The forest had swallowed the knights one by one.
Clad in chainmail, Isabeau drags herself through the forest. She had last seen her comrades by the flickering glow of their torches, their half-lit shapes vanishing between trees and shadowed trunks. Then nothing. The silence of the night crept in. Then a rustle. A hiss. And a sharp sting on her ankle.
She gasped and stumbled. The bite throbbed.
Peering down, she spotted the culprit: a small, swift, and wicked European Adder, who slipped back away into the bracken. She tried to recall what she knew about the snake; venomous, but not always fatal. But even with that reassurance, pain bloomed quickly, burning through her calf like molten iron. Her fingers clenched the hilt of her sword for balance as she staggered forward, desperate.
Then she saw it. A stream, which appeared silver and cold under the moonlight. She immediately fell to her knees in the mud, plunging her leg into the water, scrubbing furiously, praying to Saint George and all the saints, praying for it to get better. But the pain only got worse. Her breathing grew uneven, and her fingers trembled violently.
The last thing she remembered was the moon on the water’s surface. Then everything turned black.
She awoke to warmth and the scent of moss.
Soft animal furs cradled her body, and a dull ache radiated from her ankle. Isabeau groaned and tried to sit up. Her armor was gone, replaced with a worn tunic that was unfamiliar to her. Her wound, clean, swaddled in green leaves, was tied with sinew.
She blinked against the morning light filtering through the jagged opening of the cave. Where was she? Who had tended to her wound?
Cautiously, she stood. Pain exploded from her wound, but the bandage held. She limped to the cave’s mouth, shielding her eyes as sunlight poured in.
Then she saw her.
By the stream, a woman sat, bare-backed and crouched on the mossy bank, trailing her fingers through her long hair as she looked into the water at her reflection. At first glance, Isabeau thought she was human, focused mainly on the hair cascading like waves down her spine, the sun catching her skin.
But then she noticed the horns… Thick and curled like a ram’s, jutting from the top of her head.
Then she noticed the tail. Long, scaled, and coiled like a serpent in the grass behind the woman.
Isabeau froze.
The dragon. This had to be her.
She instinctively reached for her sword, only to realize it was gone. Her pulse quickened. She had come to slay the beast. She had devoured men and reduced whole watchtowers to ash. The Emperor had sent her to rid the empire of this monster.
And yet…
The dragoness turned.
Her eyes were not reptilian, but ancient and unreadable. Her lips, though marked by fangs, were full. Her expression held no threat, but she couldn’t completely trust her.
Isabeau faults at her beauty, opening her mouth, but no sound came out.
The dragoness then tilted her head.
Isabeau then found her voice at last. “You… You are the one who killed the knights?” She asks, her tone a mere whisper, however, she was uttering this mostly to herself.