When Dragons Burn

Chapter 3

.Chapter 3

Rayna

Up close he didn’t look like any “hiker” I’d ever pulled off a trail. He was half-buried in leaves and small branches, the kind of debris that slides down during a storm. Mud streaked his back and legs. Bare feet, skin scraped to raw. His right arm lay twisted under him at an angle that made my stomach go tight. The left side of his ribs—what I could see through a torn shirt—was a mess. Four long gashes, deep enough that the edges looked pulled apart, like something with weight behind it had raked him hard.

“Hey,” I said, low and steady, because I’ve learned people in pain hear tone before words. “I’m here to help. I’m going to touch you.”

I slid a hand under his jaw to feel for a pulse. Strong. Faster than I liked, but not erratic. I tilted his head gently, checked his airway. No gurgle, no obstruction. Breathing shallow but regular. A low sound came out of him when I moved his shoulder—half growl, half breath. I paused and kept my palm where he could feel it. “You’re okay. Don’t try to move.”

I needed to get him on his back to really see. Space was tight under the laurel. I cleared branches away with my forearms and used my shoulder to lift his weight just enough to free the trapped arm. When it came loose, he flinched hard. I caught his wrist to stabilize it and felt heat. Not fever-warm. Hot. Like he’d been leaning against a space heater. It wasn’t normal, but I filed it under Not Useful Right Now.

“Arm’s bad,” I told him, even though he was barely there. “We’ll splint it.”

The gashes worried me more. They weren’t from a fall. They weren’t from a small animal. Claw-like was the only honest word. The edges were ragged, and blood kept pooling despite the cold rain. I tore open my small kit and went straight for the big dressings. I talked while I worked, for him and for me. “I’m Rayna. I work EMS. I’m going to put pressure here. It’s going to hurt. I’m sorry.”

I pressed a stack of gauze over the deepest cut and leaned with my weight. He stiffened and made another broken sound. “I know,” I said, and held steady. Blood soaked the first pad fast. I swapped in another without losing pressure and wrapped a bandage around his chest, anchoring it under his arm and across his back. The wrap stuck to rain and mud and my cold hands. When I tugged it tight, he hissed a word I didn’t recognize.

“Save it,” I muttered. “Complain later.”

I checked his pupils with the small penlight I keep in my kit. They reacted. He wasn’t bleeding into his lungs—no froth, no bubbling at the mouth. That was something. The arm needed a splint. I used a straight branch I’d cleared, padded it with my spare T-shirt from the pack, and secured it with elastic wrap and a strip of duct tape I keep looped around a water bottle. Not pretty. Stable enough.

“What did this to you?” I asked, not expecting an answer. The forest gave me rain on leaves and a branch popping in the wind for reply.

I pulled the foil blanket open and tucked it around him to slow the heat loss from shock. It crinkled loud under the laurel. “I know it feels stupid when you’re already hot,” I said, because he was radiating warmth like a furnace. “Humor me.”

Phone next. I slid it out, tried 911, and got the red “SOS” where bars should be. The call didn’t even try to connect. I held it up in case the slope offered a better angle. Nothing. I typed a quick text to Tess anyway—Found injured hiker. No signal. Heading to ranger cabin. If this sends, send help to North Ridge trailhead. It sat in “Not Delivered” and made my chest feel hollow.

There was a ranger cabin a mile back, maybe less. I could get him there if I could get him out from under the laurel and onto the trail proper. The poncho would have to be the sled. I shoved my pack aside, slid the poncho under his shoulders as far as I could, and then rolled him an inch at a time, using my legs and the ground for leverage. Every time I moved him, the bandage over his ribs seeped through and I had to check it. He was heavy. I’m not big. You figure it out anyway.

When I got him onto the poncho, I folded the top over his chest, tucked the sides, and tied the hood string across like a strap. I looped the poncho’s bottom corners around my forearms. “This will suck,” I told him and myself both. “But it’s better than bleeding in a bush.”

He made a short sound that could’ve been a laugh if it had more air in it.

“Good. You have a sense of humor. We’ll get along.”

The first pull was the worst. The poncho slid, then stuck, then slid. Mud sucked at it. I leaned my weight back and walked, careful and slow, keeping his head steady with my knee when the angle changed. The trail, once I got him onto it, helped. Water ran along the low side, and the mud there was smoother. My boots tracked, slipped, caught. My thighs burned. I counted steps in tens. Stopped to recheck the bandage after each set. His pulse stayed fast. His breathing stayed shallow but even.

Once, I felt him tense like he wanted to sit up. “Don’t,” I said, firm. “Stay down. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He settled. I kept moving.

Miron

The world smelled wet and metallic and human.

I had my face turned into leaves and mud because the cool mattered more than the grit. The heat in my ribs wanted out, wanted to take shape and burn, but the Shroud’s pressure sat on my skin like a hand, and I held it. Bones should not shift with the veil this thin. See, I remember my training even now.

The human’s voice came and went like sound under water. She said her name. Rayna. She lied about the warmth; I was not cold. The bandage helped anyway. Her touch steadied things I didn’t want steady. I should have pushed her away. Bad choice to let a witness live. Worse choice to let a witness touch.

But her hands were sure. She talked like people talk when they’ve done this a hundred times and can do it again. Her heartbeat stuttered, then found a pace. She swore at the tape under her breath and apologized when the pressure hurt. No fear-scent, only focus and that sharp mint and alcohol smell. Not like the Shadowflame boy, who grinned while he cut.

When she pulled, the world narrowed to the tug in my shoulder and the throb in my side. I tried to push with my feet and my right hand. The arm wouldn’t answer. She told me to stay, and my muscles obeyed without my permission.

I counted thunder until the numbers lost meaning and then just listened to her breathing. It settled me in a way I can’t justify.

Rayna

The rain eased to a steady sheet, which I appreciated because I was sweating under my jacket and shivering at the same time. The trail back felt longer than the way up. Every small rise took two pulls and a curse. The foil blanket made a low rasp with each inch. Twice I had to stop and clear branches by hand. Blood kept showing at the edge of the dressing, but slower. When I peeled a corner to check, the wound looked… not better exactly, but different. The edges seemed less raw than they should have after this much time. I didn’t understand it, and I didn’t need to. I added another dressing and tightened the wrap.

“You with me?” I asked. I don’t like moving people unconscious if I can help it.

His mouth moved. The word sounded like “stop” but not in my language. Accent? Or the injury slurring his mouth. “Not stopping,” I said. “There’s a cabin. That’s our goal. You can yell at me later.”

A small noise that could have been approval, or pain, or both.

We reached the part of the trail that ran near the small service road. The cabin sat off that, tucked under a stand of firs. I prayed it would be unlocked. I’ve been on enough calls to know the difference between a nice idea and the thing that actually saves a life. A roof mattered. A door mattered. A radio would matter even more.

The last stretch felt like hauling a soaked rug up a flight of stairs. My arms shook. The poncho caught on a root and tried to fold back on itself. I had to wedge my foot against a rock and pull until something in my shoulder popped and went cold. “Fine,” I told it. “You can complain later too.”

When the cabin finally came into view—a squat shape with dark windows and a porch that leaned a little—I wanted to cry from relief. I didn’t. I saved it for later. I dragged him to the step and propped him with my knee while I tried the door. Locked. Of course. There’s a universal key for these if you’re official. I am not official here. I scanned the porch for a spare. Nothing under the mat. Nothing over the frame. I considered the window. Breaking it would leave glass everywhere. Bleeding and glass don’t mix.

I knocked anyway. “Ranger? Anyone?” The storm answered.

There was a lockbox. Combination style. Sometimes the code is something dumb like the year the park opened. I tried the obvious: 0-0-0-0. No. 1-9-6-8, a guess. No. I wiped rain off the face and squinted at the worn numbers. The three and the seven had more scratches than the rest. I tried 3-7-3-7. No. 7-3-7-3. No. I took a breath and looked around again.

A metal tag hung from a nail with an emergency number and the cabin’s ID. Useless without signal. I slid the tag aside and saw someone had scribbled a tiny “PS: 7-3-1-3” on the wood behind it in pencil. “If this opens,” I told the sky, “I owe you a tip jar.” It opened. I laughed, high and a little wild.

Inside, the air was cold and smelled like dust and old coffee. A cot, a small table, a two-way radio on a shelf, and a first-aid box mounted to the wall. I propped the door with my hip, turned, and hauled him inside one hard pull at a time. The floor made it easier. I laid him on the cot. It creaked but held.

I checked his bandage again. The bleeding slowed more. His skin still felt too hot under my palm. I wanted to strip the rest of the wet shirt away, but I didn’t have dry clothes for him and the cabin wasn’t heated. Priorities: stop bleeding, keep him warm, call for help.

The radio had a laminated instruction card. I followed it, pressed transmit, and called out the ID on the tag with my location and situation. Nothing. I tried again. The third time, a wash of static answered, then a faint voice that could have been a person or just the storm. I repeated the call and added, “Male, mid-thirties maybe, multiple lacerations, possible fracture, conscious but altered, significant blood loss. Requesting immediate assistance.”

Static. Then, faint: “Copy… storm… repeat… location.”

I repeated it slower. “North Ridge service cabin, mile marker twelve. Patient unstable. Requesting evac when the storm passes enough to move.”

“C… py. Hold… there. Ranger en route when… safe.”

It wasn’t a promise, but it was better than silence.

I boiled water on the small camp stove—blessed whoever left fuel—and poured it into my thermos to warm my hands. I offered him a sip. He swallowed and choked. “Small sips,” I said. “Don’t drown on me.”

“Don’t… drown,” he repeated, rough, like the words were new.

“Good. You can follow commands. That’s a point in your favor.”

I cut the rest of his ruined shirt away and slid a dry blanket from the shelf over him. When I brushed the edge of the bandage, his eyes opened. They were a strange color—brown with an edge I couldn’t place, like the way metal looks when it’s too hot. It could have been the light. It could have been me seeing things after too many hours in the rain.

“It hurts,” he said, voice low.

“I know.” I set two fingers against his wrist again. Pulse a little slower. “We got you out of the mud. Help is coming. Don’t move if you can help it.”

His gaze went to my hands. “You’re small,” he said, almost puzzled.

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re heavy.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Humor? Heat? The foil blanket crinkled when he breathed. The storm shifted outside, wind hitting the cabin from a new angle and making the door shiver in its frame.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He hesitated like names cost something. “My...ron,” he said finally, the syllables clipped. "With an I. Miron."

“Miron,” I repeated. “Okay. Miron, I’m Rayna. Try to keep your eyes open for a minute.” I watched him do it, stubborn as a mule, which made me like him and want to shake him at the same time.

The radio cracked again. “Unit… approaching… thirty minutes… roads bad… hold.”

“Copy,” I said. I looked at Miron, then at the rain on the window. Thirty minutes can be eternity or a blink. I checked his breathing again, checked the bandage again, checked my own shaking hands, and told them to cut it out.

“Rayna,” he said, quiet, testing my name like he wasn’t sure of the shape. “You shouldn’t have… stayed.”

“Too late,” I said, and pulled the blanket higher over his chest. “You’re stuck with me.”