"They whisper?"
He nods, moving closer with that predatory grace that makes me hyperaware of every inch between us.
"Always. In the rustle of pages, the creak of shelves, the particular silence that falls when you're close to what you seek. This library—" he gestures to the chaos beyond, "—is screaming. It wants to be whole again, wants someone to understand its organization, to use it properly."
The passion in his voice when discussing knowledge is oddly attractive. This is Mortimer in his element—not just surviving trials but understanding them, parsing meaning from chaos.
"I can guide you to the closest room," he says, but something in his expression shifts to reluctance. "But if I'm going to guide you telepathically, I can't necessarily 'go' with you."
The limitation makes sense even as it disappoints. Mental energy devoted to maintaining psychic connection means less available for physical manifestation. He can be in my head or at my side, but not both.
"I understand."
The acceptance comes easier than expected.
This feels like purpose, like the reason we're separated—not punishment but puzzle.
"This could potentially be a trial in itself, where I have to retrieve each of our comrades."
Mortimer nods, approval warming his expression.
"Zeke mentioned something similar when I reached him. Each room isn't just physical space—it's psychological. We're each trapped in reflections of our own mental states, our fears, our desires."
"Which is why you could manifest here," I realize. "Because my mental state wanted connection, wanted to not be alone."
"Precisely." He moves closer still, close enough that I can feel heat radiating from his skin—literal heat, dragon fire barely contained in human form. "Zeke believes he should be the last one we reach."
"Why?"
"He's the guide. His trial will be about more than personal demons—it will be about understanding the labyrinth itself. He'll have untapped insight on how to escape, but only after everyone else has been gathered."
The logic is sound if frustrating.
Save the key for last, after collecting all the locks it needs to open.
"Then I should start."
I move to fix my uniform, straightening clothes that got disheveled during our... activities. The leather feels different against my skin now—warmer, as if responding to the dragon blood running through my veins. The white shirt practically glows against the dark material, and when I check the mirror, my reflection looks stronger.
Powerful.
Fed.
"I feel rejuvenated," I admit, rolling my shoulders experimentally. "That blood draw gave me more than just sustenance."
"Dragon blood tends to do that," he says with amusement that makes me want to kiss him again. "Especially given willingly. Especially during..."
He trails off, but we both know what he means.
Blood taken during passion carries different properties than blood taken in battle. One builds connection, the other builds immunity.
"I feel like I could breathe fire."
The joke comes out more serious than intended, because part of me wonders if it's actually possible now.
Mortimer's expression shifts to something between amusement and warning.
"You could test that theory, but try not to do it near anyone's cock."
