the last raider

"There weren't always dragons in the valley."

Kara squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to remember the rest of her grandmother's frequent saying.

"And what does that mean, my dear?"

"That they won't always be in the valley," Kara finished firmly, as she always had done when she was a young child in her grandma's lap.

"We have to go," came a hushed voice from her left. "Now! Before they see us."

Kara heard the gentle but rushed footsteps of those around her. The raiding group of around ten had all quickly fled at first sight of more than one the fire-breathing beasts. She should leave too, she knew it. It was one of the first rules for raiders – gather what you need and leave without being seen.

Flee before it gets to three.

And the dragons liked to hunt in packs. The two soaring above her, singing the trees with their sulfuric smoke, would soon be joined by dozens of their kind. And one lone raider would be no match for even one of the beasts.

I should run. Now. Before it's too late.

This was a job for the hunters. They never travelled in a group with less than thirty bodies, and trained their whole lives to stand a chance in a match against the dragons. Kara's grandmother had been a hunter. Before she died.

She had been convinced that humans could rid themselves of the beasts that plagued them from above. They had come out of nowhere, the story goes, one day humans had been toiling away as they had done for a thousand years before, and the next, ashes fell from the sky, and the villagers fled lest they be the monster's next victim.

A chorus of loud, echoing screams came from above, vibrating Kara's bones against her skin. Debris fell from the sky; charred branches and leaves and stones and leftovers from whatever poor soul had fed the dragon's last. Kara didn't mind. She was already covered in dirt and grime and old blood that had already turned brown. She fingered her weapon – just a small array of daggers. She wasn't strong enough to wield a sword. Or tall enough. Her grandmother hadn't been either.

"A dagger is enough, my dear," Kara remembered her saying once. "The bigger the beast, the smaller their point of weakness is. All you have to do is find it."

She gripped the sheath of one of her knives and rose from her crouched position. Her bones ached in protest at the movement, but she forced herself to continue moving. Forward. Towards the dragons. Not flee. She wouldn't flee.

There was rubble and demolished buildings scattered across the ground, causing Kara to twist her ankle more than once. But she continued on. Through the thick clouds of dark smoke that forced its way down her throat. She coughed her lungs up and continued on.

I'll stay here until the hunters come, she decided. I won't be reckless and confront them. I will just wait. Until the hunters get here.

Kara wasn't sure if she meant it or not.

And then she saw it. She gasped in fear at first, thinking she'd come across one of their cubs, but it wasn't a dragon. It was a rabbit. A small, brown thing, digging through burnt rubbish for food.

Kara bent down to help it in its endeavours, hoping that her opposable thumbs would help in scavenging something edible from the mound of dirt. But there was nothing. Not a scrap of food to be found. Everything was gone. Burnt. Destroyed.

The dragons took it all.

And in that moment, Kara decided that they could take her grandmother, her freedom, her happiness, hell they could her too, but they wouldn't take her fight. Her spirit.

So when the next dragon flew low enough for her to strike – she did, straight into its underbelly, causing brown liquid to spew everywhere, burning the skin it touched. And she kept blindly stabbing at it.

And when it opened its mouth to deliver its' fiery, fatal kiss, Kara didn't run. She rushed right in. And her last thought was,

Grandma will be proud of me.