Clearsight

As the sun rises, and I wander through the empty streets of a ghost town.

I'm not sure what it's called. There's no one left here to tell me what happened to it. Or tell me the stories of the lives that must have unfolded here, suddenly disrupted. It's not my home, but it's somebody's.

In the centre of the town, there used to be a statue–I think it's Queen Scorpion, but it's so broken, it's hard to tell. This is where I think the worst of the damage occurred–the fault lines disappearing just inside of the town's borders. I don't know much about earthquakes, but it doesn't seem normal for them to stay within a one-mile radius, or to worsen the closer they get to the centre of town.

The flag of Nyx has been planted into the ground, waving in the wind. A constant reminder that eventually, Sharp-eyes's soldiers will come back to this place.

I pick up a plaque from the ground, still more-or-less intact. In honour of Governor Summer, he who weathered many storms.

I try to put it back where I found it, but I always fail.

"Maybe it was a blast," I murmur. "Maybe Sharp-eyes dropped... some kind of bomb, something beyond what we've seen before."

It reminds me of how the palace looked, after Shadowhunter finally killed the queen. Centuries of history, now rubble. I wonder how long ago the earthquake hit, and how long after that everyone decided to leave. (Or died.)

Darkstalker rubs his eyes. "No. That's too... extravagant. Why bother? Why would he need to? Why this one random little town that probably had a couple hundred dragons, maximum?"

"It was magic," I say, trying to hold the facts of the matter close in my mind. "That narrows it down."

"It was Polar. Shadowhunter wouldn't have done this, and there's no way Jerboa still has her power," Darkstalker says firmly.

"Not the Shadowhunter we knew–but how would Polar have ended up here of all places?"

"He must have, because he's the only other reasonable possibility. No one could have got through that bracelet," he reiterates. "That's not how the magic works."

"How do you know that, though?" I ask, trying to be gentle, trying not to start a fight about this. "You've never really gone up against another animus dragon, not for any prolonged period of time. You've never used your power in battle against someone you're equally matched to. Just because it's historically never happened doesn't mean it never will. Maybe something weird happened when Sharp-eyes took your power. Maybe he disabled the bracelet on purpose."

"No. That's not how it works," Darkstalker says stubbornly. "This is something else altogether."

Maybe he's right. I have no way of knowing, no certain ground to stand on, other than biased, faulty logic, and stabs in the dark.

A cold wind sweeps through the square, sending a plume of dust flying in the air.

Maybe we'll never know.

I look up at the sky—stained pink and orange with the beginning of sunrise—and I could swear I feel vultures flying overhead. I imagine the sky is thick with ghosts.

***

We picked one of the abandoned homes to live in, toward the edge of the city. It feels weird and a little wrong to live in someone else's house, but after a while, it became clear that they were definitely not coming back. And that we might be staying here a while.

I push open the door, stepping up onto the broken porch. One of the wooden beams holding up the roof is starting to buckle beneath the weight it's supposed to hold–we need to fix it up, but we haven't found a good replacement. I'm sure it was beautiful, back in the day. The whole house is made of sandstone. It's only one floor, but it's sprawling, and a lot larger than it looks. A few days ago, I found the remnants of what used to be their back garden.

Darkstalker pushes open the door we put in a few days ago, taken off another house. The hinges squeak horribly, and I light a lantern, casting what used to be a dining room in a warm, orange glow. 

A small part of me can't help but think this used to be so beautiful. It would take us some time, but we could fix this place up. We might not be able to stop the war–but maybe, someday, when the owners come back, they would see someone had restored their house to its original condition. I could make it nice. I could make it good.

I know I could.

***

I try to go to sleep alone, shifting around in the blankets. We cleared out the room with the least damage to it, one of two guest rooms. Most of the things in it were destroyed; shards of glass and ceramic on the floor. We fixed up the scroll shelf and the curtains. Put the tapestry back up on the wall, depicting a desert sunrise. When I look at this room, all I see is empty spaces.

I can hear my husband pacing around the living room. He's probably trying not to wake me, but the walls are paper-thin, and his steps thud against the floor, and I can hear him muttering, even when I hide my head under the blankets and put my pillow over top of my head.

It's not like when he had his magic. These long, sleepless nights are wearing him down, making him snappy and bitter, bringing out all the worst sides of him. He's making himself sick.

But I've learned from experience, there's not much I can do.

And I try to see the futures, try to picture the branching paths. Are we really so useless that Sharp-eyes just let us go? Or are we playing into a long game?

And I can't stop thinking–we could replace the windows, there's that place a few blocks over that's got a couple intact. I could fix the garden.

Until Nyx takes the whole Sand Kingdom, and Sharp-eyes will get rid of it all anyway. The dragons in this town are never going to come back.

But I could fix it. I could be useful, I could be good, I could be—

Go to sleep, Clearsight.

Just go to sleep.

But I can't stop wondering, what if? What if the reason Sharp-eyes hasn't let us go is because all of this is playing into some long game? Because we're helping him, in some way I can't see yet?

I curl up into myself, hoping that will help my brain shut up, put me at ease, whatever. It doesn't.

Or maybe we just really don't matter, and there's nothing we can do. I shove that thought away. No. I am not going lie down and die before he does.

After hours and hours of staring up at the ceiling, wondering if I'll ever be able to rest again, I finally manage to pass out.

I dream that I'm falling, falling, falling, until I'm back in the dungeon of a castle that was never mine in the first place.

Just like always, Allknowing stares back at me, slumped behind bars. Just like always, I come with an old loaf of bread, a piece of prey, some water, something to keep her alive. Something to remind myself, This is the right path. No matter what, I will always be a better queen than her.

She says, "So you've given up now, huh? What happened to that dragon with stars in her eyes, who thought she could solve everything with a few nice words?"

"I never had stars in my eyes. And I never ran into fights that I couldn't win."

Allknowing laughs. "Keep telling yourself that."

I turn around. "You aren't a ghost, and you don't get to haunt me. Not after everything you put me through. I don't care about you. You don't mean anything to me. You were a horrible dragon, and I wish–"

"You wish you'd killed me? You wished you'd been ruthless? You wish you'd looked out for yourself first, you wish–"

"No. I don't." But as I say it, I can feel my talons moving, feel myself drawing out my knife.

"You should have." As the knife goes into her throat, blood pools in her mouth, bubbles up from the wound. "You'd be better for it. Your dragonets would still be with you. Your kingdom would still be yours–at least for some time."

I dig the knife in deeper. "You're wrong!" I scream. "You're wrong you're wrong you're wrong!"

"Everything is spiralling out of control. And there's nothing you can do. You can't help anyone! You can't even help the dragons you love!" she accuses, and that's it–that's enough to light a fire beneath me.

I plunge the knife into her chest, and I scream, staring up at the moons. You did this to me.

Just as she starts to die, I turn back, and find my children, blank-eyed. Watching.

***

I wake up to talons shaking my shoulders. "Clearsight! Clearsight, wake up!" Darkstalker shouts. I'm standing in what used to be a living room, and the morning light through the curtains still feels blinding. My throat is sore, and my neck hurts. I can see the dust floating through the air.

I'm not in bed–I'm standing in what used to be a kitchen, and I'm holding onto my husband with a death grip.

It's not a vision. Just a nightmare. Never before have I been able to reassure myself, that bad dreams were just that.

"Hey, hey–it's okay. I've got you," he says softly. By all the moons, he looks tired. "What were you dreaming about?"

I look away. "Allknowing."

I'm not the one who needs taking care of, a small, stubborn part of me wants to retort. I'm not the one who's falling apart at the seams right now.

You're the one I have to protect.

"Well, it's not real. You're safe now," he reassures me, like I'm two years old. "I've got you."

I listen to the beat of his heart–a loud, violent thumping sound. I think, we're alive.  But if Nyx attacked right now, there would be nothing I could do.

"It's the middle of the day," I murmur, rubbing my eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I told you. I can't sleep." He looks exhausted. He looks old. I'm sure I do too.

I glimpse the sea of papers he's pinned to the walls–mostly maps, frantic scribblings, connected together by strng.

He follows my gaze.

"It's stupid. Not getting me anywhere. I keep trying to think–where Shadowhunter would go, if she had any say in where she was going. Or where the most advantageous place to be in this kingdom is right now."

"Shadowhunter doesn't really... think like that," I offer. "She just does. That's what drove me crazy about her–she's... so difficult to predict. Even when you have all the available information." Which I don't. Which I will never have again.

"She's going to run away from the war, if she has any say in it. Don't you think?"

I try to picture that for a moment. "Or run toward it, screaming, take that, Sharp-eyes. She's got to hate him. If she knows what he did to us–I mean–she killed Queen Vigilance."

Maybe she's grown up, maybe she's changed. But deep down, she was always that way. She doesn't put up with anyone crossing her, and she doesn't put up with anyone crossing us. Even when it puts her in harm's way.

"Maybe we can find something in this house–some records of what happened," Darkstalker says tiredly. "It's just about the best-preserved house in the town, we chose it for a reason. I feel like these dragons were important."

I glance down the long, dark hall. We haven't actually explored that far. It feels like a violation, to intrude on the owner's business anymore than I have to. But maybe he's right, maybe we do have to. 

"Honey?" I say softly. "Can you just... hold me?"

***

I can hardly stand up straight, vision starting to blur as the day starts to wane. I should be waking up right now, I think.

I slump into the blankets, because I'm not sure how long I can hold up my own weight anymore, and I curl up close to my husband. The light streams in through the cracks in the curtains we put up, and if I hold up my talon to the light, I can cast different shadows on the walls.

My mind still spins. Still keeps trying to imagine pathways, no matter how stupid and futile that is. But it feels just a tiny bit duller, softer now.

"When we were kids," Darkstalker mumbles. "Whiteout and I used to make shadow puppets."

He takes my talons in his, carefully guiding them. "There–that's... hold still... that's a dragon."

I move my talons across the wall, and laugh. My head hurts, and my eyes are heavy with exhaustion. A smile curls across my mouth.

"And... here." He furrows his brow, linking his two talons together. "This is a butterfly."

I copy him, and we exchange half a smile. I watch our shadows move across the wall.

"This is a scavenger, isn't it?" I hold my talons straight up, holding two claws out so they look like arms. Darkstalker laughs. "No, no, that's all wrong."

"So how do you do it then?"

"Can't remember."

He leans into me, and I can hear his heart beating in the quiet. Feel the rise and fall of his breath.

For a moment, I don't think– about the end of the world, about the war, about cosmic insignificance. I think about love, and how glad I am I have it. 

How when I look at him, half asleep–see the peaceful expression on his face–I only see him, as he is, right now. For half a second, that's not so bad.

***

A few days after we arrived, soldiers from Nyx came in droves.

I was asleep, and my husband woke me, shaking my shoulders. The moment I came to, I heard him whisper, "Stay quiet and don't move."

I blinked, looking around, trying to put together the pieces. Why could I hear wingbeats, and loud, stomping steps going right by through the curtains.

Our eyes met. He didn't need to say. I didn't move, didn't breathe.

Oh. This is it. This is when I die.

And then I heard wingbeats again, getting more and more distant, until the streets had gone silent. 

And we stayed there–huddled close together, barely daring to breathe, until hours had passed. Darkstalker gradually pulled away from me. Stood up, walked toward the door.

"What are you doing?" I hissed,

Darkstalker didn't answer. Went to the door, and stepped outside, shouted. "HEY! ANY ONE OF YOU STILL LEFT? 'CAUSE IF YOU ARE, THEN I'M READY FOR A FIGHT, YOU–"

I ran out after him.

"What are you doing!" I shouted, drawing my knife, preparing myself to race into battle at a moment's notice. "Have you lost your mind? Do you have a death wish?"

He looked at me, dazed. Like for a moment, he wasn't entirely sure how to answer.

We stood there in silence, in the middle of the street. No one came.

***

I stare at the first room down a long hallway.

"I know this place isn't haunted, and that's silly to say," I say to my husband. "But..."

"Oh, no, I'm with you. It's definitely haunted," Darkstalker jokes.

After a fair amount of cursing and straining, we manage to get through the door. I brush away the cobwebs with my wing. The walls are painted a cheerful shade of buttercup yellow. Scrolls spill out on the floor.

"Someone's dragonet lived here. A family, then," I murmur, examining the little picture scrolls.

"We're not going to find anything here," Darkstalker says with a sigh. "We need an office, or something like that."

He's right, already heading out the door.

"Just give me a moment," I say as he leaves.

I notice a stuffie on the floor--a camel, with little button-eyes sewn on. A ceramic bowl, broken into two. On its side, a dragonet wrote: Horizon.

The window is broken, and I carefully step over shards of broken glass. 

I clean up the glass. I'm not sure what to do about the jagged fragments remaining on the windowframe.

I arrange the pieces of the bowl on the windowsill, and leave.

***

The next room down the hall looks like another bedroom, painted the same shade of yellow.  I notice pictures on the floor, covered in grime, but still intact. I pick them up, and try to brush away the dust.

Darkstalker furrows his brow, running a claw over the painting. "Wow. This is beautiful. I wonder how they found someone to do a picture like this in a town this small. They must have been important, to go to the trouble--see I told you!"

"Maybe they were government?" I shrug.

"You're probably right, but hear me out: maybe they were in a crime family, and they ran away here and took on a new identity."

I laugh. "It wouldn't be the craziest thing that's happened to us, would it?"

"If they're government, that's good. Somewhere in this house, there's got to be some kind of record of what happened, right?" He sighs. "Or, at least we've got a chance."

It's massive, for a painting, full of intricate details. Two SandWings stand proudly behind two dragonets. They look strikingly similar–one is about Shadowhunter's age, and one can't be older than two. The youngest has golden eyes, like little suns, and spiralling horns liks his father. His older sibling has a big grin that reminds me of my daughter's. Just a bit. At the bottom of the painting, on a small metal plate, their names have been embossed: Summer, pictured with his daughters, Horizon and Mirage.

It's just a painting. But they really look like they love each other, and I hope it's not just artistic license.

Summer. It takes me a moment to remember the statue from earlier. "Honey, I think he was the dragon that statue was of." What did he do to deserve that kind of love?

I wonder if he gave out an evacuation order, or if dragons just started leaving. Maybe he was a terrible leader, but I want to believe he cared. Want to believe he tried until the end.

"This must have been his room. Their father," Darkstalker says, nodding at the wreckage. "I wonder what happened to their mother."

I don't think it's our story to know.

I hope they're okay.

I hope they're happy, wherever they are.

***

We stare at what at first glance looks like an art studio, and at second glance looks like a bedroom. The walls have been painted over, at first by a sloppy artist, clearly a little dragonet. I think she's trying to draw herself, at various iterations of her life. There's a knocked-over easel on the floor, and a box of art supplies lying on its side.

Mirage was the older one in the painting, I assume this must be hers. I can't help but be reminded of my own daughter--and from the look in Darkstalker's eyes, he seems to have drawn the same connection.

"When Sharp-eyes wins," I say quietly. "What do you think he'll do with all this?"

Darkstalker glares down at the ground. "Get rid of it. Obviously. I doubt he gives a damn."

And what am I going to do about it?

"If we see her again, I'll let Eclipse paint all over her bedroom walls." I watch the light glint off the charms on my bracelet. The missing has stopped feeling like an ache. Now, it burns inside of me. A low, bitter drumbeat.

***

There's a study, in the very back of the house. Aside from a few papers on the floor, it seems largely untouched.

There used to be an oil lamp on the desk, now shattered. I notice a name-plate on the floor, and put it back up where it belongs, reading: Governor Summer. I imagine him staying up thinking, well past all the stars had come out. I wonder if he was the one who gave the order to evacuate.

I sit down on the floor, and I brush aside a heap of papers. I glance over at my husband. "He must have been like you. Remember how bad your office was?"

"Your office was worse," Darkstalker retorts, shoving me. "After a while, I just stopped going in there–it was an active warzone."

"It was organized chaos. And I tried to tidy it up--I had a whole routine," I scoff. "Yours was just chaos. There's a difference."

"It takes one to know one, Clearsight." He fights off a smile.

I shove him back. "Shut up," I mutter.

I look at the little trinkets he has lined up on the shelves. Darkstalker rifles through the papers, scanning over lines of text. I try to ignore the creeping feeling at the back of my neck, like someone is watching me, even though no one is watching me.

"Doesn't this just... remind you a little bit too much of what Sharp-eyes did to us? Doesn't it bother you?" I blurt, because I can't keep it in anymore.

Darkstalker shrugs. "We're not Sharp-eyes. We're looking for our dragonets."

Just because I can follow that logic through doesn't mean it sits quite right in my chest.

"Here, look at this." My husband passes me a memo.

Quicksand,

I've been getting reports of Nyx's forces drawing closer to the Eastern Dunes. I'm trying not to show it, but I'm starting to get a little worried. I heard from Queen Scorpion weeks and weeks ago that a unit of soldiers would be coming to protect us, that I should try to recruit as many dragons as possible to fight. But since then, I haven't heard a thing, and dragons are getting nervous. More and more of them have been leaving each day, and I don't think they're coming back.

Have you noticed anything in Vulture Pass? I'm starting to think that protecting these dragons is going to fall on me, and I'm not sure I'm up to the task. The girls are both terrified–if we survive this whole nightmare, I promise, we'll find the time to come and visit. Horizon keeps asking questions. How do you explain war to someone so innocent?

I can't bear it.

Your friend,

Summer

I skim over Quicksand's reply on the other side, only half-interested.

"It's sweet, but it's useless," Darkstalker says bluntly. "We need to find something about the earthquake. That must have happened... sometime shortly after this letter."

"Listen to this one," I say, after rooting through many internal memos between Summer and the dragons in his council. "Dear Governor, I apologize for the lack of troops sent for your protection. I'll be totally honest with you: it's a big kingdom, with a small population, and an even smaller group willing to fight an unwinnable war. We're up against someone who can blink his soldiers in and out of existence whenever he likes—so by the time we get there, it's too late. Sharp-eyes is aware of this. He's whittling us down, little town by little town. Which is why I'm sending out an order to you and your colleagues: come to Scorpion Den. Take your families, take your subjects, take whatever remains. I wouldn't ask you to do it if I didn't believe you needed to do it to survive.

I'm not going to sit in a castle and watch you all die.

Yours,

Queen Scorpion."

Darkstalker leans over my shoulder. "Sent out a couple weeks ago. That must be where they all went."

He picks up another piece of correspondence: "Summer, I'm sorry to hear your town was struck by an earthquake. Out of nowhere, you say? Are you sure that it wasn't something to do with the Emperor? It doesn't seem like his usual style, but it's unusual for such phenomenon to be so specific to one small location, and to happen without any precedent. Horrible timing, too. I'm sorry about the school, about all the dragons leaving. I'm sure Mirage will come back soon, she's always been that way. She's five, she just thinks she's rebelling. But I hope she doesn't lose her brain out there--this isn't the time for a dragonet to be running around a warzone.   If there's anything I can do, just say the word. My sympathies, Quicksand."

I turn over the back of the page, and sort through the heaps of parchment, hoping for Summer's reply. But why would Summer have a copy of it? I'm sure it's sitting on the desk of some governor one town over, who's almost certainly dead by now. For not the first time, I remind myself: we're in occupied territory.

Reluctantly, I approach the desk, and I open up the drawers. Inside is ornate stationery, enough bottles of ink to last a lifetime.

I notice something glinting, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. Pyrite. Fool's gold. I remove the little paperweight, and unfold the piece of paper below it on the desk.

Dear Mirage,

I'm not sure where you are now. I've done my best to track you down, but I can't find you, and I can't stay here with Horizon anymore. I've lost control. Most of the town is gone now, after the earthquake, after news of the soldiers drew closer.

So I'm heading with Horizon to Scorpion Den. I know, its reputation is a mixed bag, but it's not like it used to be. Queen Scorpion promised us refuge there, she said it's the best-defended place in the Sand Kingdom. And it's where everyone is headed right now, in the hopes that we'll be stronger together, and not just a sitting target. We'll be staying on 134 Rattlesnake Lane. The queen herself sent out an invitation.

I hope we'll see you there, dearest.

Please be safe.

Love,

Dad

Darkstalker and I exchange a glance.

***

We stand by the broken window, looking out at the sunrise. The morning light glints off the jagged edges of the glass, and a slight breeze blows behind the curtains.

I lean into my husband's shoulder, and I close my eyes.

We don't say a single word, and I don't think I've understood him as well as I do now, not for weeks.

"This is what we wanted, isn't it? This is what we always thought about, when things were too hard, or too real," I say softly, taking his talon in mine.

My husband raises his eyebrows. "Sure. We just dreamed of hiding out in someone else's house that's liable to cave in at any given moment, chasing after ghosts."

"You know what I mean."

He's quiet for a moment, then lets out a heavy sigh, seeming to rattle through his chest.

"Clearsight. It's a fantasy. You and I never would have been content with an ordinary life for long. It's never good enough–and maybe that's what made us able to do the things we did. Maybe–" Darkstalker hesitates. "Maybe it means we'll never be happy. I don't know. What do we have to lose by leaving, Clearsight? Maybe we're chasing after nothing, maybe someone in Scorpion Den can tell us what happened to Shadowhunter. What does it matter?"

"What do we have to lose?!" I shout, pulling away from him. I don't know why, but that's what gets me. "I have you! Us!" The words seem to scrape against my throat. "If we mess up–anything could happen. A soldier could sneak up out of the shadows and kill you, Sharp-eyes himself could appear and take us back to that place, forever. You could be poisoned, you could drop dead tomorrow for no apparent reason! You could run into a battle you can't win, like you're invincible! You aren't invincible anymore, and neither am I, and–"

"I don't care! It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting our family back!" he roars in response, face contorting in a sudden fury. Or maybe it's not fury, maybe I can't see it right in the dim light.

"You're part of our family too!" I shout back. "Don't you get it? I can't protect you!" I haven't really admitted it to myself until that moment. "And if you die, it's not gonna be my fault. If Shadowhunter–if we find her, and she's–" I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to collapse into the floor. In my mind, I'm trying to breathe, trying to bear the pain, trying to hold it together, trying to keep myself from going crazy one more day. "It has to be my fault. It has to be–"

He reaches out hesitantly. Like he's just a little bit scared of me.

Good. He should know how it feels for a change, a small, bitter voice in the back of my mind whispers.

I don't know what expression passes over my face–but whatever it is, it's enough to make him pull away.

"So what? We give up? We stay here forever? This isn't who you are, Clearsight. You're a fighter. You're the bravest dragon I know."

We stare at each other for a moment.

"I just don't want it to be you," I plead.

"You think I'm useless without my magic, is that it?" he retorts. "I don't need protection. I can fight. I can–I can—I'm not going to sit in the shadows and cower. I'm going to make anyone who crosses our family pay. I'm done with this. I'm done," he growls.

I know that's not the truth, not even close to it. But I'm tired, and I can tell he is too.

He looks away, jaw clenched. Funny, how you learn to recognize the little things like that over the years. The slightest change in pitch, the tiniest breath.

"For the moon's sake." He lets out a breath. "We just can't fit it through our brains, can we–that the world isn't waiting for our opinions anymore. It's not our continent. We're not the most powerful dragons anymore. I think we might be the most fundamentally self-centred dragons on the planet."

He starts to laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and no matter how hard I try to fight it, I can feel myself starting to giggle too.

"We are, aren't we?" I say softly, the realization dawning. I wipe the tears off my cheeks. "You know–when I was little, I used to think that–that if I sat with the wrong dragon at lunch or checked out this scroll from the library, the entire world would come crashing down. And it was true." I laugh until it doesn't feel funny at all anymore.

Darkstalker looks over to me in the fading light.

"Clearsight, if we don't go now, we're going to end up dying here."

"You're being dramatic," I mutter.

We're quiet for a moment.

"I know we have to go," I say softly. I imagine how different things would be, if I had to do this alone. The long, empty silences, the creaks and groans of the house in the night. Imagine I'm the one who has to keep going, in search of our dragonets, who I might never see again. If I don't have my family, if I don't have my power–

"Can we just stay one more night?" 

***

That night, I stand out on the street, staring up at the stars. I can hear the buzzing of insects, a distant wind.

"I have no idea what happens next, love. That's what gets me. We could be walking into a death trap. This could all be one prolonged way to torture us. I could wake up back inside that cell." I could be alone, forever.

I grab onto my husband's talon.

"I guess... that's the risk we've got to take. We get to mess up. And... be stupidly, agonizingly normal." Darkstalker sighs. "We asked for this, didn't we?"

I want to disagree, but then I remember–all those times I cursed my power, desperately trying to get my visions to leave me alone. Maybe he's right. Maybe we'll spend the rest of our lives chasing after things we can't have.

"I'm scared," I say softly, my voice growing thick. "That you're going to die. And I'm going to have to do this alone. I'm scared I can't handle it. I'm scared I can't help anyone. I'm scared this is how my life is going to end. I'm scared you're right, and none of this matters in the end." I look over to him. "Don't you just get the feeling, like things have gone too well? Like eventually, it's all bound to fall apart?"

Darkstalker holds onto me a little tighter. "I'm scared too, you know." He doesn't meet my eyes, talks like he's telling it to the stars and not to me.

"I know," I say quietly. "I've known since Agate Mountain."

I expect him to say something desperately, depressingly optimistic. Try to make me laugh. Instead, he buries his face in my shoulder, and says, "Let's just keep holding onto each other. As long as we can."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

I watch as a shooting star streaks across the sky, and by the time I've thought of what to wish for, it's gone.

***

We rise early, when it's still light out. Pack up our things. I think of those letters–of a father who loved his daughters, and this little town more than anything. I make sure the half-destroyed kitchen is as tidy as I can get it. I almost write them a note, but I can't think of how to start, or what exactly to say.

I hope they come back here, someday.

As the sun starts to set, Darkstalker and I walk out the door, onto the rubble-filled street. I realize, I'm never coming back here again.

"We should leave something behind," I say softly, staring at the sprawling house, thinking about the dragons who lived here. We loved each other, once upon a time.

"What do you mean?" Darkstalker asks.

"In case Shadowhunter comes through here, someday." I stare at the haphazard wooden beams we put in, to try and stop the porch from collapsing, the door we put in. I hope it stays like this after we're gone.

Neither of us say what we both know: that the odds of her coming here are next to none, and even still, how would she know how to find us?

But I need to do it. I need to leave some proof–that I was here. That I tried.

I take out my knife, and I etch out a lightning bolt into one of the beams.

Darkstalker half-smiles, getting the reference without me needing to say it out loud. He grabs the knife, carving into the wood: See you in Scorpion Den, Lightning Flash.