His arms tighten until I can barely breathe. “You have me. Always.”
The fire settles into steady flames. Outside, the storm rages on, but in here we are warm, safe, tangled together.
Then, the pool at the back of the cave ripples. Crimson light blooms across its surface.
A face forms… pale, beautiful, cruel. Revaster.
“Well, well,” his voice slithers through the cave like smoke. “The little thief and the last Emberfall dragon. How touching.”
Sarak surges to his feet, shielding me with his body, wings half-unfurled.
“You’re a long way from home, warlord,” Sarak warns, a look of pure hatred in his eyes.
Revaster smiles, all teeth. “Not for long. Enjoy your cave, dragon. When the storm breaks, my hunters will be waiting. And this time, I shall come myself.”
The image shatters into blood-red ripples.
Sarak’s snarl vibrates through the stone. I cling to his back, heart racing.
“Let him come,” I whisper fiercely. “We’ll be ready.”
Sarak turns, cups my face. “Damn right we will.”
He kisses me. This time slow, claiming me deeper, making an unspoken vow.
Outside, the storm howls louder, as if the mountain itself is eager for the coming battle…
Chapter 6
Sarak
The storm breaks at dawn, leaving the world scrubbed clean and glittering. But I can’t help feel that this is a false dawn. I’ve lived too many lives to be fooled into thinking that evil backs down and walks away—Revaster will be back, and he’ll come harder than ever.
Still, the elf and I are safe for now.
We emerge from the cave like survivors of a shipwreck. Gamble’s hair is a wild silver-green halo, my wings stiff from disuse, the fire stone quiet but watchful in its pouch. The sky is a hard, perfect blue. Snow dusts the pines like sugar. For one heartbeat we just breathe it all in and say thanks to the gods who make it all possible.
Then Gamble grins, wicked and bright. “Race you to the bottom of the ridge, Daddy.”
The damn elf is off before I can answer, boots skimming the crust, laughter trailing behind him like bells. I let him win by three strides, mostly because the sight of his buttocks bouncing down the slope is worth the dent to my pride.
The village of Thornhollow nestles across the valley below—timber houses, smoke curling from chimneys, the smell of baking bread and woodsmoke on the wind. It’s smaller than my forge-town, rougher around the edges, but the folk here know dragons. We’ll be accepted, prying eyes won’t run and tell tales to the kinds of people who we don’t need knowing our location.
The inhabitants nod respectfully as we pass; children trail us with wide, curious eyes. Gamble waves like a prince and I simply smile. For a brief moment, it feels like the two of us might just have a life approaching normal. Of course, we both know that right now the truth is something altogether different.
“This way, boy,” I say.
“Got it, Daddy,” Gamble replies, his hand brushing up against me, sending a surge of adrenalin over my body. I know I want to take the next step with him and I’m sure the elf feels the same way too. But that time will have to wait. For now, we have business to discuss.
We find the tavern at the heart of the square: The Embered Hearth. Low beams, roaring fire, the scent of mulled cider and venison stew thick enough to taste. The barkeep—a stout woman with fox-kin ears—takes one look at my size, Gamble’s pointed ears, and the way I keep a proprietary hand on the small of his back, and ushers us to a corner table without a word.
“Best seat in the house,” she says, winking. “On the house if the dragon tells a story later.”
Gamble’s eyes sparkle. “He’s shy.”
I snort smoke. “I’llconsiderit.”
We order enough food for four men and a pony. While we wait, I spread the fire stone on the table between us, wrapped in lead cloth. Gamble pulls a worn leather journal from his pack—his mother’s, pages crammed with cramped elvish script and crude sketches of runes.
