Sarak’s snarl rattles the windows. “Then we starve it permanently.”
He lifts me off his lap, sets me on the cot like I’m made of glass. “Stay.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Daddy.”
He stalks to the forge, yanks open a drawer, and pulls out a small iron box. Inside: a vial of dragon blood, his, thick and shimmering like liquid ruby. He uncorks it, tips a single drop onto the fire stone. The cracks drink it greedily, crimson veins retreating to a dull glow.
“Temporary patch,” he says. “But it’ll buy us a day.”
I watch, awed. “You just… carry that around?”
“Dragons hoard what’s precious.” He meets my eyes. “Including blood. And elves.”
My cheeks heat. “Sap.”
“Brat,” Sarak chuckles. He pockets the vial, then hauls me up by the wrist. “Gear. Now.”
We dress together, me in my patched tunic and cloak, him in leather and steel. Sarak buckles a short sword to my hip, fingers lingering.
“You know how to use this?”
“I prefer illusions and running away,” I admit. “But I can stab if I need to. It. all depends on the motivation.”
He taps my nose. “Motivation: don’t make me spank you in front of mercenaries.”
I salute. “Yes, sir.”
Outside, the village is waking. Smoke curls from chimneys; children peek from doorways. Hanna the baker waves nervously. Sarak nods, all gruff reassurance. I catch whispers,dragon’s mate, cursed elf, Revaster’s wrath, and feel my spine straighten.
Let them talk. I’ve got a dragon at my back.
We’re halfway across the square when the fire stonescreams.
Not metaphorically. An actual, glass-shattering shriek that drops me to my knees. Villagers clap hands to ears. Sarak snarls, shielding me as the stone rips free of its chain, hovering in midair. Cracks spiderweb wider; black smoke pours out, moving into a spectral hound the size of a horse. Its eyes are Revaster’s, cold, cruel, amused.
“Thief,” it hisses, voice layered with a thousand screams. “You think a dragon’s kiss can sever my claim? I forged this leash in the bones of your ancestors. Return it or watch this village join the ashes of your kin.”
Sarak steps forward, sword drawn. “Over my charred corpse.”
The hound laughs. “Gladly. I still remember your clan’s screams, Sarak of the Emberfall Line. Your mother begged so desperately....”
Sarak’s snarl is pure dragon. “Youknewmy kin?”
“Iendedthem,” the hound sneers. “Their blood fueled my rise. Your little elf is just the latest in a long line of toys.”
Rage ignites in Sarak’s eyes, molten gold. I grab his arm. “Don’t listen. It’s baiting you.”
But the damage is done. Sarak lunges. The hound meets him midair, smoke and fire clashing. They crash through the well, wood splintering.
I scramble up, heart in my throat. “Sarak!”
He roars, pinned beneath the beast. The fire stone spins above them, drinking the chaos. I feel its pull,come to me, little thief, feed me, and my knees buckle.
No. Not like this.
I draw the short sword, channel every scrap of elf magic I have. Illusions bloom: a dozen Saraks, a hundred Gambles, a storm of phantom fire. The hound snarls, confused, striking at shadows. I dart beneath its guard, slash at the tether, a glowing cord of crimson linking hound to stone.
The hound howls, rounding on me. Sarak surges up, wraps an arm around its neck, andbreathes. Dragon fire engulfs the beast, turning smoke to ash. The tether snaps. The fire stone plummets to the ground.
