Skarsh Waterscale's Arc

Chapter 1 of 9

Skarsh stays low in the cold water, watching the bank where the woman lies crumpled and still. Blood darkens the mud beneath her shoulder. The drake circles twice, breaks the surface with a sharp hiss, then circles again. She does not move. Her chest rises and falls, but slowly — too slowly. Skarsh counts the breaths. Four. Five. The gaps between them stretch longer each time. He knows this moment. He remembers lying in the dirt while boots walked past, while voices turned away. She was the one who stopped. She knelt beside him when his blood pooled black in the dust. She stayed until he could breathe again. Now she is the one bleeding, and he is the one who must choose. The plan was to watch from a distance. The plan did not account for this. Skarsh pulls himself from the water and crosses the mud on his hands and knees. The drake follows, hissing soft and low, pressing close against his side. She does not wake when he reaches her. He peels back the torn cloth at her shoulder and sees the wound — deep, ragged, still seeping. His claws shake as he pulls the snakeskin cloth from around his own neck and presses it against the cut. The drake curves its body around them both, and the water that clings to its scales begins to shimmer, cold and bright. The wound slows. The bleeding stops. Her breath evens, just barely. Skarsh does not move away. He stays kneeling beside her, one hand still holding the cloth in place, the other resting in the mud. When she wakes, she will see him. She will know what he is. But she will wake. That is the only thing that matters now.