Lunaria Willowbloom's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Lunaria dropped onto the ledge outside the lair's mouth. Her wings still glowed, but the light had thinned to a flicker. The petal was dying. She felt its warmth leak away with each breath. Soon her legs would fold under her, and she would lie in the open where any eye could find her. She needed cover, and fast. She scanned the rock. Bare stone. No crack, no bush, nothing to fold behind. Below the ledge she saw only the long drop she had climbed. Ahead was the dark hole of the den, breathing heat like an open oven. Hiding inside the dragon's home was madness. But out here she would collapse in plain sight. Inside there might be a shadow, a gap between hoarded things. Lunaria forced her wings to lift her. She flew low through the mouth and into the dark. The air pressed hot on her face. Heaps of gold and glass and burning coals glowed all around. Then her wings quit. She fell, tumbling across a pile of coins, and rolled to a stop behind a cracked shield. She lay still, chest heaving, her light almost gone. The hoard shifted. A great red shape rose from the middle of the treasure. Scales the color of coals. Horns curved back from a broad head. Yellow eyes opened and swept the cave. Fireball. The dragon who had torn her heartbloom from its bed and left her fading. Lunaria pressed flat behind the shield and held her breath. "Something small crept in," the dragon said. His voice rumbled through the floor. He lifted his head and sniffed. "I smell flower light. Sweet. Stolen sweetness." Lunaria's heart slammed. He could smell the petal. She looked past the shield and saw it then, close by his forelegs, a bloom resting on a bed of gold. Layered petals of pink and gold, wide and calm. Her heartbloom. It still glowed. It called to her like her own pulse. The dragon swung his head toward her hiding place. Lunaria had no strength left to fly and no time to reach the flower. So she did the only thing she could. She let her dim wings fall dark and lay as still as the coins around her. A dead spark. A trick of the treasure. Fireball's nose passed over the shield. He snorted. Sparks scattered. Then he settled back down, coiling around his hoard, and closed his eyes. Lunaria did not move. The petal's last warmth faded to nothing. Her wings went cold and gray. She was hidden, alive, inside the lair at last. Her flower lay an arm's reach away, guarded by the sleeping dragon. But now she had no light, no petal, and no way to fly out. She had reached her goal and trapped herself with it.