wore as empress—but I have no power now.

Without Orval, I have nothing.

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