Mybedroom.
The sheets smell of cedar and smoke, of me. I tuck Gamble in, pull the wool blanket to his chin. He burrows into it with a contented sigh, one hand fisting the fabric like a child with a toy.
I stand there too long. Watching. Memorizing the curve of his ear, the freckles across his nose, the way his lips part when he dreams. My chest aches in a way I don’t recognize.
Get a grip, Sarak.
I force myself away, back to the forge. I bank the fire, set water to boil for tea—winter-bark and frost-leaf, good for shock and blood loss. While it steeps, I clean the elf’s blood from my hands. The slice on his ribs wasn’t deep, but it was jagged. Infection’s a risk. I mix a salve of dragon’s blood resin and silver-root, smear it on a clean cloth.
When I return, Gamble’s awake. Barely. His eyes are slits of emerald, luminous in the dim light.
“Hey,” he croaks.
“Hey yourself.” I sit on the cot’s edge, careful not to jostle him. “Drink.”
I hold the mug to his lips. He sips, grimaces. “Tastes like pine needles and…ass.”
“Medicine usually does,” I laugh. “I won’t ask how you know what ass tastes like…”
I set the mug aside, lift the bandage to check the wound. The salve’s already working; the edges are knitting.
“You’ll live,” I say. “Unfortunately for my peace of mind.”
Gamble huffs a laugh, then winces. “Sorry about your square. And your… everything.”
“You’resorry?” I arch a brow. “You crashed into my life like a meteor, bled on my stones, and called meDaddyin front of half the village. Apology accepted.”
Color floods Gamble’s cheeks. “I was delirious.”
“Were you?” I lean in, voice dropping. “Because you looked pretty lucid when you said it.”
The elf bites his lip. The sight goes straight to my groin. I shift, grateful for the shadows.
“Tell me about the stone,” I say, to distract us both, and also because I need to know more.
Gamble’s gaze flickers to the anvil, where the lead cloth bulges slightly. “It’s… complicated.”
“I’ve got time.”
Gamble sighs, pushes up on his elbows. The blanket slips, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, the faint glow of elf-marks along his sternum—swirling runes that pulse in time with the stone.
“Revaster cursed my village five years ago,” Gamble begins. “Said we harbored rebels. The oaks started dying. Then the wells. Then the children.” His voice cracks. “My sister… she was eight. The curse took her voice first. Then her sight. She’s alive, but she’s… fading.”
I go very still.
My dragon’s rage is a living coal in my chest.
This is the kind of tale that has seen me vanquish many a foe over my time.
“The fire stone is the anchor,” Gamble continues. “Revaster uses it to siphon life from the land. If I can get it to a mage who knows the old blood rites, we can break the tether. Save them. All of them.” He meets my eyes, fierce and pleading. “I didn’t steal it for glory, Sarak. I stole it forhope.”
The sincerity in his voice undoes me. I cup his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
“You’re not alone anymore, little elf,” I say. “I see you. I know your struggle.”
His breath hitches. “You don’t even know me.”
“I knowenough.” I lean closer, until our foreheads touch. “I know you ran through a blizzard with death on your heels. I know you smiled while bleeding. I know my dragon claimed you the second you looked at me.” I pull back just enough to meet his wide eyes. “And I know you’re mine to protect. Whether you like it or not.”
