I put my other hand on his other cheek so I am holding his face, then use my thumbs to gently pull his chin down so his mouth is wide open. Moving my face directly above his, I summon all the good things I am made of—love, innocence, agency, joy, and a thousand other things—and then exhale them into his open mouth. They float out of me as a trickle of light, brighter even than the sunlight warming my shoulders, and pool at the back of Golmarr’s throat. I have to force myself not to recoil from the shock of seeing a part of me enter him. A moment later, when he inhales a tiny sip of air into his lungs, the light moves into him with his breath. As it slips down his airway, I shiver and pull away. My hands lose all their warmth and begin to tremble. Cold sweat beads on my brow as I stare at him, waiting to see what happens.
Golmarr gasps a massive breath of air and rolls onto his side, coughing out a big puff of orange smoke that smells like wet charcoal and blood. His eyes flicker open and focus on me, and he leaps to his feet, hand reaching for the sword that always hangs at his hip. But the sword is gone. He spins around searching for it, and then his eyes grow wide as he stares at something over my shoulder.
I turn and see him—the fire dragon, Zhun—where he lies dead atop the pile of rocks. His body looks like rusted stone, and his wings have been burned off so only the bones remain. My heart aches at the sight of him, and it takes me a moment to realize I am feeling sorrow for the great beast.
“Did I kill it?” Golmarr asks, scratching his head. Handfuls of hair break off in his fingers. He shakes the hair from his hand and strides up the rock mound. I gape at him, at his perfect golden skin, at the missing burns. Only his brittle hair and blackened, ruined clothing show the memory of fire. “Look at this thing!” he says, running his hands along the dragon’s dim scales. At the creature’s head, he pauses and scratches his head again. Where there should be an eyeball there is a dried, bloody mess with a dragon-and-emerald-decorated sword hilt sticking out of it. He pulls the weapon free. “My sword? But I don’t remember…” He turns and looks at me, his brow furrowed. His eyes take me in for the first time, studying my long hair, my bloodstained shirt and skirt, and stop on my legs. He lifts his sword between the two of us and snarls, “Who are you, and what did you do with Princess Sorrowlynn?”
My mouth falls open and shut, and then open and shut again. Finally, I turn and look over my shoulder to see if he is speaking to someone else, but we are alone. “What are you talking about, Golmarr?” I ask, thinking my hair might be confusing him, since it has been braided and piled on my head. I run my fingers through my waist-length hair and frown. It feels strange, so I hold a strand of it up and gasp. My hair has changed from kinky curls to glossy waves of brown. I lift my fingers to my face and try not to panic as I press on my skin and bones, wondering if my face has also changed.
Without lowering his sword, Golmarr leaps and hops down the rocks and stops in front of me, his eyes wary. I ask, “Do I look different?”
He examines my face for a moment and then stares intently into my eyes. “No, you look the same. But…” His gaze travels down my clothing and stops on my legs. Looking down, I almost choke.
I plop my butt onto the sand, with my legs stretched in front of me, and run my fingers over smooth, unscarred skin. Tears sting my eyes. I throw my head back and laugh. “Look at my legs, Golmarr!” I cry. “They’re perfect!”
Golmarr puts a hand on his right cheek, rubbing his skin. “My cut cheek is healed,” he says. I bite my bottom lip and nod. His cheek isn’t the only thing that has been healed. Holding his hands out, he examines his fingers. “Look, Sorrowlynn.” He steps up beside me so I can see his hands. They are wide, with long, narrow fingers that are the same golden tan as the rest of him, except for several small white scars on his knuckles. “Those are old scars from fighting,” he explains. “They didn’t go away like your scars.” He looks at his sword and then at the fire dragon, and back at me. “What happened?”
My vision glazes over as I remember. “He was hiding up there.” I point to the cave wall.
“He?” Golmarr asks, glancing around the dragon’s lair.
“The fire dragon was a he. His name was Zhun. When he came out of hiding, he blasted you with fire.” I look up to see if he remembers.
He runs a hand through his long hair, and it rains down around him like pieces of black straw. Next, he examines his stiff, blackened leather vest, the holes scorched into it, the missing metal armor plates, and below, the disintegrating once-white shirt. He lifts his shirt and inspects his suntanned chest. “Where are the burns?” he muses, looking at me. “Did you get burned?”
“Only a little. He ate my arm,” I whisper. Golmarr’s eyes take in my torn sleeve. “And the poison I was holding…and the knife from Melchior.” Pressing against my firm, hard ribs, I add, “He hurt me.” My body shudders with the remembered pain, and I pull my knees against my chest, glad that I am still sitting.
“And?” Golmarr prompts, kneeling in the sand in front of me.