I drag a hand over my face. The scar along my temple throbs—a souvenir from the last time I played hero. That ended with a village in ashes and a dragon’s heart in pieces.
I swore never again.
Yet here I am.
Gamble shifts in his sleep, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously likeMa-ma. The sound cracks me open. I’ve seen that look before—on lost boys, on orphans, on the faces of those Revaster broke just to watch them bleed. My dragon doesn’t care about politics or borders. It only knowsprotect.
I crouch, unhook the fire stone’s chain from around Gamble’s neck with careful fingers. The moment it leaves his skin, the pulsing slows. I hold it up to the forge light. The crimson veins retreat, coiling like serpents. Revaster’s seal is etched into the back… a stylized flame inside a circle of thorns. I’ve seen it branded on slaves, on war banners, on the throats of the dead.
This isn’t just a power source. It’s acollar. And the elf stole the leash.
“Foolish little thief,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. Only awe. The boy is brave, the kind of elf whose name would provoke equal degrees of love and irritation in his home village no doubt.
I set the stone on the anvil, far from his reach, and cover it with a lead-lined cloth. The forge’s heat muffles its thrum. Gamble sighs in his sleep, tension easing from his shoulders.
Good.
Whatever the curse is doing, distance helps.
I strip off my soot-streaked shirt, toss it into the hamper, and roll my neck. My wings itch beneath my skin, wanting to unfurl, to stretch, tofly.
But the cabin’s too small, and the village is too close.
I settle for pacing instead, boots thudding against the packed earth floor.
The boy—elf—is twenty, he said. Barely more than a fledgling. And yet he ran through Revaster’s Night Hounds with a warlord’s leash around his neck and fire in his eyes. My dragon preens at the thought.
Strong mate. Clever mate.
I tell it to shut up. It laughs.
I stop at the weapon rack. My broadsword hangs there, nicked but sharp. Beside it, the dragon-forged dagger I made the year I turned two hundred.
I lift it, test the balance.
If Revaster’s dogs and mercenaries come back, they’ll meet steel and fire.
I glance at Gamble. And if they come forhim, they’ll meet something worse.
A soft knock at the door.
I scent the air—Hanna, the baker’s wife, with her usual basket of night-baked honey rolls. I open the door a crack.
“Thought your guest might be hungry,” Hanna whispers, eyes wide. “And… Sarak? The square’s a mess. Blood. Charred…bits.”
“Tell the reeve I’ll clean it at first light,” I say. “No one enters the forge till then.”
Hanna nods, thrusts the basket at me, and scurries off. I lock the door, set the rolls on the table. The smell of yeast and honey fills the room. Gamble’s nose twitches. His eyes flutter but don’t open. Still out cold.
I should let him sleep.
Instead, I find myself kneeling beside the bench again, brushing a strand of silver-green hair from his cheek. His skin is cool, too cool. Elves run warmer than humans; the curse is siphoning his heat. I frown, press two fingers to his throat. Pulse steady but fast. Like a hummingbird.
“Easy, little one,” I murmur. “Daddy’s got you.”
The word slips out before I can stop it. My dragonpurrs. I grit my teeth. This is not the time.
I lift him—gods, he’s light—and carry him to the cot in the back room.
