Luke
The world bleeds gray through the snow. Dawn hasn’t properly arrived yet. Just thin light filtering through clouds heavy with the promise of more precipitation.
Snow coats the pine branches overhead, fresh powder from overnight layered over older, crusted drifts. My breath fogs white in air cold enough to sting. This high in the mountains, snow is constant. So is the cold.
Ember sleeps curled near the small fire I built earlier, wrapped in my coat. Her breathing is even now, no longer shallow with exhaustion or fear. The flames have burned down to embers—appropriate, given her name—casting soft orange light across her face.
I watch her for a moment longer than necessary.
Professional assessment, I tell myself. Making sure she’s stable. Making sure the cold hasn’t seeped too deep into human bones that aren’t accustomed to mountain ice.
But that’s bullshit, and I know it.
The truth is less pragmatic. The truth is that she looks small against the boulder, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with her missing dragon. The firelight catches on the curve of her cheek, the pale sweep of her hair against dark stone. Even unconscious, she radiates warmth; something vibrant and alive.
I turn away and focus on what matters. Inventory. Weather. Next steps.
Two days of rations if we’re careful. Three if we stretch them. Temperature already subzero and dropping. The snow means tracks—ours and anyone hunting us. Hypothermia is a real threat to someone who can’t generate her own heat.
The helicopter went down maybe four miles northeast. If Mara survived the initial crash—which is unlikely—she’s either captured or dead by now. Neither option helps us.
I scan the treeline out of habit, noting exits and approaches. The ridge we’re on offers decent visibility but lousy cover. We stayed because Ember needed rest, not because it was smart.
Time to move.
Except my thoughts keep circling back to her.
The way she kept moving yesterday on that twisted ankle. The way she tried to hide fear behind questions. The way she looked at me when she realized her dragon was gone. Like I might have answers I don’t possess.
I’ve protected people for centuries. Clients, allies, clan members. This shouldn’t feel different.
The scent of her sleep-warmed skin reaches me even from here. Something clean and bright beneath the smoke and cold. Like sunlight on winter snow.
Stop.
I stand abruptly, needing distance from… whatever this is.
Maybe it’s the contrast. Her—twenty-one years old, raised sheltered, full of unexamined hope despite everything she’s lost.Me—ancient by any measure that matters, carrying a lifetime of cynicism like scar tissue.
She still believes people can be saved. I stopped believing that around my second century.
Memory surfaces: my first kill.
Not in combat. Not in some glorious dragon battle that made it into clan histories.
A rogue from the northern territories who’d been slaughtering human villages. I was young enough to think taking him down made me a hero. Old enough to know better within minutes of finishing the job.
When he died, his eyes went empty, the same as anyone’s. His blood looked identical. Killing him didn’t fix anything. Just added weight I’m still carrying centuries later.
I learned fast that innocence is expensive. Costs more every time you spend it. Eventually, you run out, and all you’ve got left is competence and the ability to function without it.
I don’t want Ember to learn that lesson.
Don’t want her to lose whatever makes her ask questions like she expects truth. Whatever makes her care about Mara despite barely knowing her. Whatever makes her stubborn enough to keep walking when her body’s screaming to stop.
The fire pops. I add another branch, watching sparks drift upward into predawn darkness.
She’s not yours to protect.
