Sarak spins, his tail lashing, and roars. The sound cracks the night open. Windows shatter. Lanterns gutter. My knees try to fold.
I should run.
I know what this is. Or at least I think I do. And it most definitely isn’t what I bargained for.
Instead, I watch, totally transfixed, as Sarak becomes something between man and myth: wings half-unfurled, horns curling from his hair, every line of him screamingprotector. The second hunter goes down with a sword I didn’t see him draw. The third turns tail and flees, yelping.
Silence falls, broken only by the crackle of dying flames and my own ragged breathing.
Sarak turns to me.
I watch as his scales recede, but his eyes still glow ember-bright.
“Inside,” he says. “It’s not a request.”
I open my mouth—some quip, some deflection—but the artifact chooses that moment to flare. Pain lances through my chest, white-hot. I double over, gasping. Sarak is there in two strides, one massive hand cupping my elbow, the other pressing over the artifact through my tunic. His palm is furnace-warm and my pain ebbs to a dull throb.
“Stubborn little thief,” Sarak mutters. “What in the nine hells did you steal?”
I manage a shaky laugh.
“Family heirloom. Long story,” I reply. “Involves curses, bad decisions, and a warlord with a face like a boiled boot.”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile.
“Save it. You’re bleeding on my cobblestones.”
I glance down. A shallow slice across my ribs, nothing serious, but the blood soaks my shirt in a dark bloom.
Sarak’s jaw tightens.
Before I can protest, he scoops me up—scoops me, like I weigh less than the snow on his lashes—and strides toward a forge-lit doorway.
Villagers part like water.
Someone whispers “dragon.”
Someone else whispers “elf.”
Inside the doorway, the heat hits me like a embrace. The forge glows cherry-red; tools hang in neat rows; the air smells of coal and cedar. Sarak sets me on a sturdy bench, none too gently.
“Strip,” he says, his voice firm and gruff.
I arch a brow. “Buy me dinner first.”
Sarak snorts, but there’s no heat in it. “Shirt off, trouble. Let me see the damage.”
I peel the tunic over my head, wincing. The artifact tumbles free on its chain, spinning lazily. It’s a palm-sized disk of black glass veined with crimson, warm as living skin. Sarak’s gaze sharpens.
“Revaster’s seal,” Sarak says flatly. “You didn’t steal a trinket. You stole hisleash.”
“Technically it was already cursed,” I offer. “I just… relocated it.”
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously likebratand fetches a cloth and a basin of steaming water. His hands are surprisingly gentle as he cleans the slice. The cloth stings but Sarak’s touch soothes me.
I study the top of his head—dark hair falling forward, a thin scar along one temple.
“Why help me?” I ask quietly.
